INCONCEIVABLE

A lot of couples struggle with infertility.  It’s frustrating, it’s hard on a marriage, and oftentimes, it’s humiliating.  The only saving grace is that sometimes you just have to laugh at the absolute absurdity of it all.  My husband and I have been relatively open about the fact that we have struggled with infertility.  We knew something wasn’t right after a year or two of trying to conceive without success.  Our first step was to our regular doctor who suggested a mild fertility medication and timed intercourse.  I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried timed intercourse but I can tell you from experience that there’s nothing sexier than a bottle of lube and an eggtimer.   Nothing turned my husband on more than an alarm going off and me snapping my fingers and throwing cheesy pickup lines at him to lighten the mood.  Turns out asking him if there’s a mirror in his pants because I can see myself in them doesn’t work after numerous years of marriage.  It became evident rather quickly that this avenue was not going to work for us.  You see, my husband is out of town a lot.  He was completely unreasonable and adamant that the timed intercourse had to be with him so that significantly limited my options.  It’s a shame too because my charming pickup lines were bound to work on someone. 

Since this was not going to be an option for us, the next step was to see a fertility doctor.  Living in a small city, our options were limited.  The closest specialist that our doctor endorsed was about three and a half hours away.  As a result, our first appointment was via Skype.  That is a surreal experience.  It’s not the first time I’ve discussed my genitals on a webcam but it was a lot more clinical this time around.  It was also a little odd that this guy knew my last name and we didn’t meet on Craig’s List.  But no matter, I guess it’s like riding a bike because, before I knew it, he had all of the information about my lady parts that I usually reserve for a second date. 

Next, we needed to meet our physician in person to go over options, budgets, procedures, and that sort of thing.  We got back into an exam room and the first thing Dr. Babymaker does is pull out an anatomy book and without any warning at all, starts showing us pictures.  I must’ve turned a little green and I looked at my husband in horror.  “What?” he asked me.  “Um… Is that what my vagina looks like?!?!?!?!”  Not fully understanding my disgust, he replies, “Well, yeah.”  “Oh my God!  That’s awful.  Why the fuck aren’t you a homosexual?!?!” Both men in the room seemed unaffected by the bald little alien with its tongue sticking out in the picture and gave me a “Can we please move on?” look.  Now I was frustrated, infertile, AND self conscious.  I crossed my legs a little bit tighter.  He used the picture books to explain to us that he thought I had something called polycystic ovarian syndrome.  “No way, dude. I’ve only had like 5 sexual partners and I always used a condom.”  The doctor looked at me, his patience draining…“It’s not an STD, Mrs. Carlson.”  “Oh.  Well then carry on.”  He told me they could do a quick ultrasound to confirm the diagnosis.  “Okay, that’s not so bad.”  I laid down on the table and pulled up my shirt a little bit, exposing my stomach, when I received another sigh of exasperation from our doctor.  “No, ma’am, it’s an internal ultrasound.  I’m going to need you to get undressed.”  I was very confused but I’ve never really shied away from taking off my clothes for hot doctors, so what the hell?  I took my pants off and laid down on the table.  He then put my feet up in stirrups and pulled out a large wand.  He didn’t seem to think it was funny at all when I asked if they had one with batteries.  The experience was not as enjoyable as I thought it might be but, in typical fashion, he probably just didn’t do it long enough.

The diagnosis was as expected.  I was left to get dressed and meet him back in his office.  I hung my head, a little sad knowing that there was something wrong with me but I pushed it aside, pulled my pants on (making a mental note to bedazzle my vagina before our next visit to make it slightly less hideous), and marched back into the office for my next dose of humiliation.  The first thing he told me was to change the way I eat and perhaps start exercising because weight played a big role in this particular disorder.  Whoa, whoa, whoa!  Way to kick a girl when she’s down, asshole.  “Don’t worry, honey, you could probably have babies if you were just a little less chubby.  A little more broccoli…A little less Ben and Jerry’s.”  I fought the urge to kick him in the shin. 

It was determined that in vitro would be our best option.  He went over the procedure in painstaking detail, again using that horrific anatomy book, and I was pretty sure that my husband was never going to touch me again.  After discussing the procedure, he brought up the subject of frozen embryos.  Basically, he wanted to know if we got pregnant but had remaining embryos left over, would we be interested in donating them?  Donating them??  Like to another couple in the area?  My mind jumped to the worst case scenario.  What if they end up in school together?  What if they fall in love?  What if they get married?  Am I condemning my children to possible incest without their knowledge?  My mind went through every Days of Our Lives episode that I have ever seen before I wrinkled my nose in disgust and asked, “What are our other options?” 

They sent us home with a folder full of information, a prescription for a bunch of hormones, and an empty wallet.  I was to start hormones in two weeks.  Injections proved to be slightly challenging.  The ones in my stomach were okay because I could reach that area easily and I have plenty of extra padding to soften the blow.  It was the hip injections that were interesting.  That is not an easy area to reach by yourself.  I am not overly flexible and, most mornings, this routine seemed to resemble a puppy chasing its tail.  And while I don’t have a fear of needles, it feels wrong to be injecting something into yourself that you know is going to make you crazy.  And crazy I was.  For those who have not experienced infertility hormones, I can safely compare it to pregnancy hormones on steroids.  I cried.  At everything.  And for no particular reason.  I wasn’t even sad!  In fact, I would start laughing at myself while crying because I was crying for no reason.  I’m pretty sure I resembled a clinically depressed villain straight out of Batman.  My husband would ask me…from a safe distance away…if I was going to be okay.  He would barely wait for an answer before rushing down to the basement to quietly plot how he was going to get me to the hospital for a psychological evaluation and fitted for a straight jacket.  I noticed he seemed to spend a little more time at work during this particular phase of treatment.

Luckily, the hormones were only extreme for about two weeks.  Then they leveled out a bit when it was time for my retrieval.  When they mentioned egg retrieval, I immediately thought of a fluffy little bunny going in and pulling brightly colored Easter eggs from my ovaries.   It turns out this was inaccurate.  I didn’t even get any chocolate which I still think is bullshit.  Instead, I got a world of pain from over- stimulated ovaries and a promise of nausea while recovering from anesthesia.  But I sucked it up and put on a brave face because I wasn’t the only one involved in this process.    

My devoted husband had stood by my side through every minute of this ordeal so I felt somewhat obligated to be supportive when it was time for his end of the bargain.  He looked at me, cup in hand, and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about this.”  I looked lovingly at him and then I looked at my feet up in stirrups…again… a shower cap on my head… the current needle in my arm that was going to be a portal to knock me unconscious… the even larger needle on the bedside table that was going to be used to stab at my ovaries… and the current small crowd that was forming between my legs with my vagina as the life of the party.  With every ounce of sympathy that I could muster, I looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry you have to watch porn and have an orgasm.  Seriously, honey, thanks for taking one for the team…” 

Before I knew it, the procedure was over and I was in the recovery room.  I apparently apologized to the doctor for falling asleep while he was talking to me and completely missed my head when trying to point to my big brain while telling everyone how smart I was.  I’m sure I was incredibly embarrassing and my husband couldn’t wait to get me out of there.  So he got me in the car and got to enjoy the three and a half hour ride home with a drugged up wife who thought she was a fantastic singer, impressionist, and comedian.  But my supportive, loving husband didn’t say a word.  Not that I would’ve let him get one in anyway.  He patiently drove me home to wait the agonizing two weeks until the pregnancy test.  Another two weeks of emotional fun for my hubby to deal with.  You will all be surprised to know that he never once threatened divorce.  We weren’t successful but we made it through the ordeal together and even managed to have some laughs along the way.    

Now that I have shared my story and some of the laughs that we have while looking back on it, I feel it’s only fair to address the women in the room who are currently fighting this battle.  I’m sure there are plenty of you out there thinking that there is nothing funny about infertility.  And you’re not wrong.  It’s extremely difficult to see the humor when you are in the situation.  I could have written an entirely different Mamalogue about the heartache and frustration associated with our struggle.  Finding the humor was the only thing that made it bearable for me.  And I had to make a conscious effort to see that humor.  So in fairness to the other hopeful mamas out there who are feeling the stress and frustration, I will offer you this.  I will address the most common question I get.  Was it worth it in the end to someone who was not ultimately successful?  Yes.  I didn’t see it at the time.  But I do now.  It was a journey worth taking.  It’s one more struggle in life that I’ve overcome.  It made me stronger and more comfortable in my own skin.  It helped me see who those true friends were who held me after yet another negative pregnancy test, regardless of the fact that the pee stick was still in dangerously close proximity.  My husband and I have yet another obstacle we have conquered together.  Infertility is stressful and exhausting and disheartening.  But, in the end, I have learned that it didn’t have to be the happy ending I had always dreamt of for me to still find my own happy ending.  But I needed to take this journey to see that.  

He Was Still Born

I haven’t been back to “the scene of the crime” since Gabriel was born.  I’ve been to the hospital, of course, because I’m accident prone and unhealthy, but I have steered clear of the childbirth unit.  Not necessarily by choice but probably because something in my subconscious told me I wasn’t ready.  However, a friend of mine was hosting an event on Tuesday night and I offered to help.  I didn’t think much of it.  I have helped with plenty of infant and child loss events since our loss.  I was warned that going back to the childbirth unit was hard but, again, I didn’t really anticipate how hard it would be.  You see, I have found a way over the years to almost numb myself to certain things.  Is that the healthiest way to deal with my grief?  Probably not.  But it is self preserving and it makes my days bearable.  I built a tougher layer around my grief over the years, not curing the wound but creating a bit of a scab over the top.  I wasn’t healed but I was protected. 

Unfortunately, the minute I pulled into that parking lot, that scab was ripped open and I wasn’t prepared for the emotional bleeding that would take place over the rest of the week.  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go inside.  I sat in my car and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.  That overwhelming grief that I felt almost five years ago that I had worked so hard to overcome was back in an instant.  Anyone who knows me knows that I love life, I love to laugh, I love to make other people laugh, and I just want everyone to be happy, including myself.  It was a sobering feeling to sit in that parking lot and feel just like I did five years ago.  Like I’d never laugh, smile, or find happiness again. And perhaps scariest of all, I didn’t care if I lived.  Don’t misunderstand that.  I didn’t want to take my own life.  I just simply didn’t care if I was here or not.  I have felt that way a grand total of twice in my entire life.  It is a devastatingly awful way to feel. 

As I sat there in my car, trying to compose myself, every single feeling that I had on October 5, 2011, came back and I felt it intensely and painfully.  The memories I had tried to suppress for years came flooding back and I knew, at that moment, that this was never going to go away.  My grief is always going to come back in some form and haunt me for the rest of my life.  Those demons that appear in my nightmares are never going to go away.  I looked at the doors to the hospital and I remembered the feeling of my sweet child moving and kicking inside of me, yet knowing that when I walked through those doors, I was going to come out childless.  And, even worse, I remembered that we were forced to make that choice.  Although, if I was grateful for anything on Tuesday, I was grateful for the fact that we at least had the ability to make that choice.  Our governor has, since then, decided what is right for women, their bodies, and their families by outlawing the ability to induce early, even in situations like ours.  With the new law, our situation would have ended the same way.  I still would have left that hospital childless.  But I would have had to watch my son suffer in an unbearable way before I did.  I pray that he and his family are never faced with that situation. I pray that he never has a child on life support and has to make a decision on whether or not to take them off.  Our decision was no different.  I felt anger for this man that I don’t even know because I knew that so many other women would experience the trauma I was feeling now but it would be so much worse.  But I’ll leave my bitter feelings on that topic for another day, another problem, another battle, another blog.    

I composed myself, threw on some makeup and an artificial smile, and walked through the glass doors into the childbirth unit.  I must have been pale because the woman at the desk asked me if I was okay. I said “yes” but internally I was screaming “no.”  I looked at all of the signs for the child “birth” unit and remembered hearing that I would not receive a “birth” certificate for my son.  They don’t give out birth certificates for stillborn babies.  I didn’t understand.  I thought to myself, “But he was still born.”  I labored for 26 hours, gave birth, held him in my arms, and took pictures with him.  Yet, somehow, they still wouldn’t acknowledge his birth simply because he didn’t take a breath.  No wonder I have felt the intense need every single day since then to defend Gabriel’s existence and trying to make sure people acknowledged his life.  Because he was very much alive.  I felt it.  I saw it.  I lived it.  But I would never receive an acknowledgment of that birth for his baby book or memory box.  Just one more thing I felt robbed of. 

I looked down the hallway when the doors opened for a nurse to exit and the memory of the funeral home coming down that hall to take my son from my arms came back and I had to stop and steady myself for a second.  I felt dizzy and sick.  Like I was back in a nightmare that I thought I had finally escaped. 

I made it through the event without really letting anyone know about the turmoil that was taking place inside.  Looking back, I’m not sure why I felt the need to hide it.  If anyone understood, it was that group of people.  I’m sure they felt the same.  I know they would have held me and comforted me.  But emotions are hard for me sometimes and I’m much better at joking my way out of uncomfortable situations than I am at facing them.  I don’t like it when people see me cry.  I felt damaged and for some reason, I didn’t want anyone to know that.

In the ultimate moment of kicking me when I was down, I was scrolling through Facebook trying to cheer myself up when one of my memories popped up.  Guess what that memory was?  Naturally, it was the one where I announced my pregnancy on Facebook many years ago.  I don’t get angry often but my blood boiled at the cruelty of it and I thought, “Fuck you, universe.”  

I got back in my car and lost composure all over again. I was broken.   The girl who can always see the light sat in darkness.  The girl who can always laugh could do nothing but cry.  The girl who loves life realized that a piece of her would never be alive again.  And the grief, for that moment in time, consumed me.  I gave in.  I gave up. I felt like I had nothing else to give in this world. 

I knew enough to know that this feeling would pass eventually but, right then, I felt like my world was crumbling.  I was grateful that I had family who listened to me and an amazing friend who sat on the phone with me until 1:30 in the morning listening to me blow my nose and sob.  That was the only light I found that day but it was enough to pull me through.  I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday with my husband and with friends who can always make me laugh and that helped.  But at night I still went home and felt a sense of emptiness.  I know I will find my way through this once again and my grief will become bearable but now I truly know what they mean when they describe the grieving process as “one step forward, two steps back.”  So, I suppose, I will keep walking forward and focus on all of the good in my life while accepting that setbacks are just going to happen.  I just hope I can continue to keep them to once every five years.     

EXERCIST

I recently decided it was time to get back into an exercise routine after a long hiatus.  I used to be extremely in shape, ate right, and took care of myself.  It was easy because I had a workout routine that I loved.  Then I made the mistake of taking a friend with me and she ruined it by being adorable and charming and the instructor fell for her and became irritatingly creepy.  I had to stop going slightly because I feared for her safety but mostly because he wasn’t offering me the correct compensation for information on her daily routine and whereabouts.  I don’t sell my friends out for free, you know. 

Once I stopped working out daily, it was very easy not to go back.  Then I went on to discover alcohol, fried foods, and NetFlix.  Turns out I liked these things.  A lot.  So my jeans got tighter, my abs got softer, and my thighs got thicker.  But, hey, I’m a bright side kind of girl so I chose to focus on the fact that my boobs got bigger too. My husband liked that part of it a lot and didn’t seem to mind me a bit squishier so I was content in my new lifestyle.  However, I inevitably started to feel tired and somewhat depressed and I knew a big portion of it was the fact that I wasn’t exercising.  So I started to turn over ideas in my head as to what I could do that I would love as much as I had once loved kickboxing.  I didn't know what I might try.  The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t taking my cute friend with me this time around. 

I knew it would be hard to find something that would keep my interest and not feel like exercise so my ears perked up when a coworker mentioned going to a barre class.  Barre?  Sounds right up my alley.  How does this work?  Do we do squats and get rewarded with wine?  Fireball after pushups?  It was spelled weird but I just assumed my coworker was trying to make it sound fancy.  So off we went. 

This was NOT what I expected.  There were no bartenders and chicken strips.  No lovable hammered friends who would FaceTime me at 3 am.  And was that headband made out of hemp?  No, no.  This wasn’t right at all.  I felt dizzy and confused and for all of the wrong reasons.  But I’m tough so I figured I’d give it a chance and stick it out.

The instructor was super-annoying.  She had…what do you call that?  Oh yeah…energy.  She talked.  A lot.  And I wanted to choke her.  A lot. She kept coming over to me and showing me what I was doing wrong.  It seemed like she only came over to correct me which was embarrassing and I was getting angrier by the second.  “See?  Bend further down.  Do you feel that burn?”  I answered her first in my head, “No.  What I feel is my thong riding up my crotch, your breath in my face, and if you don’t step back out of my personal space, I will punch you.”  But out loud, I said, “Sure.  Thank you.”  I turned to my coworker, rolled my eyes, and went back to doing exactly what I was doing before.  Then, suddenly, as my muscles burned and I’m pretty sure even the top of my head was sweating, I had hope.  I smelled margaritas.  I knew it!!!  I knew there would be alcohol with a name like barre!  I looked around frantically.  Where’s that coming from?  And then reality set in… “OMG!!  It’s me! It’s coming from my pores!”  I was literally sweating out last night’s poor decisions.

After that experience, I discovered quickly that barre wasn’t really for me.  What else could I try?  I discovered a gym that formed their workouts in a group personal training atmosphere.  That’s interesting.  Maybe in a small group I’d feel some sense of accountability.  So I signed up.  I knew when I walked in that I was probably in over my head.  I could tell this by the chiseled bodies, displays of protein powder, and overall sense of enthusiasm about spending the next hour torturing their bodies.  But, nevertheless, I was going to give it a shot.  In walked the instructor.  This wasn’t the high-energy nagging Antichrist from barre.  Oh, no.  This guy was smoking hot!  I suddenly had a little burst of energy, skipped to the treadmill closest to him and got ready to bat my eyes and ask for help with every exercise that we did. 

So, off we went.  They had treadmills, rowers, and a weight room.  I started on the treadmill because it was the most familiar.  Okay, it was the only thing familiar to me.  They had three different levels:  Runners, joggers, and power walkers.  Yep, that’s me.  The last one on the list.  Like the last one picked for dodgeball.  But I suppose I’d rather be the kid in last place than the one who falls on her face trying to run when I know I’m about as coordinated as a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. 

About 30 minutes in, after deciding that I could probably jog for a little while, I got a cramp.  Not a bad one, but bad enough to step off the treadmill and let the cute trainer massage it.  He was a good sport and even laughed when I told him that it was actually my inner thigh that I needed him to rub. 

I had enough of the treadmill after that so it was off to the weight room for me.  This trainer was a girl.  Boo.  But she was nice enough and helpful so I pushed through despite her ovarian shortcomings.  Each station had a set of weights and various other equipment that looked like something out of Fifty Shades of Grey.  We were apparently only using the weights on this particular day.  Bummer.  Lady trainer showed me an exercise that I chose to do without the weights.  Upon seeing this, she came over and said she’d prefer me to use the weights as they would help me balance.  She handed me two 10-pound weights.  I started the exercise, my eyes grew wide, and I put them down immediately.  “Nope.  My spaghetti arms won’t be using these today.”  She smiled sweetly and, forever helpful, said, “Don’t worry, we have 5-pound weights too.  They’re over there.”  She pointed to the other side of the weight room.  You know, on the special rack, covered in dust, because nobody in this place actually uses those.   So, I hung my head and started the walk of shame through the swarm of fit, chiseled bodies to grab my 5 pound weights like the only kid at camp who has to wear a life jacket on the paddle boat ride and returned to my station. 

Hot trainer, sensing my draining motivation, came to the rescue.  We were going to do squats together.  Yay!  I positioned myself slightly behind him so I could watch his form.  He told me to stick my butt out a little bit more and smirked at me when I creepily asked him to show me just one more time.  I managed to make it through the rest of the painful workout on sheer stubbornness while fantasizing about the 12 inch kettle bell and giant pair of BOSU balls that I was sure made up the workout equipment beneath his spandex.  I thanked him for the workout and left in a hurry, nervous that I might puke on his now shiny, perfect muscles if I hung around for too long. 

I did feel good when I got home though.  Who doesn’t love that post-workout feeling?  You know, the legs on fire, sweat running down my cleavage, I just touched the same weights as 500 people who don’t wash their hands after taking a shit kind of feeling.  I’d jump in the shower immediately if I didn’t have to wait for the sweat to stop pouring out of my body in order to peel off the layer of spandex that I am now convinced is super glued to my skin.  And I don’t even want to think about how deep of a crevice I will have to pull my underwear out of at this point.  It might be gone for good.    

So, after all of this, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.  I’m getting older.  This gym thing just might not be for me anymore.  I’m not cut out for a super healthy lifestyle.  I’ve decided to take a break from the gym and exercise at home from the comfort of my recliner while eating cookies and watching Shaun T sweat it out on my DVR.  That should get my heart pumping enough to call it cardio.  And carrying my lazy ass up to bed every night surely counts as weightlifting.  It’s really all about perspective.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bar class to attend.           

     

POLITICALLY INCORRECT

I was recently called out on social medial for making a political joke in what this person apparently thought should be a serious conversation.  Never mind the fact that it was a humorous discussion to start with.  He made some pretty rude statements and I was bothered by his hurtful comments for a grand total of 3 seconds before I stopped giving a shit what he thought about me.   I’m comfortable with who I am.  A cynical, sarcastic individual who tries to find the humor in everything.  The subject of politics is no exception.  I joke about politics simply because, let’s be honest, this election is a fucking circus.  And circuses are funny.  Allow me to provide a brief synopsis of some of the main acts.  

          First we have the firebreather.  He opens his mouth and there is an immediate explosion of hot air that is only meant to spark a fire and elicit gasps from the crowd.  And gasp they do!  Although you can’t hear the female spectators because he has informed them that the best decision for their bodies is to sit in the back row for the entire 9 months that the circus is in town, regardless of their personalized circumstances.  But no matter, they can still enjoy the show from back there in the 1900’s.  And it’s not just the women he knows what’s best for.  Oh no, he cares about ALL of his spectators.  When he invites audience members to participate in the show, he will even let homosexual individuals join in the fun, as long as it’s not the part of the show that requires rings.  That’s crossing the line.  What a great guy, this firebreather, looking out for everyone else.    

That’s a tough act to follow but up next is the high-flying trapeze artist.  She swings from side to side, never really landing on any given issue.  The spectators watch her in awe as she leaps from topic to topic, dodging all obstacles in her way until she ultimately catches the hands of her partner, without whom, she wouldn’t even be in the show.  Her act isn’t overly impressive to me.  I can see the thin rope hooked to her back that attaches to the ceiling.  It’s really not that big of a surprise, is it?  Little scandals like this tend to follow this high-flying acrobat everywhere she goes.  It is disappointing though.  She belongs in the center ring about as much as the Kardashians belong in a convent. 

 Up next is the magician.  I find this one particularly fascinating. Halfway through the show, he takes half of the popcorn from paying spectators and makes it appear in the hands of those who didn’t put in the time and effort to stand in line to get their own.  But he does it with such flash and pizzazz, that even half of the paying spectators don’t seem to mind.  It’s really impressive.  His employees love him too.  Probably because he pays his lovely assistant the same amount that he pays his doctor.  Personally, if I was his doctor, I’d be kind of pissed and would tell him to have his assistant surgically remove his head from his ass the next time he got it stuck there.  But that’s just me.   

Finally, we have the clown.  I think I love him most of all.  What’s funny about his act is that he actually has some valid points, as long as you live in 1865, pre-civil rights America.  In his defense, purging and starting over is all he knows.  When he was in debt, he filed bankruptcy, cleaned house, and started over again.  Why not do the same thing with America?  A new beginning…genocide…we are really just splitting hairs over terminology.  Cut the guy some slack. He just wants to rid America of the “problems” that he sees.  You and I might call them human beings but, again, we are really just nitpicking over terminology here.   

Wow.  Seriously, great show guys.  Barnum and Bailey really have some competition.  I can barely wait for the next election year.  I’m not sure how we will be able to top this year’s candidates.  But I guess I should get back to reality and respond to the asshole who is adamant that I must have a serious political stance.  Well here it is.  I don’t get involved in political conversations for a reason.  I hate arguing with people and tension makes me anxious, especially with friends and family.  But choosing not to participate in political conversations doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions or am unaware of the current issues facing our country.

When voting day comes, I will be among the first in line.  Because that is my right as an American citizen and it is one that I don’t want to lose.  But make no mistake about it, I’m not voting for the person I think will make the best President.  I’m voting for the person I think will do the least amount of damage.  Because the reality, folks, is that the only hope we have of getting a candidate in place who can really change this country is not electable.  We are too busy rooting for our “team” that we can’t open our eyes and see that the only way to make a difference is to find someone that is neither left nor right, but somewhere in the middle.  That person will never get elected because they would not be the “ideal” Democrat or Republican.  And shame on us as American citizens for being so closed minded. 

So those who want to argue politics, by all means, continue to do so.  I won’t stand in your way and it is your right to believe what you choose thanks to this beloved country that I love so much.  Continue to try and change your America through a system of corrupt individuals who don’t give a damn about you or the promises that they make you.  If you think you can make a difference through these circus freaks, congratulations, you have more faith in our government than I do.  I, on the other hand, will continue to try to make this country a better place in the only way I think I can.  Through charity, hard work, and general kindness to my fellow Americans.  How is that for your precious political opinion?