Twas a few nights before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a spouse.

The OPKs were laid by the bathroom sink with care,

In hopes that a second line soon would be there.

Bosco the dog was nestled snug in the bed,

While visions of squirrels danced in his head.

And BeBop in his boxers, and I in my jammies (which are such wrecks!),

Had just settled down for another installment of baby-making sex.

When out in the bathroom there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed ,and hopped over the dog, to see what was the matter.

Away to the sink I flew like a flash,

To check the ovulation-predicting stash.

The bathroom light shone like a star, giving me a sign,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

BUT ONE SINGLE LINE.

I was off the hook that night,

Thank the good Lord above because I looked quite the fright.

So it was off to bed, sniffling, coughing and sneezing up a storm,

To skip sex that night, which is really the norm.

And then, as the dawn broke today,

I noticed still more EWCM in the region of the vajay-jay.

So it’s back to the sticks and the tests tonight,

In the hope we can, finally, get it right.

And Watson exclaimed, as she ended this post,

She wishes she could raise her glass in a toast.

To all of her new friends who lend such love and always have a clue,

She hopes in the New Year all of your wishes come true!

…so that I can ask you lovelies a question:

And I won’t even bother to preface it with a "watch out for TMI" warning because you’ve been here before and you should know what to expect.

(Except for that very, very unlucky person who did a search for ‘the world’s best rollercoasters’ and somehow ended up over here, the poor bastard.  I mean, really.  Probably some poor guy planning a family trip to take his kids to some amusements parks, just looking for some helpful advice and unwittingly stumbles into IF Blog Hell.  Wherein I talk incessantly about a crazy mother and a pregnant sister and a dog that does guest blogging on request and not seeing Reese Witherspoon while dressed as a bug-eyed turtle.)

Speaking of IF Hell, here is my damage today:  It is CD10, usually extraordinarily far away from anything close to an ovulation.

But!

I just noticed a tad of EWCM today.  CD10 people!  What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is going on around here? 

It was just a smidge — a skooch — if you will. But still.

And my issue is that BeBop is supposed to go in on Friday for another sperm test, with the fertility specialist Dr. Z.

So starting today, until after the test it’s no more sexy–time, no more wakey wakey hands on snakey, no more sexy hand party as Borat would say. If you know what I mean.  And I think that you do…

Anyway.

Should I postpone his appointment so we can make the sweet sweet love (cough! gasp! Sorry. I just choked on that a little bit) over the next few nights, just to make sure we don’t miss an insanely early ovulation??

Or am I crazy? 

Wait, don’t answer that.

Or, should I chalk the teeny tiny child’s menu sized portion of EWCM up to the Evening Primrose Oil that my acupuncturist recommended or the L-Arginine that the crafty Zee turned me on to?  Perhaps my system is just gearing up to ovulate and it will still be a week away and in that case, BeBop should go do his thang on Friday and get it out of the way.

Or, should I get my ass to the store and purchase some OPKs and see if there’s any kind of a LH surge to be found?

Or, should I just break into a holiday gift basket we have at the office, polish off a bottle of wine along with some chocolate-covered blueberries (which?  Really!  What the frick is that about? Who dips a tiny blueberry into purple chocolate? So weird. Anyhoo…) and take a long nap under my desk, just forgetting about the whole thing?

What to do, oh wise ones, what to do??

P.S.  I have a sore throat so please factor that in.  And it’s only Wednesday night, for crissakes, not even a weekend!  But there’s no America’s Next Top Model on tonight, so I do have some extra time on my hands.  But I’m having a particularly BAD hair day.  Like combed my hair with a rake bad hair day.  But BeBop’s seen worse.  Okay. I’m sorry, I’ll let you get to it.

P.P.S.  Oh!  Good news!  I just found out I’m not a carrier for CF.  Finally, some freaking GOOD NEWS.

I’m actually feeling a little better this week. 

I know!  Shocking!!

But the term ‘better’ is certainly relative, since last week I was on the verge of planning a one-way trip to the Golden Gate Bridge, and not to enjoy the world famous views if you know what I mean (and I think that you do).

My period arrived on Sunday after a battle royale with the progesterone pulsing through my system.  That was the bad news.  But the good news is that once I emerged from the progesterone-induced state of misery, I actually started to feel a little better.

And I made it through the family-themed Christmas party.  Just barely.  It was a huge party, with a giant, real-snow sledding area out front for the kids.

And OY!  The kids…

By my count there were at least 17 gajillion adorable little tots running around, sledding, decorating upside-down ice cream cones to make them look like yummy frosting-covered Christmas trees, drinking heavily. 

Oh no, wait, that was me.

But I didn’t drink too much, just enough to ensure I had a protective force field around me. That way, when BeBop’s co-workers asked if we had kids or were our kids there, or I saw the adorable little bastards running around in all their holiday glee, I would not have a nervous breakdown.

In fact, I had BeBop take a photo of me with my protective shield up, to give you a better idea of what I’m talking about:

Okay.  That’s not really me.  She has waaaay better tits than I do.  But you get the general idea.

Overall, the party really was okay.  I didn’t grope any Nemo fishes or try to tackle the fairy princess, although I did think about it, but just for a second.

I made small talk and tried to be charming, which under the circumstances was quite a challenge for me. 

I’d say my only real faux pas was comparing one of BeBop’s supervisors to Saddam Hussein.  You see, there was this whole conversation about this guy being on our city’s town council, and how he was wearing this distinctive-looking coat at the cringe-inducing tree lighting festival, and then his wife said he could have other people wear the same coat at events and then I piped in with, "Yeah!  Just like Saddam Hussein!  You could have your own stand-ins to trick people and then…." 

And then?  And then reality and, like, consciousness, stepped in and were all, "uhhhh, Watson?  WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?? Shut up you IDIOTIC ASS CLOWN!"

And it really wasn’t that bad, but it was kind of bad, so I just shut my trap and went back to sipping my wine and that was that.

So today is lovely CD3, and this is our very last cycle before IVF and oh yes, my 39th birthday is tomorrow.

I will most likely celebrate by leaving work early to continue with the blood-giving, as yesterday I was able to give four vials (like a big girl!) but I probably have about 20 to go and all of the results need to be back before I start Lupron.

And I don’t think I’ve told you about the cystic fibrosis, have I? My sister discovered she was a carrier, but thankfully my brother-in-law is not. (Have I told you this?  I feel like I have.)  Anyhoo,  there is a 50% chance that I am a carrier too, so I really wanted to get those results back asap and then BeBop can get tested, once they know what my status is.

(You know that old song?  All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth and a negative cystic fibrosis test?  I love that song.)

I would say I’m precariously perched on a thin line between acceptance and resignation on one side and despair and self-pity on the other.

But what’s a birthday without a little despair and self-pity, right?  And another four vials of blood? 

Good times.

(Okay, that was going to be the end of this post, but HOLY HANNAH when I read it back I was all, you sound fricking pathetic dude.  So I better come up with something else because I just cannot end on such a sour note.)

Knock Knock

Who’s there?

The interrupting cow

The interrupt-

–MOOOOOOO

Is that joke better told in person?  I’m thinking that it is…

I better quit while I’m behind.

Yes, that’s right, Universe.

This is a letter to inform you that, currently, you are sucking.

Given the last couple of weeks and the bad mood I’ve been in, it was very clever of you to trick me into having lunch with my Mother yesterday in the midst of a very busy week.  And by ‘clever’ I mean ‘cruel.’

I must also give you props for starting the day off with an e-mail from BeBop stating that because I came very close to having a nervous breakdown the other night at our local tree-lighting festival (because being absolutely inundated with cute little babies in Santa onesies and toddlers with felt antler hats and strollers and other adorable, holiday-themed family bric a brac was just too much for me), I might want to perhaps think twice about attending his office holiday party. 

Despite the fact that since he’s a new employee and this is our first party there, and let’s not forget the fact that he works for a giant and extremely fun animation company who might JUST MAYBE PERHAPS have a kick-ass party.  But, yes, apparently I am fragile (or FRA-GEE-LAY ["must be Italian!"] as they say in A Christmas Story) thus I might not want to subject myself to more adorable little creatures in holiday attire singing touching but very off-key Christmas carols.  I might, say, run screaming from the party or fling myself on a life-sized version of a cartoon character and totally embarrass BeBop in front of his new co-workers.

So good job, Universe, for getting my day off to a great start.

Lunch started off with a bang as my Mother informed me of how she had just called my sister with a list of fabulous baby names for her to consider. It must have occurred to you that perhaps this was not the most enjoyable topic of conversation for me. Sadly, the same thought did not occur to my Mother.

I bet I caught YOU off guard, though, when I ordered a tuna sandwich in the hopes that Mercury poisoning would just end my life right then and there.  And, you must have given me some extra credit when I ordered tap water in the hope that the tuna combined with the lead by-products would bring a dramatic, chest-clutching and quick death that would end my torture.  But it did not. I was forced to discuss my sister’s due date and the idea of throwing her a baby shower this spring. 

(Ah, yes, forcing me to consider the possibility of planning a baby shower, replete with invitations engraved with a charming cartoon of a cute-bellied pregnant woman and presents and games and adorable little pink (or blue!) cupcakes was a stroke of genius. Good one Universe!  And I mean that in the same way I said ‘good one’ to BeBop when he left a realistic plastic cockroach for me on the stairs the other day, scaring the pee right out of me.)

Did you think the combination of my current crankiness and this discussion would just cause my head to explode in a fiery ball of self-pity?

I, quite honestly, was just as surprised as you that I managed to survive lunch.  (The waitress did look somewhat surprised when I ordered a giant serving of Polonium-210 for dessert, but sadly she thought I was just combining current events with my wacky sense of humor!)

I must give credit where credit is due, Universe.  The coup de grace was really at the very end of lunch, just when I thought I might survive and make it back to the office in one piece, when we ran into one of my Mother’s friends.

"Congratulations on the BABY," she screamed across the courtyard.

"I, uh…ummm….wrong sister,"  I replied, in the single most awkward display of awkwardness since the Dawn of Time.

As I ran from the courtyard back to my car, with tears streaming down my face, I hope you felt a sense of satisfaction for breaking me.  I returned to work just in time for a meeting, after crying off every inch of Sephora make up and Almay mascara and looking simply au natural.  And by ‘au natural’ I mean ‘hideous’ and ‘like I’ve been smacked in the face with a two-by-four.  A two-by-four covered in rusty nails.’

So dear Universe, I could say that this was it, that you won.  I could cry Uncle.

But I won’t.

Bring it on, biyatch, bring it on. 

Let’s see what you’re really made of.

Peace out,

Watson

PS  I’m not really that tough.  So PLEASE make me strong enough to get through the kiddie-themed Christmas party tonight even though I know my period is mere hours away.  Because I woke up spotting today, and it’s only 12 CrappyDPO, so THANKS for that.

PPS  Please let them have copious amounts of alcohol at said party.

PPPS   Oh!  I should clarify. Please don’t let me drink too much and end up in a compromising position with a giant Nemo fish.  That would be bad.  Very, very bad.

PPPPS  Okay, I’m sorry I called you a biyatch.  I take that back.  And I’ve really had enough of this. 

UNCLE.

This blog is suddenly not so entertaining…

It’s all about the whining and the complaining and I know at this point, you’re just begging for mercy.

I can actually hear you over the Internet:  Please Watson, for the love of all that is HOLY, please just tell us a story about your Mother’s latest healer or something even slightly amusing!

But alas, I am still in this God awful mood.

It really started last weekend with the whole Rotten Ham Episode. 

You see, BeBop carries this very nerdy practical insulated lunch bag thing to work every day.  And he often carries, back and forth from home to office, some sliced sandwich meat his tormentor lovely wife has purchased for him the previous weekend.

WHY does he do this?  you ask.  Why in the frackin’ HELL would he force his ham to commute with him instead of leaving it in the fridge at work?  I don’t know.  That’s a very good question and I wish I had a good answer for you.  But I don’t, save for:  he’s BEBOP for crissakes!!

Anyhoo, on Friday he brought home the nerd bag and the ham (Hey!  Wouldn’t that be a good title for a children’s book: The Nerd Bag And The Ham ?? Okay, moving on…) and left it on the stairs.  The STAIRS, people!  Not the kitchen, not the gee-why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-FRIDGE, no, the stairs.

And like a typical husband (just guessing here, I’ve only had one…) he suddenly lost all power of observation and there it sat until Saturday afternoon.

I was so pissed off that by the end of the day, after several hours of looking at the offending lunch meat and sighing loudly, I decided to be mature spiteful, and put the bag and the ham in his office.  I figured it would take him another couple of days to either 1) need the bag for work on Monday or 2) notice a noxious, pig-like odor emanating from somewhere in his room.

I know, I could have just disposed of the ham and cleaned out the bag, but WHY would I do that?  Why, when I could punish myself by leaving rotting meat around the house?  Trust me, it seems stupid now but last weekend it made a whole lot of sense.

Later that afternoon I was practically crying in my Chai as my friend ‘tried’ to make me feel better, but as we all know, once an infertile starts down the poor me trail precious little can rescue her, and with good reason.

So just to review: the day started with me hiding a bag of meat in BeBop’s office and continued on with me feeling so bitter.  Bit.  Ter.

You can see where this is going, right? Our anniversary dinner was NOT getting off to a good start.

The short version is this:  the place was so loud I literally had to scream over our tiny table to be heard, and there were couples on both sides, less than an arm’s length away.

So of course it wasn’t exactly conducive to a private conversation about what was bothering me, since yelling, "you and your fuckin’ HAM!" or "I can’t believe I ovulated late AGAIN this cycle, my ovaries are ASSHATS"  or "that stuff I took twice a day didn’t thin out my cervical mucus AT ALL" just didn’t seem appropriate.

(I could have yelled the cervical mucus comment and then leaned ever so slightly to my right and asked my neighbor how his french onion soup was, but that seemed cruel,  even for me.)

I was starving, and let’s just say that when I’m hungry you really should stay far, far away because there’s a high likelihood I will lose my shit.

Did I mention I was starving??

BeBop’s meal arrived a full ten minutes before mine, and then when my burger finally did arrive it was rare.  And since I’m still a relatively new carnivore (after being a vegetarian for many years) I need that bad boy cooked well done.  And this was a nice restaurant, so I assumed that cooking a freaking hamburger would be fairly easy.

So as BeBop’s dish got colder by the minute, I tried to mutter under my breath but due to the noise level ended up shrieking, "I swear to fucking God I will go carnival freak on her ass if that burger isn’t cooked well enough!"

And of course, when they brought it back it was still rare.

After I sent it back for the second time, the hostess came over to apologize. I pretended to start crying and gave her a sob story about how this was our 5th anniversary dinner and how my husband had wanted to try the restaurant for months and how I was trying to have a special evening to celebrate.

I knew all of those acting lessons would pay off one day! My performance was convincing, and yet not over the top, with just the perfect amount of tearing up and dabbing the corner of the eye with the napkin.

After the histrionics, they comped our entire dinner including the wine, which was the only bright spot in the whole disaster.

After dinner, we were walking the dog and I was complaining bitterly about the cold.

”I’m wearing a skirt and this wind is blowing straight up my ASS!" or something like that was probably what I was yelling, still accustomed to the loud restaurant.  The neighbors loooove me.

BeBop countered with his typical, I grew up on the East Coast and 68 degrees is NOT cold refrain.

I smartly responded, "But I can see my BREATH, look here…" I said as I over-dramatically blew out a deep breath and sure enough, you could see it.

"Well that’s what happens," BeBop snickered, "when you’re breathing fire."

He was very proud of himself for comparing me to a fire-breathing dragon. 

And sadly, he was not far off.

I’m thinking I should have a self-imposed moratorium on blogging until I have something interesting or positive to say.

HA!

Like that would ever happen.

So I have been in a frightful mood for days now. 

Or, as BeBop would put it:  I have been wearing my SUPER cranky pants lately.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I have progesterone coming out of my ass (well, not literally.  And I felt as though I should be clear on that point, because Lord knows we infertiles often do have various and sundry substances coming out of different orifices, and I didn’t want you to worry I was using the progesterone in a very wrong and disturbing way!).

(Speaking of orifices and wrong and disturbing, did y’all see those photos of Britney?!  The ones where her vajayjay is flashing the camera? OMG, my little Brit-Brit, what has happened to you?!  I seriously will not even link to those photos because you simply MUST exercise more self control than I did.  You must not, whatever you do, view these pictures.  I will never eat abalone again.)  (What does THAT mean? I have no idea.)

Anyway, I’m in a bad mood partially because of the progesterone-fueled luteal phase hormonal picnic going on inside, partially because I chose – willingly – to burn the image of Brit’s naked (so, SO NAKED!) vagenie parts into my retinas, and partially because everything just bugs the ever living crap out of me these days.

Case in point:

I saw a close friend on Saturday for coffee.  She’s actually the only friend I’ve talked to about our latest foray into the infertility circus of fun.  As I was updating her on the latest, that we are trying the Metformin for a couple of months before moving on to IVF, I mentioned that this holding pattern was killing me.

Okay, maybe complained is a better word than mentioned.

Just month after month after month of waiting and trying and hoping and failing is just getting to me, I explained.

"Hmmmmm, " she started.  "Well, since you’re choosing to try the medication, can’t you just think of it as a self-imposed wait.  Would that make it easier?"

"Hmmmmmm…" I retorted.  "If I chose to shove that scone up your left nostril would that make it any easier?  Because, like, I’m choosing to do it?"

Okay, I did not really say that.  But I wanted to.  I know she was trying to help, attempting to get me to re-frame the issue.  But JESUS H!  Doesn’t she think I’ve tried everything imaginable to see this from a different perspective?

Yes, we are choosing to wait on IVF because the specialist suggested that we give the Met a chance. 

But waiting is waiting, even if it is our choice to do so.  It’s still hard. It still sucks.

It still feels like an interminable amount of time.

Stayed tuned for the next installment of My Life Blows, entitled:

Our Anniversary Dinner:  A Disaster:  Of Epic Proportions.

Subtitled:

How I Went Infertile Carnival Freak On Her Ass When My Meal Wasn’t Prepared Correctly