Fertility: Unexplained

Unexplained infertility. 

That’s the reason we were given for not being able to get pregnant these past three and a half years. So basically, no reason at all.

A few mornings before we met with the infertility specialist, I was in the shower thinking/stressing about the appointment and this scenario came to mind: what if I wasn’t able to get pregnant? The thought overwhelmed me. I wanted to cry. The fact that carrying my own child could possibly not happen had never crossed my mind seriously, and I the moment it did, I panicked. Premature grief consumed me.

You would think the news that I could get pregnant would elate me. But, how frustrating to be told there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be pregnant. Theres no physical reason I shouldn’t be able to conceive. Every test we’ve both done has given results that our doctors are happy with. So then you’re left with the question: why?

Going through fertility treatments is overwhelming at best. So much information gets thrown at you. All the options. All the steps. All the appointments and the injections and the tests. All the needles and acronyms and medicalese. All the science that forces my body to do what its supposed to do naturally.

Infertility makes you a person that you don’t want to be and a person you feel badly about being. I find myself deciding who I think deserves to be pregnant and who doesn’t. When I hear about people being pregnant, my first thought isn’t excitement or joy, but rather sadness, followed by insane jealousy. I cry when people hardly try and end up pregnant or worse, don’t even try at all. And than I feel badly for feeling this way. There’s no winning. And not only am I upset and frustrated for my own situation, I’m upset and frustrated at those around me, for those who aren’t at fault for anything other than living, and I feel like a terrible person. It’s a cycle that doesn’t seem to end.

We’re in the preliminary stages of IVF, which is basically a ton of blood tests, urine tests, semen tests. We’ve discussed with the doctors our plan of action, which is a small relief, but because of some testing and vaccinations, we can’t start right away, which makes the very little patience I have left almost non-existent. (Also, I found out way more about sperm than I ever wanted to know.) 

It’s a lot. It’s so much to know and think about and do and wait for. My brain feels like it can’t catch up to everything. I keep trying to re-read the steps laid out for us but there are so many of them that I find myself having to stop.

It makes me laugh, all those times as a teen when you were told that if you had sex just once, you could get pregnant. And while that’s true at the most basic level (and more true in teen years when we are at our most fertile), it's so insane to think that that’s the kind of sex education we grew up with — have sex once and you’ll get a baby. 

But, conceiving a child is so much more complicated than that. Outside of your ovulation window, women only have a 2% (ish) chance of getting pregnant; even during your peak ovulation day, the percentage of conceiving is around 18%. EIGHTEEN PERCENT. There’s all kinds of other things that happen, very scientific things, but I’m not a doctor or a scientist or anything remotely close to those things, so I’ll just stop at: it’s hard. Getting pregnant is actually a miracle and no one tells us that.

It’s taken me over a month to write this and I’ve been having a hard time putting it together. I’ve discovered that I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m tired. I want to talk about something else — anything else. I’ve spent over three years talking about trying to get pregnant, talking about it not happening, talking about the decisions Danny and I have decided to make, talking about the steps we’ve taken, talking about finally getting pregnant, talking about losing that baby, talking about going to an infertility specialist, talking about what the outcome was and what we’re doing next. I’M TIRED. 

But, I also know not talking about it isn’t going to make anything better or easier. Talking about it has shown me just how many women in my life can understand what I’m going through and it amazes me how it slowly makes you feel less alone. I’ve had people contact me to share their experiences, their own heartaches, and finally (in most cases), their own joys. Talking about it is starting to make this topic less taboo and it’s pushed me to help make it a topic that others feel they can speak freely about, as well. I saw a comment someone made about a women who spoke freely about having a miscarriage that said, “This is a private family matter.” But, it’s not. And why should we have to feel like it is? It effects SO MANY women, and probably more women in your own life than you even know about.

So, talk about it. Let’s start to make it normal. Let’s show others that infertility and miscarriages don’t have to be something to keep hidden or to experience in silence. We don’t need to suffer even more by thinking there’s something wrong with us. Let’s help other people like me feel less broken and alone. 

Since the awful news of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, my head has been spinning. And these news stories seemed to be making everyone else’s head spin, as well. For the first week, the stories were all over the place; headlining news, posts from everyone and every news outlet about depression, opinions on why and how, opinions on what you need to not ever find yourself in that position. But, then they stop. As someone who has struggled her entire life with depression, seeing these conversations happen made me so happy; hearing people share their own stories and opening up about a topic that has long been buried in the depths of souls was a reminder that I am just one of many  But now, all that’s left are false hopes from well-meaning people, dried-up “thoughts and prayers”, articles from poorly-educated people on how suicidal thoughts can diminish entirely, and the scars on people like me, who still suffer.

WhiIe I can’t say I’ve ever tried to take my own life, I can say that I’ve thought about it. There have been about three very significant times in my life where I had that thought, things would be better if I weren’t here and times where that thought lingered for longer than a few seconds. I eliminated all the ways in which I could or wouldn’t do it, and thought about the “easiest” ways to do it. 

I have a very clear memory of a girl I used to know who opened up to me about her struggles with suicidal thoughts and told me she tried to drink a whole bottle of NyQuil to do it. And, I did my best to listen and comfort her and to try to say the right things at twelve or thirteen, when, honestly, I had no experience at all to even know what the right thing to say would be. But, I also wondered, would that work? It obviously didn’t work for her, but was it because there wasn’t enough? Did she not drink the whole bottle? Did she need more than one? That seemed like the most enticing way to go — flush a collection of pills from my mom and dad’s medicine cabinet with a couple bottles of NyQuil, lay down in my bed and drift off into an endless, peaceful sleep.

But then I thought — what if it didn’t work and I ended up like the kid in high school who never came back junior year. There were quiet conversations and wild rumors going around that he had slashed his wrists. I didn’t want to be that kid; I didn’t want to have to leave my school with no warning, to force my parents to move away or to constantly be looked at by friends and family with those soft, I’m-sorry faces or have people smile at them and say behind their backs, what did they do wrong? Because as much as I didn’t know about my depression, I knew enough to know it wasn’t their fault.

I often wonder why I never got to the point of trying. And the only thing I can think of was because I was too scared. I was scared of everything — scared of falling off a bike with no training wheels, scared of a soccer ball kicked my way and of roller blades; scared of large dogs, of water, scared of the dark, and of the turning bar on the playground. I was scared of what everyone else thought about me, of disappointing people, of not having friends, or even worse, having friends who really didn’t like me all that much; I was scared of failing and of not being enough — I’m still scared of all these things. I was scared of ruining my mom and dad’s lives, mostly. And I think in a way, all these things saved me. I was more afraid of being the person who tried to kill themselves and failed than of actually doing it.

Sometimes, I think maybe I just wasn’t “depressed enough”. Maybe my depression wasn’t close enough to the “suicide” end of the spectrum. Maybe I was helped at the right moments. Maybe I had enough support around me at those darkest moments where that option seemed really, REALLY good at the time. 

But I look at Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain — of Chester Bennington and Robin Williams — and I think about the siblings of people I know who took their own lives, and I wonder if they also had these moments of saving grace at some point in their lives and for whatever reason, in those last ones, they just…didn’t. Or maybe their illness was just — plain and simple — more advanced than mine.

I’ll never know these answers. I’ll never know why I never got that far. 

I grew up in church, which had a big role in shaping who I am (for better and worse). And a lot of people think, well you grew up reading the bible, going to Sunday school, going to youth group and summer camps, and all the church functions (and I mean ALL). You know Jesus, who is the ultimate healer and the only way for true peace and the Alpha and Omega, etc., etc., so how can you be depressed?

Ugh.

Statements like this (or statements that basically allude to having a relationship with Jesus = 100% joy) make my blood boil. I’ve spent a majority of my life hating myself. True, deep, dark hatred and self-loathing. My depression manifested itself by constantly telling me when someone hurt me that it was my fault and I deserved it; it told me I wasn’t going to be good enough for anything and that I would always have to work hard to get people to love (or even like) me. It told me I would always be an outcast, a nerdy little girl who people pittied, not really great at anything, not even very smart. (To this day, I’m constantly feeling like I can’t ever do things right or that I’m always close to failing at something.) It told me that if I died, no one would really care much. And, oh how I prayed. For years and years I prayed and prayed and prayed, and begged God to take away these feelings. I bargained, made promises, and spent so many nights crying to God to change me and make me feel different

At a very young age, I knew I believed in Jesus. I’ve had so many moments of my life where I felt God showed up, and if you aren’t a spiritual person or a believer, it’s hard to explain what that’s like. But, what I can say it’s like is just having an overwhelming feeling of comfort. It’s like feeling you know everything will be okay without knowing why you feel that way. And even though I always feel like I’m not “Christian enough”, what I know is that it doesn’t stop God from loving me and showing up for me.

What all this comes down to is that what I do know is this — severe depression doesn’t go away with church or prayers or believing in God. Depression doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care who you are, what you believe, what your childhood was like, what or do, or what you don’t do. Suicidal thoughts are rooted in a deep, dark place in the soul; it's born there, it grows there, and it lives there and all you can do is whack away at it to stop it from continuing to grow. I have been blessed enough to have people around me to nudge me in the right directions and amazing therapists who have helped me find myself (and all the good things and all the reasons to live) and some fantastic pills that keep me level-headed and keep my emotions stable. 

But, some aren’t as blessed. Those are the people we need to seek out, to love a little more, to support, to nudge in the right directions. Will it stop suicide all together? 100% not. But, could it save a life? Yes, yes it could.

Try, Try Again

I had someone ask me the other day if my husband and I were trying to get pregnant (a very common question these days), and when I answered with a simple, “Yes”, the complicated situation turned sour in my brain when she responded with, “You should while you’re young!”

It’s strange how innocuous comments like these become giant balls of anger in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to clap back with a, “Yeah, I know.” Or yell, “We are. We’ve BEEN. For a year and a half.” I wanted to run away from her unplanned, perfect child and cry in the bathroom for my barren uterus. (Okay, it’s not barren, but lately it feels like it is.) I wanted to stand on my desk and scream to anyone who would listen that conceiving isn’t as simple as trying and wanting it; it’s complicated, it’s anxiety-filled, it’s hard, it’s not fun all the time, it’s exhausting, it’s stressful. And it’s a huge let-down every month my fun little friend shows up, with her horrific cramping and back aches, the bloating that makes me feel like I can blow up large enough to be carried away in the wind, all the while, those few days feeling like mother nature is mocking me; laughing at all those moments when I was young and reckless where I convinced myself one tiny mistake had left me with a child I didn’t want.

A friend of mine who is going through the same roller coaster ride as I am told me today, “This is such a lonely place to be.” And I realized how true that was. And it’s so absurd, because I’m not alone. Every month my husband goes through the let down with me. My sisters. My mom. My in-laws. Two of my oldest and best friends. Every blogger out there who has ever written about the struggles to get pregnant. Every person on the chat section of my fertility app. There are so many of us; so many people who try and try, or who try and get there, only to have their heart ripped out via miscarriage. So, when she said it was lonely, and it rang true to me, I wondered why that was so. I wondered why it does feel lonely; why this act of trying and failing leaves me feeling like I’m a disappointment every month.

Maybe it’s because I feel like the one thing my body is supposed to do – is made to do – hasn’t happened, so what does that say about me? Am I defective? Am I broken? Did I miss my window of opportunity? Should I have gotten married at 24 when I was young and new and more fertile, less full of medications and stress and anxiety, even if it was to the wrong person? I mean, what’s worse; feeling like a mother without a baby your whole life with your soulmate, or being a mother to a baby with someone you aren’t in love with?

Babies are part of my DNA. I was the typical girl who played house and was always a mommy to my dolls. When I played The Game of Life and didn’t land on one of those “It’s a Girl!” or “It’s a Boy!” spaces, I was truly upset. I’ve had a list of potential baby names that I’ve added and subtracted to since I was in junior high. Babies were always around – cousins, family friends, siblings of friends, and now my own friend’s babies. Basically, there was never any question about whether or not I would be a mother. Even if I never got married, I knew I would be a mother in some way; that was more certain to me than anything.

I’ve been told countless times by different people the same tired clichés that you’re supposed to say to people who are trying to conceive: It will happen when it’s supposed to happen. Enjoy trying! It’s all in God’s timing. Maybe this is a lesson in patience. You’re still young! You have time! God has a plan. You need to stop stressing! And while every single person who has said these things to me are people I love and who are well-meaning, it’s nothing I haven’t told myself before and it’s nothing I don’t think is true. But, what else are people supposed to say? I don’t know, so why should they?

And now, I see the same Clearblue commercial (thanks, Hulu) over and over again, with young, thin, gorgeous women holding up positive pregnancy tests with tears of joy in their eyes and I’m angry. Especially when the words, “Baby number three!” come out of one of the women’s mouth. I’m jealous. She gets three beautiful babies and I can’t even have one? But seriously, how horrible is that? However, that’s the nature of fertility; it can be really ugly and lonely and it can bring out the worst in you. It can be damaging to your self-esteem, to your psyche, and it can seep into every part of your life, whether you want it to or not.

So, what did I say to that person with the beautiful “oops” baby who was nudging me to start getting pregnant? I smiled, nodded, and agreed, and then continued to fawn over her daughter. Because, what else can you do?

the dreaded-ed topic.

I’ve debated writing this blog for a long time. And maybe it’s the reason I haven’t written a blog at all in over a year; because I feel like I haven’t had anything worthwhile to say. And because when I have, I’ve been too afraid to say it.

But, honestly, nothing scares me more than the things that have been happening in our world lately. These past few days, I’ve been reading — and seeing — some terrifying things. And I’ve been reading some equally terrifying things on Facebook. (Ugh. Facebook.) So. I’m going to talk about the dreaded topic: RACE.

Before I go in to this conversation, let me start with my background. I’m half white and half Mexican. (Yes. My maiden name is Martinez and it is Mexican.) I grew up in, arguably, one of the most diverse areas in the United States. I grew up surrounded by pretty much every racial background you can think of. Seeing faces of different colors was normal; I thought that’s what the world was. I remember singing songs about the melting pot and all the colors of the children and everything, and it was just ASSUMED that the people I was surrounded with were just…people. 

I’ve never really encountered racism. The biggest thing I remember was when my sister played soccer and was on team with mostly Latina girls. They were playing a team of mostly white girls and my sister said after the game that some of the girls were calling them wetbacks. But, even in my Catholic high school bubble, I didn’t encounter racism first-hand. I was still surrounded by people of all different backgrounds. College. Even graduate school. 

When the Black Lives Matter movement started, I was one of those people screaming, “All Lives Matter!”, not even knowing what it really meant or what Black Lives Matter really meant. I argued with a lot of people on Facebook. I argued as best as I could to make this idea that people died at the hands of cops for any reason but because of what they looked like truth. I read the comments section of article after article until one or two in the morning and while a lot of people infuriated me and a lot of people made me question our educational system and a lot of people just really upset me, I learned a lot.

I learned that even in the Bay Area, people still encounter racism. People of color get pulled over by cops more. People of color are more likely to be incarcerated and to be shot by police. People of color are scared of cops in ways light-skinned people are not. People of color fear for the lives of their dark children. 

I watch (parts of the video because I couldn’t stomach seeing anything more than that) a video of a black man being pinned down by two large officers and still being shot. I read about a cop shooting a man in a car after he asked for his ID and later the man let the officer know he had a gun. And being shot with his CHILD in the backseat. I read about 11 cops being shot by snipers and 4 of them dying because, apparently, the answer to these killings is by killing. 

And I read people on one end of the spectrum crying and pleading for people to acknowledge that racism is prevalent and to not just think, “Oh, well I have black friends and don’t hate black people so it doesn’t exist.” Or think, “Oh, well white people get killed by cops, too, and so did this Mexican guy I knew, so it’s not just black people.”

And I read people on the other end of the spectrum that cry that Blue Lives Matter. That not all cops are bad and that there are a lot of good cops out there who wanted to be cops to protect people from violence and injustice. 

And my question is, why can’t both be true?

I believe that Black lives do matter. I believe there is a problem systematically in a lot of police forces, and I don’t just mean violence against people of color. There is a power problem in this country with some cops; the good ‘ole boys club that is only concerned with looking out for each other. I believe there are some cops that, even if they came into the job with good intentions, now feel the power their job holds and abuses said power. Or people who were cops solely to have the power over other people. People underestimate what power can do to a person; it can take over. It can make you feel untouchable and unstoppable. 

But, I also believe there are good, true cops out there. A lot of them. I know some of them, inside and out of the force. There are cops that play by the rules, that go by the book, that want only good outcomes and never ever want (or have had to) fire their weapons. Cops that police because they want their communities to be safer and to be better.

I believe the biggest problem our country is facing is the division I see. The political divisions, the divisions between white and black (or white and any other non-white race), the divisions between “us” and “them”. We spend so much time fighting with each other, pushing our own agendas, clinging to our beliefs, that we don’t LISTEN. We don’t hear those that are crying out for empathy, for love, for answers, for CHANGE. We hear what we want and we’re comfortable in what we think is the truth. We don’t read. We don’t educate ourselves. We don’t want to talk about things. We want to fight. We want to bury our heads in the sand, tell ourselves that this doesn’t affect ME, and to carry on with our tiny little lives.

I’ve learned a lot in the past year. Oddly enough from Facebook. My view of the world has changed. I now know that even if I don’t fully understand or know what it’s like to feel targeted or feel like I need to live life differently, I can still have empathy and not shut down those that do feel like that. I’ve learned that this is a very, very real problem. And what is happening now, on both ends, is horrifying. It literally scares me. It makes me question my desire to have children. It makes me afraid for my nieces. It makes me scared for the cops I know who love their job and who go out every night risking their lives for their communities. I makes me afraid for the friends I know that have children of color and for the future we are setting them up for.

This is what I know. We can hashtag all we want. We can share articles all we want. But, what really needs to happen is that we all need to shut up and hear each other. To talk and not to argue. To read from credible sources (I’ve found that if an article isn’t from a credible, non-biased source, I rarely even read it). To step outside of our personal bubbles and try to see life and hear life from someone else’s mouth. To do our best to not judge what we see and what we hear, but instead to understand that everyone is SOMEONE. 

I’m by no means super educated on this topic. I didn’t write this because I feel like I have some sort of qualification or insight that someone else doesn’t. I wrote this because I feel like everyone I know needs to hear this, needs to accept this, and needs to start trying to understand those around them.

My only hope for this blog post? That people will start sharing their knowledge, that people will start listening, and people will start doing the only thing I personally know and can do to change this: to love each other, to strive to see the best in people, to help people, to listen to people. And to spread love.

Joy > Stress

Stress.

There's so much of it going on in my life lately that I've found myself not sleeping, and when I do, I'm clenching my jaw so tightly that my teeth, jaw and head hurt.

It sounds super fun, right?

It's so funny because when you tell people you're stressed out, they always ask, why? Or, lately, they think that when I say I'm stressed out, it's all because of my upcoming wedding. (Don't get me wrong – planning a wedding is no joke and a huge stress contributor.)

But, LIFE is what's stressing me out. My life is not hard by comparison to many other's out there, but I hate when people use that as a reason to tell me I shouldn't be stressed out.  I mean, don’t get me wrong -- there are so many things I have easy in my life. But, my life is also incredibly busy and stress seems to follow busy. While I love my job, I work 40 (sometimes more) hours a week and commute 120 miles each day I'm in the office (which is three days a week). I'm in a transition period with my position, and while it's exciting, it also means a lot more work, which means more stress (and, at the moment, no extra money to make up for it). On weekdays, most of the time I don't get home until at least 7, and by that time, I only have a few hours before I'm getting ready for bed. There are nights were I try and cram my generally too-long to-do list within that short time frame, and either I'm so exhausted from not getting enough sleep the night before that I can only manage to sit on the couch and catch up on a show that I haven't watch in three weeks, or I'm getting things done up until the minute I get into bed and my brain hasn't had a chance to shut off, which leaves me wide awake at a time I should be sleeping.

My room is generally a mess (which if you know me, you know I CAN'T STAND) and my car hasn't been washed in months and most of the time, I'm lucky if I have a chance to vacuum up the hair that's accumulated on my bathroom floor (#thickhairprobs).

Not only is my spare time eaten up with wedding planning, it seems my life is BUSY. If it's not family gatherings, it's a wedding (I've got five this year. And that doesn't include my own) or a bridal shower or a baby shower or a birthday party or a housewarming party. (This is what happens when you get old.) Or it's a Saturday hanging out with friends that I'm making it a point to stay in relationship with, because these relationships are valuable and NEEDED in my life, and what's a friendship with out time together? Oh, and I do manage to see my fiancé on the weekends. 

And, then there's my health. Getting older brings so much more stress just in the fact that your body changes and isn't as easy to maintain. I've put on way more weight in the past few years than I would like to admit, and not only am I extremely unhappy with the way I look, there's just no excuse to be X amount of pounds heavier than I should be. The reasons? I love food and I've gotten busy and way lazy because of it. Oh, and I LOVE FOOD. Food has also become a source of joy and stress-relief and fellowship with other people. I want to see a friend? Hey, let's get dinner. Let's go to a movie. And then to dinner. Let's go shopping. And eat lunch. Let's go to bottomless mimosa brunch. (I mean, what's brunch without mimosas? NOTHING.) My days are spent trying to squeeze in a workout and to meal plan and make time to cook and make sure I'm eating as clean as possible during the week and not going too crazy with food (or wine) on the weekends. I stress constantly about the fact that I don't know how to lose weight anymore and being frustrated with the scale and battling with my closet half full of clothes that don't fit or don't fit comfortably anymore. I stress about how I look and how I feel due to how I look DAILY. It is a crappy way to live when you hate your body and not only hate it because you have a misconception about the way a woman's body should look, but because I know that I look this way because of my own behavior. I would love to see a number on a scale and not care what it says because I feel good. Right now, I feel the exact opposite of good about myself.

And, what about the fun stuff?  I miss reading, scrapbooking and crafting. I miss writing, whether it be here or on the many unfinished essays I've started or that are still in my head. I want to get published in a literary magazine. I want to write a book. I want to put all the hundreds of photos in have haphazardly stored in boxes and on my hard drive into scrapbooks. I want to watch all these TV shows people are always asking me if I watch. I want to see the movies I haven't seen yet and that people are appalled I haven't seen (almost all of the Star Wars series and The Godfather trilogy are two that my fiancé is beside himself that I’ve never seen). I want to subscribe to all the literary journals I loved in graduate school that I don't have time to read. I want to be immersed in the writing world again, a world I felt so close to when I was in my MFA program and that I now feel so far away from.

It's exhausting, isn't it? Reading all of this? I want to fit all these – and so many more things – into my very short days and it's almost impossible. How does anyone have time for life outside of the daily grind that we seem to fall in line so easily to?

What I haven't mentioned is what I remembered this morning is so important. I want to be a weekly church-goer again. I want to read my daily devotionals again, read the bible again, to be part of a bible study again. I fit God into my life whenever it's convenient for me, but have I forgotten everything? I've known God my whole life. I've believed in Him my whole life. It's all I know how to know. And, as I've gotten older, it isn't just because it's all I know, but because it's what keeps me from drowning completely in this world and in myself. There was a very long period of my life where I hated myself and (almost) everything around me. And, the only way I climbed out of the very deep hole I had created was to not just believe in God, but to LIVE God. Having something greater than myself – greater than this world – to trust in is a relief and a peace that only other God-fearing and following people can understand. It's this strange relationship where I don't physically see or hear Him, but every day, I don't doubt that He's out there somewhere.

I’ve been behind (almost a whole month) in my daily devotional, and while I’ve been beating myself up about it, maybe it’s for a reason. Every night when I’m reading one or two or three devotionals, I find myself NEEDING to hear what is on the page:

“REFUSE TO WORRY! In this world there will always be something enticing you to worry.”

And as busy as I am, as stressed as I am, as sad as I am that I can’t make the things I love come first, I look at my life, at my friends, at my family, at my fiancé who I love more that I ever thought it was possible to love another person, at my job, at the things I have in my life, and suddenly, the stress I have doesn’t seem as great as the joy that I have. Am I still stressed out? Obviously. It’s 9:12pm and I still haven’t done my 25-minute workout. But, you know what’s greater than stress? Absolute, pure, unadulterated joy.  

being a fan shouldn't be a complex

Baseball season has come to an end and while my post-baseball depression has started to sink in, there’s one thing I’m not going to miss – my A’s friends posting hate on social media and throwing shade to my team. Sigh. It seems that this year has been worse than previous years. The hater side of me would say that this is because the A’s should have had a postseason and they’re subsequently just jealous. But, I really don’t want to assume that. I honestly don’t know why the hate was so much stronger this year. But, whatever the reason, Giants’ fans have come to expect the hate and we’ve taken it in stride.

I came across this article on Facebook that a few of my A’s fans have shared and I’ve read it a few times. This isn’t the first time I’ve read an article and had a some kind of response to it. But, this is the first time I’ve felt strongly enough to reply. Why? Because most of this article is simply whining and disappointment from an A’s fan. There’s absolutely nothing factual in this article; it’s a lot of generalizations, assumptions, and, no offense to the author, but a lot of sour grapes.

So, as not only a Giants’ fan, but a baseball fan, I’ve decided to respond to said article. (You can read the full article here.)

1. We all know them. Those fans that know nothing about the Giants pre-2010…we know much more about their team than they do.

Okay, first off, this is one of those “facts” that I’ve heard from so many people, and not just about baseball -- the fact that if you liked something after it was popular, you're automatically a "bandwagon fan". (Just in case you were wondering -- I exited the womb wearing orange and black.) Whether it’s about the A’s or about people who started liking the Backstreet Boys in 2006 when they've been popular since 1998 or about people who just started watching “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” (please don't do this) and claim to love Kim, but there are people who have been watching since they beginning, so they are the real fans. Etc, etc. So, the point here is because you have liked something longer, that makes you a “real” fan and anyone else who likes something after you – or after it’s become popular – isn’t? That’s like saying someone who just tasted a Hershey bar for the first time and loves it isn’t a real fan of Hershey bars because they haven’t loved it as long as someone else and can’t name the year it was first created or the name of the creator. What’s wrong with people liking something they haven't before or being introduced to something new? The Giants aren’t the only team to have new fans. Even your A's have their share of fans who only show up when they're doing well. I mean, look at the Yankees. I know so many people who like the Yankees simply because they are the Yankees. And WHO CARES? Let people like who and what they like. Judging the validity of someone’s fanaticism is as pointless as judging someone’s love of chocolate.

2. ‘Well we have the best park in Baseball.’ ‘At least we can fill our ball park.’ And this is what apparently makes them the best fans in baseball?

Actually, no, what makes us the “best fans in baseball” is the energy you feel at EVERY game in AT&T Park. Have you ever been there? I’ve been to games when the Giants were sucking and had no chance of a postseason and that park was just as energetic and buzzing and full of excitement as it was when they were winning. Even the talking heads on Fox said this about AT&T Park – and they hate the Giants and had nothing positive, besides this comment, to say about them. To us, our park IS the best because when you’re a Giants fan, there’s nothing better than going home to your team and being surrounded by thousands of other people that feel the same. Isn’t that what makes the Coliseum – I’m sorry, O.co – the best park to you?

3. …I feel respect is due a fan of the opposing team who will represent in hostile territory. But you may want to think twice over at the fancy AT&T (or whatever it’s called). A lone female Royals fan was booed and cursed at, told to get the f…out…All I know is, that would not happen at the O.co.

Really? I’m pretty sure this happens at every Major League Baseball park. Your O.co isn’t immune to this, just as AT&T (yes, it is called AT&T, by the way) isn’t. My parents have season tickets and their seats are in a section that’s known to house family, friends and fans of the opposing team. And never once have I been to a game and sat in those seats and witnessed anyone cursing at those fans, booing them, or telling them, to “get the f out”. Every team has stupid fans because stupid people exist. And, no team is immune from stupidity.

4. Then there are those fans that profess allegiance to the A’s, but if the A’s are out of the postseason, they will root for the Giants…You root for a team not a region! If you root for both teams then you are really not a fan at all.

First off, there’s a difference between rooting for a team and wanting to see a team do well. If the roles had been reversed, I wouldn’t have rooted FOR the A’s, but I sure would have loved to see them win. Why? Not because I’m not a “true fan” or because I’m a bandwagon A’s fan. But, if my team is done for the season, why wouldn’t I want to see a neighboring team do well and bring something positive into our community? Why wouldn’t I want Oakland to bring people together and to celebrate something good? Being a true fan doesn’t mean hating on a neighboring team, especially when they aren’t even our rivals. I can surely be a diehard fan and not wish ill on a team whose success has nothing to do with the success of my own team. I can love the Giants and want to also see Oakland be successful because I LIVE HERE TOO. And, it’s not up to you or anyone else to decide how true or untrue my fanaticism is.

5. I’m just slightly sick of seeing the same bay area team in the post season when the A’s have been fighting tooth and nail to no avail.

Firstly, and that’s the Giants’ fault? Again, the success of the A’s has nothing to do with the success of the Giants. And, sorry, but the A’s aren’t the only team in the MLB who has fought tooth and nail year after year. That’s the whole point of a baseball season; every team fights tooth and nail to get a postseason. It’s silly of you to make this statement as if the A’s are the only losing team who hasn't won in the past five years. Look at the Royals. They haven’t been in a postseason before this year in over 20 years. And, yet, here they are with a young team, new managers, and the same amount of fight as every other team, and they not only got their long-wished-for postseason, but they gave us a run for our money. And, I can bet you they didn’t hate on any other team when they were losing as a result.

I love my Giants. I love the players, I love their heart, I love their bond, their friendships, the respect they give their managers and coaches and owners, and the love they have for their fans and their community. But, my love of the Giants doesn’t turn to hate for anyone else when their season is over. I don’t hate someone else because of their shortcomings or complain when others do well instead. My love for my team turns into my love of the game and of the excitement it creates; the way it can bring a city together and create nothing but good news on the TV instead of bad. My love turns to the game, because isn’t that what baseball is all about, anyway?

Beverly Hills, What a Thrill.

I read that today marks the 25^th year of the best movie to ever grace American history, and that is Troop Beverly Hills. As kids – you know, back in the late 80s and early 90s when you didn’t own movies or stream them but you actually went to a store and picked one to rent – my sisters and I would go down to Rodeo Family Video  every weekend and choose the same movie every single time. Yes. Troop Beverly Hills. We saw it dozens of times and it never got old. We loved it. I mean, what’s not to love? Rolls Royces (a fancy car we had never heard of), b-list celebrities we would not have otherwise known (Pia Zadora, Robin Leach, and a tiny cameo from Annette Funicello), comedy (“They didn’t have outlets.”), and, best of all, outrageously 80s, rich-people outfits. I mean, Phyllis’ wardrobe consisted of everything from giant fur coats to larger-than-life pleated shorts to fully sequined dresses, complete with fully sequined birds.

I loved everything about that movie, but secretly Shelley Long’s extensive wardrobe is what I loved most. I would look forward to the scenes where she would wear the outfits I loved the most and cringed when she would arrive in the outfits I loved least. I, like every other Phyllis-loving creature, had my favorite outfits and the outfits I couldn’t wait for her to not ever wear again (that is, until the next time I watched it).

In honor of its 25^th anniversary, I’ve complied a best and worst dressed list that has been 25 years in the making for me. All starring our favorite divorcee-wilderness-girl-fashion-plate, Mrs. Phyllis Nefler.

Best Dressed:

1. Just Hanging Out in my Killer Satin Jammies and Matching Kimono Phyllis

Phyllis makes bedtime the place to be. I mean outside of the faboosh kimono (WHERE DID YOU BUY THAT), she’s topped off this black number with a metallic headscarf and oversized earrings. Killin’ it.

2. Revamped Wilderness Girl Troop Leader Ensemble with Matching Cape Phyllis

Who cares if you eventually have to pitch a tent in the dirt and cook squirrel meat over a fire started with two sticks? This masterpiece is all any troop leader needs in life.

3. Trimmin’ Trees in Animal Print and a Bitchin’ Hat Phyllis

Werk Bitch.

4. Casual Tweed Stay-At-Home Mom Phyllis

Makin’ sandwiches has never looked better. I don’t know what’s better: the tweed culottes one-piece, the sheer puffy sleeved-blouse or the matching red head-scarf-turned headband. If this is what not working looks like, sign me up.

Worst Dressed:

1. Yellow Mom Shorts with Matching Shoulder-Padded Blouse Phyllis

The Man With the Yellow Hat Called. He wants his outfit back.

* Bonus Points: Pre-Rilo-Kiley Jenny Lewis is killin' the popular matching floral shirt and blouse ensam. She makes banana Phyllis a little more bearable. Now, about those couches...

2. Easter Egg Tuxedo Dress With Layered Marshmallow Train Phyllis

I mean, why. That much pastel should be prohibited. Even during Easter. And the messy up-do, massive rose choker and bicep-length gloves? Listen to your own wilderness girls, Phyll: Too many accessories clutter an outfit.

3. Icing on the Cake Wicker Skirt Tee-Pee Dress Phyllis

 Just. No.

4. Every Shade of Purple Hot Mess Victorian Tea Party My Daughter Hot Glued Flowers to My Hat Phyllis

The least she could have done was choose one shade of purple and stick to it.

(Props and major thanks go out to the inspiration for unleashing my childhood fashion critic, Lindy West, who wrote this way-better and ultra-thorough article. While I don’t agree with (most) of her rankings, any one who can create a masterpiece as she has done is my heroine. Lindy, I hope you don’t mind my version. Thanks for the inspo.)