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

Blech.

I am having a rotten day, so let me share the rottenness with all of you!

(I know. I AM such a giver.  Thanks for noticing.)

Anyhoosers, I think part of it is coming back to work after a delightful week off, part of it is the crummy weather, part of it is trying to schedule the 50 frillion blood tests I still have to do, despite my less than stellar performance the last time I had blood drawn.

Let’s focus on something a little cheerier, shall we?

Our anniversary trip was great! 

We stayed in a beautiful hotel, had gorgeous, warm Southern California weather and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

After a long drive down Interstate 5, we checked into the hotel and went for a swim.  As you may have heard, I am now an experienced swimmer (*cough cough*) and decided to rock the for-Chrissakes-why-can’t-you-be-MORE-slimming-black-suit-and-goggles look.

"Snort, gargle, gasp…HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH," I hear coming from BeBop’s pie hole as he emerges from the deep end. 

"Why the HELL are you wearing THOSE?" he shouts across the pool, obviously referring to my goggles.

"So I can SWIM dickweed honey, so I can open my eyes under the water when I have my contacts in," I explain. 

I don’t think he hears me because he is laughing so hard.

"Oh..my…GOD [snort, cough], you look soooo funny!  Do you really want to be looking like THAT when Reese Witherspoon* swims by?" he asked.

"Like what?" I ask. Not defensively. AT. ALL.

"Like a turtle!" he responds. "Like a turtle with a thyroid problem!! HAHAHAHA…" he adds helpfully, practically drowning himself with his amusing observational humor.

I suppose he was referring to the bugged-out, googly-eye effect the goggles have on me.  It is not flattering, I will admit to that.  The combination of the goggles and the black hideously-unflattering  sporty bathing suit do not make for a fashion statement, but what can I say?

I have very little shame.

Other than that humiliation, the vacation was great.  We sat by a pool overlooking the Pacific Ocean and ate our meals outside and walked along the beach and had drinks for dinner one night in the piano lounge and talked about why we like being married.

What could be better?

Not having Thanksgiving with my family could be better, as it turns out.

It wasn’t terrible, just a few comments by The Mom ("Oh…there’s TWO of you not drinking this Thanksgiving!" she exclaimed at dinner, referring to my sister and her Mormon husband.  This was followed by an awkward silence as everyone looked sideways at me, watching me refill my wine glass. Again.).

There was a loud argument with said brother-in-law followed by me changing clothes and going for a run, the entire time praying "please God, let me not shove a turkey neck up his ass," and "please Lord, give me the patience to listen to his Orange County, bastion of right-wing, neo-conservatism blather and not want to take the leftover stuffing and stick it in his craw" and "sorry for the use of the word ‘ass’ in my earlier prayer."

After my run I actually did feel a lot better and we managed to avoid each other for the rest of our stay.

Ahhhh…family. 

Got. To. Love. It.

Before I left for Southern California, the effervescent Zee and I e-mailed about how our lady parts seemed to be on similar schedules and how much we hoped that we would both 1) ovulate 2) on vacation 3) get pregnant and 4) have lengthly on-line discussions about hemorrhoids over the next nine months.

Is that too much to hope for?!?

Evidently.

I was sure I would ovulate right smack in the middle of my vacation, but my lady parts had other ideas.  I guess while I was trying to avoid Reese Witherspoon** in the pool, my ovaries took a short detour down to Tijuana.  It’s only about a two hour drive from our hotel, and my best guess is that they grew tired of lolling about the pool and wanted more action.

Why skanky, VD-infested strip clubs and tequila bars seem more attractive than Laguna Beach I will never know, but that’s what happened.  There is gum to buy*** and serapes to bargain for, and I guess the peace and quiet was just too lame and way uncool for the girls.  Snots.  I knew those cell phones with rollover minutes were a bad idea.  And all those clothes from Forever 21.  Ingrates!

Anyway, the appointed Day 17 came and went, and there was nary an ovulation to be had. 

Hmmmmm…I thought.  Head scratching ensued.  This means we must continue having the sexy–time, I thought in a strange, Borat-like accent.

We kept having the sexy time, and surprisingly it was more enjoyable without the dog flailing around at the end of the bed and the thermometer and the clipboard and the alarm clock.

(P.S. Why didn’t any of you tell me?!?)

Eventually, I ran out of OPKs and decided to be patient and wait for the girl bits to get over their hangover and come on home.

Once we got home, the OPK finally turned positive and lo and behold, I think I finally ovulated on CD20. (Plus, I had the distinct sensation of carrying a leather pouch with a bunch of rocks in it around my mid-section. Delightful.)

So who knows?

I was pretty relaxed on this vacation and everyone keeps saying once I relax I’ll for sure get pregnant, so maybe this will be our month.

Hey!  Stop laughing. 

That’s just rude.

*We did not see Reese Witherspoon.  We were staying at a resort frequented by celebrities, and before you get all, oh no she di’int on me, my sister’s best friend works there and we got a great deal.  So we were living in the lap of luxury without having to pay for it.  Posers?  Party of two??

**We still haven’t seen Reese Witherspoon.  But I’m sure if she had swum by, I would have remarked on how sorry I was about her marriage breaking up with SUCH sympathy and warmth that she would have completely ignored the wet otter look I was sporting at the time.  In fact, I’m quite sure we’d be BFFs by now.

***This would be funny if you’ve ever been to Tijuana. If you’ve never been, just trust me on this one.****

****I guess it’s not too bright to include a location joke that would only be amusing to one, maybe two, of you, huh??*****

*****But I bet Reese would think it’s hysterical!!!

But not MY prom dress (see previous post re:  cross-dressing ex-boyfriend.  I think at the time he was more interested in WEARING my prom dress as opposed to seeing me out of it.  Ahem. Moving on now…).

Anyhoo, we leave tomorrow for our 5th anniversary trip and Thanksgiving with my family. 

Which, of course, includes The Mother (duhn duhn duhn) and The Pregnant Sister (wah wah wah…) so wish me luck.  I will need it.  At least I can drink heavily — I got that goin’ for me.

So we’re off to The OC !

That’s how we roll up in here, bitches!!

Okay, so since I’m pretty much of a lazy ass, I will direct you to The First Six and hereby commence this list with Number Seven.

7.  Hmmmm…writer’s block already.  Does. Not. Bode. Well.

8.  I was a chubby kid.  My Mom always said it was baby fat and that I would outgrow it, and yet she put me on every diet known to man.  I could make up this entire post of 100 things just by listing every diet I’ve ever been on.

9.  One of my favorite words is ‘half-ass’ – I love this word and use it every chance I get, even as a verb.  As in, "BeBop, why the FRICK are you half-assing the dishes, JUST SCRUB THEM ALREADY!!"

10.  BeBop hates the word ‘half-ass.’ See above.

11.  My first boyfriend wrote out all the words to the Peter Cetera song You’re The Inspiration and I thought it was the most romantic gesture EVER.

12.  He turned out to be a cross-dresser. This was not my fault.

13.  Years after we broke up, we had lunch and he shared this news with me.  We briefly talked of becoming roommates, and then I realized if we shared a closet we would be sharing a closet and suddenly this did not seem like such a good idea.

14.  Growing up, I always thought I would be a lawyer and then go into politics.  Even from a young age, I volunteered on campaigns and was on the debate team in high school.

15.  After college I worked for a CRAZY attorney who smoked pot before going to court.  I soured on law as a career path and instead of going to law school I moved to Los Angeles.

16.  As I mentioned, I was a Congressional Page when I was about 15.  I was never hit on by any Congressmen.  I think because I had one thing going for me.  It’s called a VAGINA.

17.  During college I worked in Washington, DC for a summer and then after grad school moved there for a few years.   I loved that city.  But I grew disillusioned with politics and am still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.

18.  I’m thinking these should be shorter or you’re going to be here all damn day.

19.  I spent a summer in a small West African village when I was in college.  No running water, no electricity.  It was awesome and horrible, all at the same time.

20.  I caught malaria and thought I was going to die. 

21.  I kept thinking my Mother was going to KILL me if I went to Africa and ended up dying of malaria.

22.  Exactly a year later I was backpacking through Europe and had a mysterious illness which consisted of really, really high fevers and once again,  was pretty sure I was going to die.

23.  When I saw BeBop for the first time, a shiver ran down my spine and I thought:  there he is.

24.  We started off as friends, hanging out doing ‘date-like things’ that would include dinner, a movie and often drinks.

25.  But he never tried to kiss me, so I assumed I was permanently stuck in the Dreaded Friend Zone.

26.  Then  I had a dream in which he was choosing two copies of each book from the basement of the publishing company he was working for at the time.

27.  When I woke up, I was sure he was seeing someone else. 

28.  About two weeks later, he explained that we were in the Friend Zone because he was ending a relationship with someone and didn’t want to complicate matters.

29.  This was actually fine with me because I was also casually seeing someone, a guy who had just graduated from college.  I was almost 30, he was 22 and hot. SCORE!

30. But when I refused to sleep with him he dumped me on my ass.  BASTARD.

31. But I kept his favorite baseball cap and as you know, there is nothing more precious to a frat boy than his beloved, well-worn college baseball hat.

32.  So you can SUCK IT college boy.

33.  Not that I’m bitter or anything.

34.  BeBop and I started dating shortly after that.

35.  When we started talking about adopting a dog, he suggested the name Peas. I almost left him over that.

36.  I am terrified of heights. 

37.  And roller coasters.  Once when we went to Vegas I went on the New York, New York roller coaster and kept my eyes clenched shut the entire time. I was SURE I was going to pass out cold and fall out of the safety bars.

38.  Needless to say, I do not, in fact, feel the need for speed.

39.  I hate it when people try to cut in line.  I get very angry when this happens.  And I mean steam-coming-out-of-my-ears-practically-catatonic-with-rage angry.

40.  It is not a pretty sight.

41.  All through college, I had a recurring fear that I would one day be taken hostage in a bank.

42. For years, each time I went into a bank I tried to locate a hiding place that I was sure would one day come in handy when the bank was suddenly taken over by masked men.

43.  I feared one of those Richard Nixon masks the most.

44.  I seriously had this fear for four years.

45. Soon after I graduated, some friends invited me to a local bar for drinks.  Since it was a weeknight and I actually had a real life job (with the screaming lawyer) I declined at the last minute.

46.  That night, the bar where they went was taken over by a heavily armed crazy person.  Several people were shot trying to escape.  One of these people was a woman from my sorority, who was shot ten times but lived.

47.  The man kept these students hostage for the entire night.  One student died, after bleeding to death behind the bar.

48.  He did things to them.  But no one really knows what, because none of the people wanted to talk openly about it once it was finally over.

49.  It’s a little like the plot of that new TV show, The Nine.

50.  It was a horribly traumatic thing (to put it mildly) and terrifying for those of us who knew these people.  None of us knew how to help them.

51.  After this tragedy, I never had that premonition again.

52.  Suddenly half-way through this list, it has taken a macabre turn.

53.  Maybe you should take a quick break and grab yourself a Diet Coke?  It’s okay, I’ll wait…

54.  Much better!

55.  I love dogs and like cats, but I’m definitely a dog person.  I’m not sure if I’ll ever have cats of my own. BeBop is not a big fan. 

56. My sister used to have a little bird she called Josh.  He hated my guts and would scream (squawk?) bloody murder whenever I entered the room.

57. My sister would do her homework sitting on her bed with Josh perched at the end of her pencil.

58.  Being the nerdy bookworm I was, I thought this was ridiculous and told her so.  She was the cool kid and hated me giving her advice.  She and Josh would gang up on me and I would leave the room dejected, having had my proverbial ass kicked by my little sister and a little green bird.  Pathetic.

59.  On September 12, 2001, when BeBop and I started talking about canceling our wedding, I had my first (and hopefully last) panic attack.

60.  That was, and still is, one of the saddest moments of my life.

61.  Good grief Charlie Brown! Why is this list so depressing??

62.  My Mom has a photo of an Indian Guru in our house.  He’s wearing an orange robe and has a huge, bushy afro.

62.  This afro is like the exaggerated hairstyles seen in movies from the 70s.  It’s just a huge halo of hair. I cannot overemphasize the hugeness that is this afro.

63.  When one of my college roommates came home with me, she asked if that was my Dad.

64.  My Mom and I started laughing so hard we couldn’t speak and were doubled-over, trying to catch our breath, for like five minutes.  My roommate just stood there, unsure as to what was so humorous.

65.  This would be funny if you knew my Dad.  An uptight, prep-schooled New Englander.  With short hair and madras pants and golf clubs always within arm’s reach.  Who sings in the church choir. So to confuse him with an Indian Guru  in an orange monk’s robe with this huge afro is just, well…I guess you had to be there.

66.  I love food.  Like, LOOOOVE it. 

67.  Speaking of food, I just ate lunch and had a bowl of yogurt with bananas and flax seeds.  When I was about two bites from finishing, I bit into something hard that was not a flaxseed. It was a tiny bit of glass.  Then I found two more in my mouth.  I was eating glass people!  [That  sentence should read:  I was eating glass, people! otherwise it looks as if I was eating GLASS PEOPLE, which, unless I was really hungry, would not make any sense!]

68.  Speaking of eating glass, I really did meet an amateur magician a few years ago at a colon cleansing health retreat (mentioned in the First Six).  In his act at the end of our stay, he ate a light bulb!

69.  We’d been on a strict diet of juices, wheat grass and sprouted sprouty things all week, so I can’t imagine how this light bulb affected his digestive system.

70. He was (and still is, I presume) the father of the actress Michelle Williams.  It was during the time she was on Dawson’s Creek and I was waaaay too old to be watching that show, but I was.  And I admitted it when he told me who his daughter was.

71.  And I jokingly offered to run away with him and be his apprentice.  And I was only half-joking.

72.  My sister and I have a habit of cracking each other up at the most inappropriate times.  Think church, funerals, formal dinners, that kind of thing.

73.  My goal is always to make her spit out her drink through her nose, which she does often.  Sometimes when we start laughing we cannot stop.

74. Once when she was little, she drew a crude rendering of a pig on the church program, put an arrow pointing to the pig and then my to name.  As if the pig was named Watson, or that I was the pig.  Is this clear? I cannot tell.

75.  Anyway, we started laughing and snorting so loud we had to leave the pew and run outside.  My parents were not pleased.

76.  I always hated church but still go on Easter and Christmas to please my parents.  Really my Dad, because my Mom prefers to sing Indian hymns at a local ashram.

77. Once when I was in junior high my Mom brought me to an ashram in Oakland.  An Indian guru was there (not the one in the aforementioned photo) and he was blessing people.  You had to wait in a long line and then bow down before him.

78. Usually, he would make some sort of a blessing gesture above your head and murmur something in Hindi.  When my Mom got her turn, he started batting her over the head with a large peacock feather. But the kind of feather with the…spine thingey??…in it, so that it was more like a small stick.

79. And he kept slapping her on the head with this feather, making a loud "THWACK" sound each time.

80.  She thinks he was opening her chakra.  I think he was punishing her for being mean to me when I was little.  (See previous post re: being locked in room in order to bend spoon with so-called psychic powers.)

81.  I get terribly carsick AND seasick.  Sometimes I’m not that much fun to travel with.  Unless you like vomit, because THEN I’m your best fuckin’ friend!

82. I love words.  I love reading them and writing them, and speaking them and learning about them and making them up.  I heart words.  Strangely, this never occurred to me until one day shortly after we met, BeBop said, "GAWD, you, like, totally love words."  And I thought, "Holy freaking hell, I DO!"

83.  Are you sure this list is supposed to be all about me?  It feels self-indulgent and narcissistic.  And by  "self-indulgent and narcissistic" I mean SUPER FUN.

84.  If you are still reading by this point, I will send you $5.

85.  NOT.

86.  When BeBop and I took a break from trying to get pregnant, I went through a certification program to become a life coach.  Even though it’s not my full time job now, I love it.

87. Sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll become a life coach working with women dealing with infertility issues. I like to look for meaning in the bad things that happen to me, but know that sometimes shit just happens, man.

88. My sister and I have seen the movie Tommy Boy about 100 times.  There is one scene in particular, in a restaurant, that makes us laugh so hard we practically pee ourselves, even though we’ve seen it a million times.

89.  Many people think my sister and I are very weird.

90.  My sister eloped after knowing her now-husband for only two months.  She didn’t tell anyone for almost three months.  He is Mormon. She is not.  We thought they were crazy.  They celebrated their  7th anniversary this past summer. Shows you how much we know.

91. Every January, BeBop and I make what we call our Treasure Maps. They’re collages of pictures and quotes and phrases that we put on our mirrors to look at each day  They represent our dreams, wishes and goals for the coming year.  We’ve had baby pictures on these treasure maps forEVER.

92. Phew.  Home stretch now, baby!

93.  My friends and I like making up nicknames for each other and every other person in our lives.  The girl your boyfriend cheated on you with is called Martini, the pale guy in our condo complex is called Powder, my ex-boyfriend is called Mr. Cruel.  It gives us endless hours of fun to come up with these names.

94.  When my Mom took my sister and I to India two years ago, we were traveling in a taxi to an ashram.  At the same time the driver offered my Mom a mint, she saw a small dog on the side of the road.  When she asked, "what is that?" he thought she was referring to the mint.  So he said, "A mintamintamint" because he was frustrated she didn’t understand his English.  She thought he was pointing to the dog and calling it a "minka."  She kept saying, "A minka??  What kind of animal is THAT?  I’ve never heard of that!"  And my sister and I laughed so hard I thought both of our heads would explode, right there in the taxi.

95.  For the rest of the trip we’d see a dog and shout, "Look, Mom!  A MINKA!!" and laugh and laugh. She would tell us to shut up.

96.  At one point, we were attacked by wild monkeys because they saw we were carrying fruit from the market.  One stood on its hind legs and grabbed my Mom’s skirt WITH HIS TINY LITTLE MONKEY HANDS.  We shrieked in terror and my Mom tried to hit it with the bag.  I threw a banana in the other direction in the hope it would get distracted and run for the banana.  It did.  We still ran away like screaming little girls.  Good times.

97.  I still don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. I look at the following quote each day, and hope it’s true:  "Whatever you are meant to do, move toward it and it will come to you."

98. I really, REALLY want to get pregnant without having to do IVF.  Sometimes I think this is possible, other times I think I’m a raving lunatic.

99.  The raving lunatic part will come as no surprise to you if you’ve read Numbers 1-98. 

100. At the end of a long night of partying, my sister and I would say, "We’re soooooo end of party," meaning it was clearly time to go. 

I think I can safely say: 

END OF PARTY.

I have not told you something.

Because it’s too weird.

I know what you’re thinking: Ummmm, Watson?  You are like the WEIRDEST person I’ve ever seen, even weirder than most of the characters in those crazy ‘Lord of the Rings’ movies my husband dragged me to, so what in fricking HELL could be too weird for YOU?!?

And I agree, I have a very…let’s say flexible…definition of what constitutes weird.

You’ve read my posts about seeing psychics and healers and drinking strange unidentifiable herbs fermented in alcohol. And placing drawings of upside-down-martini-glass-like things near the bed.  And the Patron Saint of Infertility.

And how my Mother tapes crystal beads to her body to heal her, and how she hooks me up to polygraph-like machines to heal me.

And while all that might sound strange, I haven’t even told you about the time she locked me in my room when I was about ten because she was convinced I could bend a spoon with my MIND.

Yes.  You read that correctly.

SPOON. BEND. WITH MAGIC POWERS.

So anyway, I approach the whole idea of weird with a somewhat different perspective.

But this, this thing I haven’t revealed, is odd even for me. 

And here it is…

My acupuncturist thinks I might have been pregnant this last cycle.  For about 3 minutes.  Well, I’m not sure about the 3 minutes part, but isn’t that weird?!?

Here’s what happened.

My period was really late.  Like 4 days late.  Which for me is an eternity.

I used to have a luteal phase of ten days, spot on (pardon the bad pun).  After doing acupuncture and drinking the dreadful heinous herbs, it lengthened (grew? elongated? expanded??) to about 13-14 days and has been like this for the last four months.

At the end of October, I started to spot and then it just stopped. Normally, with the progesterone, I spot for 2-3 days and then my period starts.  This time, a bit of spotting and then it stopped.

My boobs were sore.  They tend to be sore for 4-5 days and then poof!  back to normal the day before my period.  This time, they got sorer and sorer until I was flinging them around the house and mewing like a sick cow. 

And my temperature stayed up for all of these days, which each morning was a total shock.

And…I took a HPT on a Friday.  It seemed negative and since I’m so used to seeing only the blinding white of a results window, I didn’t think twice.  Until I looked again a few minutes later and there was a faint, a verrryyy faint line making a + sign.

It’s an evap line, I thought, and sort of dismissed it.  But of course I took another test about a day later and it was clearly negative, so I chalked the second line up to my imagination, my poor eyesight, general wishful thinking, or perhaps the crank I snorted earlier that day (Kidding!).

My period still did not come, my temperature stayed up and my boobs stayed sore.  And this lasted for another couple of days, which is really, really out of the ordinary.

So when I showed my chart to my acupuncturist, she said she thought that perhaps, just maybe, I might have had an early pregnancy.  That the first test picked up a low level of HCG that went down as the pregnancy didn’t take, which is why subsequent tests came up negative.

Then, my period came and I dismissed the whole thing.  But still.  It’s been nagging at the corners of my mind. 

What if?

What if I was pregnant (or a little pregnant) for a day or two?

What if I can do it again?

I know what you’re thinking:  That IS weird, Watson.  You’ve done lost what was left of your feeble mind!

                                                               *    *    *

On a totally unrelated matter, the lovely Lyrehca tagged me for the five things meme.  And then I remembered that I’d done the six things list a few months ago, over here.  So, I am going to use this as an excuse to do my 100 things, which The Oneliner did recently.  It inspired me! 

Except that hers was insightful and funny, and so far my list is like:

7.  Can I start at seven because I already did six?  Can I?  Thanks.

8.  Hmmmmm…100 seems like a FRICK load from here.

9.  I

10.  Like

11.  Peanut Butter!

12.  And I hate hobos, but that’s well-documented so maybe I shouldn’t include it in this list?

Well, you get the point. 

I will try to work on the rest of the list before I leave to go out of town next week.  BeBop and I are celebrating our 5th anniversary, and LORD KNOWS the fact that we actually made it through the last five years is something to celebrate!