Skills. You Know, Like Nunchuck Skills, Bowhunting Skills, Computer Hacking Skills…

Have I told you that I am an idiot?

Yes, I think that I have. On several occasions, actually.

Definitely in the last post.

I think I mentioned how, ohbythewayIamCRAZY, like totally Cuckoo for Coco Puffs, in this embarrassing little tale.

And of course there’s the whole business about coming from a less than traditional family, and by ‘traditional’ I mean ‘normal.’

But, really, the sad truth of my idiocy was just brought home for me once again when I called Dr. Z’s office to get some additional details.

(PS Thank you all SO much for the wonderful information you provided. Man, you guys rock. Seriously. Want to all meet for a spa weekend one of these days to celebrate your awesomeness?)

Anyhoo, I called and discovered that I am NOT taking two entire packs of pills. I am taking one pack, and then if needed a few additional pills around the time I start the Lupron.

So basically I failed to do the second grade level math and figure out that one pack only has 21 pills, and I might need another 7-8 pills at the start of the protocol, therefore necessitating another pack.

But I won’t be taking the entire second pack. No!

I need approximately 28 pills and each pack only has 21, and 21 – 28 = durrrrr….ME NEED MORE PILLS…I am an idiot!

And yes, the pills are to quiet my system, strap down those antral follicles and make sure they don’t get all carnival freak on my ass. If all goes well (meaning the follies are nice and quiet and demure, and not all Jack-and-Coke swilling ass-clowns) I will take the pills (ONE pack and maybe a few stragglers, NOT TWO)  (IDIOT! said in best Napoleon Dynamite voice), and around March 4th or 5th start the Lupron and then go from there. You all know the drill A LOT better than I do!

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"You are beautiful. You are sexy. You are pregnant. Flaunt it."

Now this is just a delightful sentiment, to be sure. But did I want to receive a package at work with a giant sticker on the front exclaiming this little ditty?

Not so much.

But that’s what happened today when I got the t-shirt I ordered for my sister.

I saw a link on Heather’s site to these adorable tees (thanks H!), and I thought: what a nice gift that would make. What a nice sister I am.  What a big person I am to swallow my frustration and jealousy and order a frigging t-shirt.  I should get pregnant MYSELF soon because of my immense generosity of spirit. RIGHT?? 

And then I whacked myself in the head – hard- with a nearby two-by-four because, really, it’s just a goddamn t-shirt and it’s not that big of a deal and I really need to get over myself.

Having it sent to my office was an all together lame ass idea. Since below the spot where the label exclaims I am sexy AND pregnant and encourages me to flaunt these assets, it also clearly states it’s from a company selling "maternity wear for the haute mama." 

They might assume that…I am the pregnant one.

EEEEEKS.

What on earth must my co-workers assume I’m doing when I’m supposedly at all of these doctor’s appointments undergoing quote/unquote fertility treatments, week after week after week?

Getting a regular Brazilian bikini wax to keep the hedges nice and tidy?

Doing Meth and hanging out at the Mall, trolling Forever 21 and humiliating myself as the only 39 year old woman trying desperately to squeeze into their size 10s?

Scouring the Internet in a vain attempt to discover whether or not the rumors about my little Brit-Brit being pregnant AGAIN are true? (Couldn’t be!)

Watching back-to-back episodes of 30 Rock on one endless, hilarious loop? (I do have the boldness of a much younger woman…)

The possibilities are endless.

But, alas, instead of the waxing, trolling, scouring and watching, I will soon be at the doctor’s office day after day trying to become one haute mama.

Wish me luck.  I’ll need it…