Sooooo…I am in period limbo, as it were. 

Plimbo as I like to call it.

I started spotting on Saturday morning, but my acupuncturist made me cross my heart with a Unicorn’s horn and take an oath on the Full Moon AND pledge to the Goddess that I would keep taking the progesterone tablets until I was SURE that my period had arrived. (Okay… she didn’t make me take an oath but she made me SWEAR.)

I guess the idea, which is really rather comical, is that potentially I could be pregnant and the spotting was an early sign there was something amiss and the magic progesterone pills could magically work their magic and viola!  Pregnant!

AS IF.

But because I am a compliant patient (and I took The Oath), I have been cramming progesterone tablets down my craw like they’re Skittles.

And I am still spotting.  No real period, just spotting and swearing and saying "For crissakes, just START already and put me out of my misery!"

I did take a HPT, which was so negative the stark whiteness of the result window practically blinded me, and my temperature is dropping, but slowly.

So, it seems I am at war with myself.  My body is trying to start my period, but my craw-jamming with progesterone is preventing this from happening and I am stuck in the middle. GAWD. I want to rip someone’s head off, eat a chocolate cake and go to bed crying, all at the same time.

Dear Friends,

Plimbo is hell. I never want to come back. The weather sucks.

Much love,

Watson

So when my dear, sweet Cyber Sister, Nikole, asked me a few days ago "if I was obsessing yet?"  My initial reaction was, "Huh?  Obsessing about WHAT?"

OH YEAH.  I am trying to get pregnant.

I knew there was something I needed to check off my list:

1.  Make BeBop do laundry

2.  Go to Whole Foods and spend my Whole Paycheck there

3.  Clean out the dog’s ears, not just threaten this time

4.  Get impregnated

5.  Find new recipe for white wine sangria

In terms of an update on that front, I don’t have any news. Today is CD27, and I have no idea what’s going on IN THERE. Or DOWN THERE.  Down in the dark, mysterious, mind-of-their-own nether regions often called my feminine jewels.

It’s like the hatch in Lost.  You know it’s there, it seems very crucial to the central story line, but what’s actually happening in there, no one seems to know!  IT.IS.A.MYSTERY.

Normally, as I’ve mentioned in stomach-churning detail, I put the LATE in ovulate (BA DUH BUM) but then have a very short luteal phase.  And as I’ve also shared with the entire world, I think I ovulated around day 17 this month. So will I have a short luteal phase which means I should be getting my period any day now?  Or will the natural progesterone I’m taking help lengthen (elongate? expand?) my LP and I won’t be starting until next week?

LORD knows.

I had a reading with someone a few years ago (I know!  How many of my posts have to start with that sentence?!) and she is a medical intuitive.  She’s an actual, real live medical doctor, but uses her intuitive sense to diagnose patients. ( She even wrote a book and everything.)

Anyway.  I had a phone reading, and she knew nothing about me except for my name and phone number.  At the start of the reading, she just began talking and didn’t ask me a single question.  She started saying how I’m carrying a huge burden at the moment, that I’m ‘taking care of things’ and how it’s putting an enormous amount of pressure on me.

"You are wanting to give birth to something now, but your body won’t let you."

[At this point my jaw drops to the floor and I am speechless.]

"Are you taking care of someone in the house, a family member who is sick, by any chance?"

What ran through my head:

"Well, if you mean ‘sick’ as in ‘sick in the head,’ then YES.  He’s called MY HUSBAND."

What I actually said:

"I am the sole breadwinner in the house, putting my husband through school, and it has caused a great deal of stress. I’ve been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years now, and nothing has happened."

"Well," she said very matter-of-factly, "you won’t get pregnant until your husband finishes school and gets a job."

WELL.

So that’s been in the back of my mind this whole time — BeBop had a job, but only for a month, and now we just took this giant leap of faith and he sort of has a job but who knows what will happen in a couple of months?  What if she was right? 

I guess, with most things, I just have to wait and see what happens.

So, in a very looooooing answer to the question of what’s going on with your reproductive organs?:

I just have no freaking clue. 

Well, then what in holy hell is going on with that damn hatch on Lost?

People, I don’t know. Geesh, do you expect me to have all the answers?

Yes.  And while you’re at it, send us that white wine sangria recipe once you find it.

Yesterday BeBop got an official offer for the two-month gig, it seems that they want to hire from within for the permanent position.  Which?  Is just fine.

We’re rolling the dice, taking a huge chance and hoping for the best.

I admit that I did have a total freak out this morning, since he’s giving notice at Company A today.

And it went a little something like this:

Sweet Christ!  WHAT IN THE H – E – DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS do we think we’re doing?!?  He didn’t work for FIVE long years while he went back to school…and then…[starting to hyperventilate]…and THEN it took him a YEAR to get this job and we’re actually thinking it’s a good plan for him to LEAVE this job and take a temporary job?!  [Panting now.  Bosco is looking at me strangely: I am a dog.  I am panting because it’s freaking hot out. Why on earth are YOU panting lady?] [I hate it when he calls me ‘lady’] Freak out resumes:  Are we insane in the membrane?  Mental??  Gluttons for punishment?  [Room starts to spin as I am clearly not taking in enough oxygen] [Why is that dog still staring at me?  Judging me!  The nerve!  I will clean your big bat ears out if you don’t leave me alone, damn judging, nervy canine!!!]  [FRICK!  Our front door is open.  I hope the neighbors didn’t just hear me threaten the dog!]

And then I managed to get a grip on myself and remember that this isn’t just any old job…it’s the chance to be part of a team at a company that represents BeBop’s ultimate professional goal.  This is a risk, yes.  But it’s also a door that we have to walk through.

Keep breathing, that’s all I have to do at this point.  BeBop has two months to impress the shit out of these people. Or else. 

Then why are you posting, dumbass?

Geesh, why are you people calling me a dumbass?

Oh, we’re just kiddin’.  But seriously, we’re busy, we don’t have all day to read non-updates and more stories about your crazy Mother and her psychic friends network. What’s up Watson?

I’m just posting to ask a quick favor, take a peep at this:

With a name like "Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters," how could you go wrong?!  Go on over and check them out:  the lovely and talented  Town Criers are compiling a blogroll as a resource for those fertiley-challenged among us and those dealing with miscarriage and other issues.

You can add your blog to the list, and they will send you a nice confirmation that says something like:  "thank you for adding your name to the IF blogroll.  We hope one day to be able to move you to the pregnancy/parenting list, so keep us posted."

Now that was so freaking nice I almost started to tear up. How can a girl go wrong with so much good energy coming her way?!?

Oh wait. DON’T answer that. That was a rhetorical question.

Well, first off, thank you SO much for all of your encouraging and wonderful comments!  Maybe the nay-sayers were intimidated by the cool kids and decided to stay in the band room during lunch, but everyone who responded basically said:  go for it!

Which prompted me to think a lot this weekend about having ‘dream’ jobs, and how few of us ever have an opportunity like that to pursue.  And how it’s sort of a new phenomenon, this wanting to follow our bliss and actually be happy at work. 

In MY day, we had jobs.  Good jobs that paid the bills and that’s all we cared about.  We were ‘happy’ with our jobs if we didn’t get our hand cut off.  Or run over.  And on the weekends we had fun things to do, only it was called the SUN and we would stare and stare until our eye balls burned out of our heads. And then, blinded, we would walk uphill — both ways — to our good jobs the following Monday and work and work and work until we dropped dead.  So there.*

But then it was hot (SO FLINGIN’ FLANGIN’ hot my brain melted and drained out my ears) and that was the end of that.) 

So, after a long discussion on Friday night (fueled by only a couple glasses of wine. Each.) we decided to go for it.  BeBop’s gut was telling him to take the job, and my instinct was saying the same thing.  So, today he contacted the person at Company B to say, "YES, I will take it!  I will give up my new job (that ohbytheway took me a year to secure) and take this chance that during the two months you will all come to love and adore me!  And if by some chance that doesn’t happen my wife will kill me.  Kill me DEAD.  And I will be forced to secure some kind of rip in the fabric of time to go back and undo this."

Okay, he didn’t say exactly that, but you get the point. 

And then? 

And then, she said, "hold on a minute there, partner…the people who interviewed you for the job job a few weeks ago still like you and might want you for THAT job.  So they don’t want me to finalize plans for the temp job yet."

So. Once again as soon as we think we have a plan in place, that perhaps we can tempt fate by getting into something resembling a calm and stable life, things get screwy! Screwy, I tell you!  Dogs and Cats Sleeping Together Screwy!

We’re in a holding pattern now, waiting to see if the people can make a decision about the ‘real’ job, which would be his preference (no duh there).  And if that doesn’t happen, hopefully the two-month gig is still an option because now that we’ve made a decision and gotten our hopes up, it would be just cruel to take that away.

You know?  Just like when you try and try to make something happen, something that you and your significant other desperately want, and you do everything in your power (and more!) to create this outcome, and then you wait and wait and wait to see if it’s working? 

Yeah. Like that.  Something we fertile-ly challenged have noooo experience with, right?

*Props to that crotchety old man character Dana Carvey used to do on SNL about a million years ago

So, Watson and BeBop have themselves a little dilemma.  Seriously, this is from the Never a Dull Moment File.  Which?  I really want to throw out and use only the Always a Dull Moment file for a while.  Can I?  Pretty please?

So, as I’ve mentioned, BeBop has been through the ringer in terms of finding a job over the last year and quite frankly, so have I.  After a grueling search, he finally found something last month.  He started on the 26th of June at Company A, and so far, so good.  (This is Company A from the infamous Whirley Gig post.)  He doesn’t love it, doesn’t hate it either — but he’s not exactly sure how much practical knowledge he will learn in this new field. It’s okay for now.

Here’s the kicker:  this week his DREAM company called him.  This is Company B.  For back story, he’s interviewed 2-3 times over the last year at this place.  He’s either under- or over-qualified for the jobs.  Each time he interviews, they bring him back because although they seem to really like him, he doesn’t have the work experience to prove that he can succeed at these jobs.  (He was a designer when we met. After going back to school — during which time I complained each and every day that he wasn’t working and goddamn you for THAT tried to cheer him on and encourage him to follow his bliss — his ultimate dream was to work at Company B.)

So, Company B called this week and get this:  they offered him a job. (Yay.)  ( I can hear you now:  Where’s the but? There must be a but, Watson, or you wouldn’t be posting this sleep-inducing tripe!!)

BUT.  This job is only a two-month temporary position. (Not so yay.)  While they hope to find him a full time permanent gig at the end of the two month period, they can’t make any promises.  And of course, because sometimes the Universe just likes to bitch slap you for the sheer fun of it, he would have to leave his full time job (that took him a year to find) and take the chance that this will work out.

Wowsers.  What to do, what to do?  What makes this even trickier, and therefore even more likely to send me scurrying for the Chardonnay tonight, is that Company B really IS the end-all, be-all.  It’s a company a million people want to work for, and not in a The Devil Wears Prada kind of way.  I wish I could tell you its name, because that makes the story even better — but I promise you, it’s BeBop’s ultimate, most-awesomeness place to work EVER.

It’s the kind of company where he could work for the next ten years and love every freaking minute of it.  He would get to work on creative movies and meet the coolest people in the industry.  And if I could provide more specifics, I would, I promise.

And I mean really!  Stop pestering me for more details because I just can’t say anymore [fanning myself with a lace hanky and looking very indignant].

So, does he take the safe route and stick with his current job, hoping that something opens up in the future at Company B and that he’s a good fit at that point?  Or does he roll the dice, take a huge chance, and go for the riskiest move ever by leaving his job and taking this assignment, hoping that it pays off and turns into a permanent position?

WELL?  That was a real question, people, not all rhetorical and shit!

You ponder that, talk amongst yourselves and get back to me. 

I’m off to chill the Chardonnay. 

WARNING:  This post is rated NC-17.  It contains adult themes, including but not limited to a detailed discussion of my cervical mucus.  Those squeamish about bodily fluids and/or those persons who have recently ingested any food products should move on. 

Seriously, move along folks…there’s nothing here for you to see.

Annnnndddd…for everyone else:  hold on to your hardhats people, because I have some Big News.  I think, think, that I am currently ovulating and Holy Hannah, it’s only CD17!!!  Now, ordinarily, this would not be anything to write home about.

In fact, that would be an odd and somewhat disturbing letter when you think about it.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am having a really awesome time at Camp Wanamukka!!!!! I heart my new best friends  a lot a lot.  We go swimming, braid our hair and make s’mores.  And learn how to use a bow and arrow thing which is totally fun. The mosquitos are bad and the boys are icky. Oh!  I almost forgot!  I think I am ovulating now, just like the other girls.  Cool, huh?  Anyways, send me some more Bonnie Bell lip gloss and some brownies and I’ll see you in August!!! oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo, Your Daughter Watson

So, yes, normally ovulating mid-cycle would not be something to get all hot and bothered about.  BUT. I have not ovulated anywhere NEAR mid-cycle since, like, the mesozoic era.  Yes, back when I was a cave woman and the plates were moving and new species of large-fanged cats chased me every day.  Seriously, not since then!

Since I was not expecting to become among the ovulated for another week at least, I made plans to be out of town for one night this weekend. WITHOUT THE HUSBAND.  So, as you can imagine, once I noticed some egg-white consistency material being distributed by my previously-uncooperative nether regions, and then shock of all shocks saw the OPK turn positive, I  freaked out!

Freaked out like:  "For some reason I am feeling quite amorous this morning…."  "BeBop! OMG!  We mustmustmust make the sweet love DO IT NOW!!"

So after our emergency, how shall we put it? session, I was trying to relax for just a few moments before rushing off for the rest of the weekend.  Because, as any infertile will tell you, relaxing will TOTALLY help. Um, yeah.  Anyhoo, as I was trying to relax, BeBop happened to think of a little good luck mantra which he chose to share with me.

"Good luck my little seedlings…"

"BLECH!  That is so gross!  Why are you calling them seedlings??  It’s like something out of a horror movie."

"Oh!  Like in The Fly, remember?  When she gives birth at the end and you hear the baby cry, like waaaaaa  waaaaaaaaaa…..bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

"That is SO not helping."

So that’s my late great breaking news.  It must be the needles and the herbs, people, it must be.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Ba DA Buhm.

So here is my pitiful tale of the Chinese herbs and YES, I do realize that many women have been through much worse, and that I’m just a little cry baby, but it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to…

After stewing the horrible concoction because HELLO!  no one told me I should ask for the powdered version of this crap, which literally took about two hours, I screamed at BeBop to get his fucking ass downstairs and for once in his friggin life friggin HELP me with something sweetly requested the presence of my dear, supportive husband.

His ‘help’ consisted of holding my nose while I drank, not realizing that while my mouth was occupied with liquid, with a blocked nasal passage I could not BREATHE.  As I sputtered and choked out "can’tbreathecan’tbreathe" he figured out that I was quite literally drowning in Chinese herbal tea.

Then, his next retarded idea helpful suggestion was to yell at me while I’m trying to take tiny sips which is, granted, not a good idea. 

"Just pound it. One big gulp like you’re shotgunning a BEER!" On a helpful scale of 1-10, that was about a 3.  The tea tasted nothing like a cold beer, and I was having a hard time conjuring up images of being at a toga party wearing an adorable pink sheet to set off my tan, surrounded by hot frat boys, my best girl friends around me and a kicky version of Love Shack playing in the background.

Next was:  "Do it for the family. Think of Fredo."

This was a 2.  Rarely do random quotes from The GodFather inspire me, but at least bring it with the mattresses quote, or the one about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.  Who the fuck is Fredo and what does HE have to do with me drinking this God awful tea??

With me gagging on the tea, pathetically whining about how reallyI’mnotkiddingittastesworsethanyoucanimagine, I start to realize that in clear violation of the laws of physics, somehow the TEA WAS REPLENISHING ITSELF — each tiny sip was actually creating MORE in the cup!!!!!!!!!!!!!

BeBop’s last suggestion was to think of Fear Factor, which of course just made me think of really disgusting things those freaks eat in the hopes of making it to the next round where they can be hung by wires on the face of a 20-story building over the teeming streets of Los Angeles or swim through a cesspool populated with alligators or try to escape from a plexiglass covered body of water where it really really looks like you’re going to drown ANY SECOND. Not that I’ve actually watched that show. Please. I just read about it. In the New Yorker.  Anyway,  NOT my idea of a good time, so this did not constitute a helpful idea AT ALL.  Probably a 1.

Clearly, he was not catching on.  The idea of say, quietly cheering me on, saying how this would work, that I’d be healthy and would somehow (again,  in a clear violation of physics) be able to get pregnant, was just not on his radar.

So for the rest of the weekend I skulked into the kitchen and, hurling a barrage of insulting comments at BeBop, silently sipping my tea, a peaceful sort of calm came over me as I realized this was the first in a long line of guilt-inducing insults I could one day (fingers crossed!) fling at my offspring.

Much like what Zee mentioned in her comment, this could be the go-to martyr claim-to-fame.  My own mother had a litany of these she used as weapons against my sister and me for years.  It has almost become a fill-in-the-blank game, since she has so many statements that end with the words:

Until I had you little brats.

For example: 

I had perfect B cups, Until I had you little brats.  Or, I was always a size 10, Until I had you little brats.

So, just to carry on the family tradition, my very own collection of therapy-inducing parental statements could be something like:

I used to like tea, Until I had you little brats. 

Or,

I used to like Chinese food, Until I had you little brats.

Feel free to add your own ideas in the comments section!