Tuesday, May 25, 2010

My Pediatrician Knows About My Blog.

I can't believe I forgot to tell my best friend, The Internet!

I totally forgot about it, until someone left me this comment on Olivia's 15 Month Update:

Tell me, so I can live vicariously through you: have you gotten the ok to turn Olivia to forward facing now that she's met that magical threshold? Is it amazing? We have another three months to go probably before we can spin E around (she gains a pound every 3 months, roughly). I cannot wait.
And then I remembered how I died at the Pediatrician's Office during Olivia's appointment.  Here is a possibly exaggerated recount of the situation:

Pediatrician: Have you turned her carseat forward yet?

Me: No, am afwaid for mah itty bitty baybee.  Hold me?

Pediatrician: Good!  Keep her rear facing, as long as possible.

Me: I plan to, I have seen some really scary articles and videos about forward facing too soon.  Hold me?

Pediatrician: Videos?  I'll have to look for those.  I found your blog, by the way.

Me: No.you.did.not.

Pediatrician: Yes, I really did.

Me: * dies *  I'm not sure why I find that to be embarrassing!

Pediatrician: A patient came to see us and said she found us through your blog, so I checked it out. I really enjoyed reading it!

Me: Hold me?

Pediatrician: No. Stop asking.

Me: Sorry.

So, yeah. That happened. I know that this blog is public (very public) and I'm pretty sure that everyone I know, knows about it.  I don't post anything that I wouldn't want someone to know.  But sometimes?  When someone tells me they read my blog?  I get a wave of uh-oh-what-have-I-done panic.  Like, OMG the pediatrician knows all about my vagina behind my back and that would be creepy except that I want people to read my blog and it is on the Internet so that's not really behind my back and  also perhaps I should stop writing about my vagina if I don't want people to read it, the end.

(Don't worry, you all know that I have to tell vagina stories.  It makes me feel pretty and popular.)

So anyway, I forgot that I wanted to post the rear facing video on my blog until yesterday.  For the pediatrician, who most certainly has no interest in holding me but I don't hold that against her.

So.  Olivia is rear-facing, and will be until she reaches the rear-facing limit of her seat.  I was excited for her to finally reach 20 pounds, but it wasn't because I could turn her seat - it was because she would fit in the 12-18 month Baby Gap sizes.  Because I'm deep and sensible like that.


One Year Ago: Three Months; Every Little Thing She Does is Magic
Two Years Ago: Conceive Magazine

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Fifteen Months

We had our 15 month check up last week.

Weight: 20.06 pounds
Height: 29.96 inches
Head: Can't remember, don't care. Maybe you can judge the size by looking at this picture?

The word duck
Green Light on the Smoke Alarm
Her Violet Dog
Climbing on Everything
Spinning in Circles
Thigh Nibbles
Being Chased

Being Told No
Rainy Days Stuck Inside
Getting Shots
Sitting Still
Diaper Changes

I am so behind on blogging.  And everything, really, because I've been feeling barfy from being pumped full of Estrace to prepare for my Frozen Embryo Transfer.  I'll try to be a better blogger this week - it's first on my list of things that I'm putting off.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Tony's Whippy

I was driving home recently, and almost killed myself trying to get a picture of an Ice Cream Truck that was inching beside me in rush hour traffic. Of course the combination of my overly excited hand gestures (GET A LOAD OF THAT TRUCK OTHER TRAFFIC! AND YOU TOO PEDESTRIANS!  BUT NOT YOU, KID, LOOK AWAY!) and my shitty iPhone camera totally ruined any photo I tried to take.

My belief that The Ice Cream Man is pervy is really probably just a reflection of my flawed character. Somehow. I'm afraid to ask other people, because not everyone appreciates my blog fodder.  Talking about blog material in real life just makes me sound like a dumbass.  Unless I'm drunk, in which case I sound awesome.

Anyway. This truck? You guys...It was the most amazing Ice Cream Truck ever. EVAR!

The picture on the side of the truck was a clown, making the typical Creepy Clown Face.  But this clown was holding a popsicle.  Except, you couldn't see his hands, and the popsicle was just floating in the air at about a 45 degree angle, away from the clown and pointing toward the ice cream pick-up window.

It looked like a giant penis.
I need to tell you that it was red, white, and blue.
A giant, red, white, and blue penis popsicle.

Now, I know that all Ice Cream Truck Drivers are special snowflakes, and you know, you probably know a very fine, upstanding Ice Cream Truck Driver.  I know.  But I'm sorry: every Ice Cream Truck Driver I've ever seen looks a little bit skanky.  Usually like the kind of person you warn your kid about when you tell them not to take treats from strangers or go near kidnapper vans.  And then there is a giant penis popsicle on the side?  I'm just saying, it's a little pervy.

Jennepper's Rendering of The Ice Cream Truck Who Refused To Be Photographed In Rush Hour Traffic:Trust me.  This does not do justice.

Since I didn't get a real picture, I turned to my lover friend Google Images.  Search term: the ice cream man is pervy.  Result: OMFG (and also: ewwwww).

Here's my favorite: Tony's Whippy.

ewwwwww!  Freshly made for you!  ewwwwwww!

And the second runner up, from FAIL Blog: Mr. Ding A Ling's Ice Cream (complete with warning to Watch Your Children)

I need a vacation. Or a hobby. Or...just a life, in general I guess. But how else am I going to entertain myself during my 2 hour commute every day? And don't say something brilliant like Rosetta Stone CDs or something. We all know that I couldn't possibly fit any more smarts into my brain.

One Year Ago: Play Doh and Birth
Two Years Ago: I'm 1 Day Pregnant!

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Worlds Collide: Photographic Proof!

What's a girl to do when her boss signs for her Fed Ex full of 2inch ass needles and other fertility-related drug paraphernalia?

Right.  Take pictures!

Now, since I'm such a positive person, I'm being totally optimistic about this whole FET thing even though the success rate is...well, not in my favor, or in anyone's favor really if you look at the numbers.  But I have a lovely vagina, a beautiful cervix, and a uterus that could kick that ass of your uterus any day (if your uterus had an ass).  So let's just assume that I'll fall in the 40% success rate, even though I have shitty luck and generally skew the numbers of suckage in everyone else's favor all of the time by taking one for the team in all horrible situations.

Basically?  This Fed Ex package?  Is my next baybee.  See me gaze lovingly at my next baybee:

Oh, what, Fed Ex Baybee, is you hungee?  Well, let me try to breast feed you!  Breast is best, after all, if you haven't heard.

Could I be any more of an obvious titty quitter?  Perhaps my nursing experience with Olivia was so piss poor because I was shoving her face into my side boob instead of my nipple?

Perhaps I will supplement with poison formula, as well.  I'm all out of bottles, so this kid will just have to choke it down out of a water bottle.

It is very important to burp your baybee.  Even if it isn't a Fed Ex Baybee.  But what's nice about a Fed Ex Baybee is that it can't vomit on your shoulder.  I mean, you still run the risk of being stabbed with a needle, but you will not smell like vomit so at the end of the day?  You win.  You just might be wearing a band-aid is all.

I would like to take the opportunity to point out that the Fed Ex Baybee is very happy, despite having two different sized ears and a pubic hair on its head.  What can I say?  I make happy baybees! 

(Also?  I did not pick out that picture on the office wall.  Just saying.)

We've all heard of the EASY method, right?  Eat, Activity, Sleep, You Time!  Now that the Fed Ex baybee has a nice full belly, it's time to play!  Goochie Goochie Goo, Fed Ex Baybee!

And now it's time for sleep.  For the baybee.  Not for me.  I should probably do some work.  But make sure you swaddle your baybee tight!  It's a girl, but only because I had a pink shirt in my gym bag.  But maybe we'll have another girl, and Mark will be destined to deal with PMS times three?  You have to admit, you're waiting anxiously for the blog fodder from that situation.

Big shout out to my coworker, Melissa.  She took the photos (she's my main photographer, remember this shot?) and is also forced to Deal With Me daily.  Last week, she broke her front tooth on an orange, and I offered to make her famous by posting a picture on my blog.  But she declined, not sure why.

--  <-----My segue, since I'm such an excellent writer.

And I can't go without saying Happy Mother's Day, to everyone who considers themselves to be a mom, and to everyone who wants to be a mom, and...ya know.  Mother's Day is hard for people, and so I think we should all just eat a big ass cookie and enjoy this Sunday.  Happy Cookie Sunday?  Does that work for everyone?

-- <-----And, again.  For Good Measure.

One Year Ago: Mother's Day and Other Such Nonsense
Two Years Ago: Jen's Top Ten List of Things That Suck

Friday, May 7, 2010

George Costanza Would Be Distraught

Because Worlds Were Colliding yesterday!

I ordered my drugs for my frozen embryo transfer.  Well, the nurse at the Cleveland Clinic Fertility Center ordered my drugs for my frozen embryo transfer.  I just ate a king-sized Hershey bar and contemplated the inner workings of the people on The Hills.  But either way: drugs, they wuz ordered.

Not sure how I feel about jumping back into the stirrups.  Besides, you know, being really excited to show people my Lady Business on the regular.  I'm all twisty turny about it in a way that is needlessly dramatic and doesn't warrant further description than Poor Me And All My Options: A Drama.

But anyway.  Worlds. Colliding. 

It turns out that the new pharmacy for the spermically challenged?  Requires a signature for drug delivery.  Which is awesome.  I mean, I wouldn't want any of my neighbors stealing my 1.5 inch progesterone in oil needles and stabbing themselves in the asses!  That fun is MINE and I refuse to share because I'm just a total bitch like that. 

The helpful lady at the pharmacy suggested I send my package to work and so I did.  Because really, the only people who sign for Fed Ex are the people who know about my Adventures In Infertility And Moron Management. 

But of course that can't work out in my favor, because on the one day that I choose to have a big ass box of fertility medications shipped to me at work?  The very one and only day that this would ever happen?  MY BOSS signs for the Fed Ex.  For, like, the first time in his 27 years with our company.

I didn't see it, but apparently he read the address label and said, "says it's for Jen...wonder what it is?" Then, he shook it all around near his ear.  Trying to figure out what it was.


I mean, the only way it could have been more George Constanza is if a PIO needle poked through the box and stabbed him in the eyeball causing me to make up some outrageous lie.


(Please tell me that you remember the whole worlds colliding thing from Seinfeld?  Here's a refresher.)

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Produce Etiquette

I went grocery shopping over the weekend.   The end.

HA!   No.  This story is more interesting than that, but only in a vague way.

So I was standing in the produce aisle trying to find some unmoldy strawberries (FAIL), which was surprisingly difficult.  And this couple comes up beside me.  Which I hate.  People should avoid my general vicinity at all times - I'm thinking about getting one of those giant board signs to wear over my shoulders when I am out but I can't decide what it should say.

The wife says, "OH!  BLACKBERRIES! Let's see how they taste!"

OK.  I am a deadly combination of socially inept and hateful, so forgive me if tasting the produce is a perfectly acceptable behavior.  But I was totally irritated and since I wear my hate directly on my face, I was all * grimace-y * in her direction.

Her husband, sensing my * grimace-y-ness, * makes eye contact with me, and shamefully lowers and shakes his head.  Like, "can you even believe this?  Can you even believe that I have to share a bed with this produce whore?"

Now, I'm fine with opening the little carton of berries and looking around for mold/bug/dirt/dollah billz.  But tasting the food?  Where do you draw the line?  Because you never know if the first one you taste is the ONLY good one in the carton, so then do you taste, like, half of the carton and calculate the average deliciousness?  Squared?  Times five divided by pi?  WHERE DOES IT END, PEOPLE?!

I watched this lady taste a blackberry from six boxes before she walked away without buying any berries.  And?  AND?  AND!!!!!!!!! She said, "mmmmmmm" every time she ate a berry, so you know those fuckers tasted good.

Please tell me: is this appropriate Produce Etiquette?  Would the Emily Post of Produce approve of such behavior?