The Two Week Wait (or, Science is Fucking Freaky)...

In case ya'll were wondering, I am currently twiddling my thumbs and wondering if my doctor and my husband managed to knock me up.

And that is SOOOO not as kinky as it sounds.

I'm also driving myself absolutely crazy looking up Sit N Stand strollers on Amazon dot com and ignoring my housework.

For those of you whose ovaries work (and if they do and you're not sending me baby dust, good thoughts, and crossed fingers, I will KNOW) the Two Week Wait in InfertileSpeak is the period of time between a fertility procedure/ovulation and the time when you can actually take an accurate pregnancy test.

The Two Week Wait has been known to drive women insane.

I'm doubly screwed because I'm cheap enough that I don't want to waste a ten dollar pregnancy test because I broke and tested early.  Yes, I know that I can get cheapie tests off the internets by the dozens, but I'm still in denial that I'll need that many.  I've been convinced I'll get pregnant just next month for two years.

Science is wonderful, but there's something soooo weird about knowing EXACTLY when I'm going to ovulate (thanks to the many hands and ultrasound sticks shoved up my hooha).  It doesn't do a whole hell of a lot to inject romance into sex, that's for sure.  Make this one count, I'm ovulating tomorrow!!  Of course my hubby was THRILLED that he got three consecutive days of doctor-ordered nookie.  He happened to have those days off work, but I'm sure that if he hadn't he would have asked the doc for a note.  And I'm also sure that he would have been given an hour or two off work.  Guaranteed nookie is something Marines understand as an opportunity NOT to be wasted. 

So, I wait.  My blissfully oblivious hubby plays video games and I wait.  And try and stay off google and TTC boards.  (FYI, my google history looks something like this:  clomid twins, nausea and clomid, how soon after ovulation can I take a pregnancy test, ways to tell your husband you're pregnant, I feel like I'll never get pregnant....)

And don't forget to send me baby dust.

Top Ten Reasons Why Taking Clomid and Other Assorted Fertility Drugs Can Suck My Balls...

10.  Watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and crying like an idiot.  Crying while driving on the highway in rush hour traffic, because the radio personalities just bought Christmas for a kid with cancer.  Good for the kid but guess what, it's fucking HARD to drive while blubbering.  Crying for no reason at fucking all and freaking the hubby out.  Actually, that part is kinda fun.

9.  Mmmm, that pepperoni looks good.  I'll just eat it straight from the DAMN BAG.  Are those potato chips?  Mmmm, more ass flab.  Hand 'em over. 

8.  Feeling pregnant in general, being bloated like I'm pregnant, intestinal tract not working like I'm pregnant, being exhausted like I'm pregnant, puking like I'm pregnant, my boobs hurting like I'm pregnant, AND NOT BEING FUCKING PREGNANT. 

7.  Transvaginal ultrasounds.  Holy Mary, mother of God, deliver me from the PAIN of this infernal plastic stick being jammed into my cervix.

6.  The realization that we've been trying to conceive baby number two since February 2nd, 2008 (the date the hubby got back from Iraq the second time).  And we have sex a LOT.  I mean, a LOOOOT- be glad you're not my next door neighbors.  Anywhoo, based on the amount of nookie goin on I should have my existing preschooler, a toddler, AND be knocked up again by now dammit.

5.  Giving myself shots of said fertility drugs.  Fucking OOOWWWW.

4.  Knowing that every period I have disappoints my hubby, even though he loves me and he tells me it's not my fault and means it.

3.  Recurrent miscarriages.

2.  People who get pregnant by accident and/or without really even trying.  This includes my 20 year old self who got pregnant with my daughter in less than 4 weeks.  (If I could go back in time, I would bitchslap my younger self into the next century.)  This also includes people who complain about their kids.  Fuck you ALL.  I will take ALL of your children, keep one or two for myself, and hand out the rest to the other infertiles who will GLADLY take them and love them to death.

1.  Clomid make Jacqueline ANGRY!!!!  Jacqueline SMASH!!!!

This bitch session brought to you by Clomid.  Clomid, for when your ovaries have failed, Clomid .

And for your bonus viewing pleasure, I give you Way Too Much Information:

My hubby's latest sperm sample came back from the lab, with the little guys being "above average" across the board.  I never thought I'd be so grateful for good sperm motility!  Swim little guys, SWIIIIIIIIIIIM!!!!

This has been a Public Service Announcement from the I Don't Give a Flying Fuck About Your Problems Foundation....

For the public's general information:

If you are dumb enough to spend 80 grand on a brand new Escalade do NOT drive it to your child's preschool, especially not in a foot of snow.  And don't double park the sucker.  And don't be suprised that, while attempting to get my child outta my Mom Van, that myself or my child will accidentally brush your vehicle.  And definitely don't be suprised, after you literally scream at me in ANGER for DAAARING to touch your car, when I cut your ass down to size for being stupid enough to do all of the above actions. 

The Moral of Today's Story is:  Don't fuck with me a Stay at Home Mom who has not yet had her coffee.

Because I've been cranky and bitchy and lazy...

... and just plain blog neglectful, here's some pictures ya'llve missed:

(my kiddo the Mermaid)

(yay sparkly purple eyeshadow!)

(the Hubby chillin in front of his new ManMobile)

(my new winter boots, with which I am in love with)

(Hubby and myself at the Marine Corps Ball)

(me and Heidi getting crunkified at the Ball)

(my Ball hair.  Yes it's pretty, and yes I'm kicking the crap outta myself for overpaying)

(yours truely at the Marine Corps Ball)

Why God has a sense of humor, and I most definetly do not...

My fertility clinic is has the worst physical location EVER in the history of mankind and Murphy's Law: the office is smack dab in between the ultrasound clinic and the midwives practice.  Sigh. 

First person to make me laugh just might win the karmic lottery.

ASKDJFOIEHFE...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

No, that was not a typo.  So, I'm stuck.  Life stuck.  Motivation stuck.  Aren't all the meds I'm downing daily supposed to fix all that?  Fuck.

Hey, that rhymes.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure my mom is reading my blog.  Because I'm stupid enough to use my real name.  Thank you Google.  I love my mother dearly.  Really.  But every time I think of picking up the phone to call, my brain starts to dissolve and I fall to the floor writhing in pain. 

Hi mom.  I'm perfectly happy sticking to email for now.

I wonder if the hubby's unit doc will prescribe me some Vicodin for the pain of Dissolving Brain Syndrome?

Ah, I'm just full of pithy humor aren't I?

Hello?  Internet???  (Taps on computer screen)  Anyone out there?  I know at least SOME of ya'll are listening.

So, I may be a fucking Debbie Downer right now but honest to FUCK I will trade you jobs right now.  I begged my husband to be a SAHM.  BEGGED.  ON.  MY.  KNEES.  BEGGED.  And I love my child.  To death.  And that's where it ends.  At this point, when I hear the neighborhood children screaming 15 feet from my back windows while I'm trying to take a motherfucking NAP, and my FIRST thought is "Where the fuck is my shotgun?"  Yea.  I think I've finally figured it out.  I am obviously not a people person.  (Feel free to unleash your chorus of "NO SHITs" riiiiiiight about.... now.)

Don't even get me started about the housework.  Unless you like hearing polysyllabic swear words.  Which, if you're reading MY writing, you either like it or choose to ignore it.  In either case, I'm a Marine not a Sunday school teacher.  Bite me.

Anyway, the time had come when I decided that I needed some me time.  Good news is that, for the low bargain price of a hundred bucks a month, my darling child gets the opportunity to go to preschool five days a week.  For three blissful, quiet, calm hours a day.  Three hours full of coffee, uninterrupted reading, occasional housecleaning, maybe smoke a cigarette from the pack I stole from the hubby's carton...

God bless my husband that he doesn't read my blog.  Something about respecting my privacy and not wanting to inhibit my artistic expression.  I knew I married him for a reason.

And thank God the child loves school.  Last week, on the first day of preschool, her classroom was filled with screaming children who didn't want to leave mommy.  My kid?  My kid barely looked up from the plastic dinosaurs when I told her goodbye.  Which is a good thing- I am the LAST person on EARTH who needs a kid who is easily rattled.

So while the other mothers were busy trying to calm their respective, totally freaked out offspring, I was calculating in my head just how fast I could run out the door without attracting too much attention or suspicion.

But I think the GIANT grin on my face as I left the base daycare gave me away.

Green Day concert...

Seeing Green Day live was pure, liquid awesome.  It was like, like going to church in the Matrix, on the holodeck of the Starship Enterprise.

We had floor tickets, and we were LITERALLY three feet away from the stage.  We were so close that we could see Billie Joe sweat.  Which is not as gross as it sounds, it was actually pretty badass.

I got lucky enough to catch myself Billie Joe's guitar pick.  More accurately, the pick was thrown out into the crowd and I STEPPED on the guitar pick.  I stood my ground while some crazy chick tried to shove me, and a ten year old boy tried to LITERALLY peel my foot off the floor.  And the hubby had enough presence of mind to get the pick out from under my foot for me while I fended off the crowd.  Needless to say, I got my souvenir.

And I took some INCREDIBLE pictures.  (Click on the pics to make them bigger.)  Thank my iphone.

(BADASS tour bus)

(Only the most AWESOME picture EVER.)

(My hard-won guitar pick)

TMI ALERT!!!

I happen to be one of those people who naturally attract drama/accidents/natural disasters to them.  If there is a trip hazard around, it'll be MY ass on the ground.  If I forget to bring a sippy cup, my kid will be thirsty and we'll be half an hour from the nearest water fountain/drive thru.  And the phone will ring the INSTANT I decide to step into the shower.  Never fails.

So of course I wasn't suprised when, while standing in line at the grocery store yesterday, my uterus decided to suddenly get a mind of it's own and wage a full scale WAR against me.  I won't go too far into the gory details, but I was freaked out enough to waste an evening in the emergency room.  Let's just say that there was major bleeding and clotting in places where there should NOT be major bleeding and clotting.

The docs weren't sure if I was having another miscarriage or not (it was too early in my cycle to tell).  But they still felt the need to shove varied and interesting objects up my vajayjay.  I'm just glad that I managed to convince the hubby to stay in the room with me while I was getting molested by metal, plastic, and the gay doctor with the fantastic bedside manner.  Having convinced hubs that, in a hospital setting, my vagina would a) not attack him or b) cause a zombie outbreak, he cowboyed up and held my hand.  Of course, I enjoyed the conversation the two boys had while my lady parts were on public display- both men agreed that they were pretty damn happy not to be women.  After that little display, my hubby's just lucky that he didn't suffer a VERY painful death by speculum. 

Either way, I only know two things for sure:  One, I'm not bleeding to death internally.  Which is good.  Two, I should probably pay a visit to the OB.  Which should be SOOOOO pleasant.  More things shoved up my nether regions.  I just don't get it- why the HELL don't they make heated, silicone padded speculums?  Maybe in a nice, soothing color like pink.  Or maybe they can make speculums that resemble dongs, so that at least they look familiar.