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

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.

WORLDS: THEY BE COLLIDING UP IN HERE * kaboom *

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.

FML.

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

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?

Adventures in Real Estate

On Wednesday, we had another Get Out of the House Situation so that people could come and view our lovely home.  Which is good.  You want people to view your lovely home when it is for sale. 

You know what else is nice?  When people want to buy your lovely home.  Or, I imagine it is nice.  I have yet to experience it, but I bet it feels like rainbows and unicorns and success all rolled into a giant happiness-filled burrito.

So we're out of the house and we have to stay out past Olivia's bedtime.  Which, you know.  You already know.  I won't make you want to stab your eyes out with further description of the obvious horror of the situation.

Truth be told, I was feeling pretty good about the situation.  We were eating at Applebee's (because we are super fancy) and everyone was just generally adoring our attention whore cute, well-behaved daughter.  AND it was half price appetizers.  I mean, it simply does not get any better than a attention whore well-behaved daughter saying DUCKY! to other customers sitting patiently while you tear into some half price mozzarella sticks  enjoy a small side salad.

Until Olivia starts grunting.
And at first I'm all, oh that's funny she's grunting.
Then her face turns red and her entire area smells like a cow pasture.
Oh noes.  She pooped right here in this very Applebee's.  That is not fancy at all.  And I'm pretty sure we were dealing with The Smelliest Diaper Ever Soiled.

I realize that public poop in itself is not a crisis.  I did bring a diaper bag, so all was not lost.  And, there was one of those super sanitary koala changing stations so clearly I lead a charmed life. 

I try to pull out a paper cover from the dispenser, but it's crammed so full that I can't get one and keep ripping tiny chunks.  So I take the cloth changing pad out of my diaper bag and prepare to super mom the shit out of The Smelliest Diaper Ever Soiled.

Oh, my friends.  FAIL.  Colossally.

I'm telling you, this child has not shit up her back since she was 2 months old.  Until today.  There was shit everywhere.  And of course Olivia is completely tired and hyper and rolling all over the place with her shitty back and her shitty shirt and her shitty shitty bang bang oh-my-god-i-am-going-to-die-at-an-Applebees. 

I wouldn't be surprised if someone recorded me in the restroom and posted it on You Tube because I?  I don't even know what I was saying.  Probably something along the lines of "shitty shitty bang bang" in a high-pitched freaking out voice.

I bet that you already guessed that I only had 4 wipes in my diaper bag, and that the wrapper was partially open so they were completely dry.  And that I had to carry a bare-assed toddler out in front of me to get paper towels in order to finish the job.  And that I had poop in my fingernails and got everything around me wet trying to hold Olivia while I washed my hands.  AND that I stress ate about 4000 more calories afterwards.

And our house is still for sale.

Life Coach: I Haz One

At the beginning of April, I found out that I won a blog giveaway.  I don't often enter giveaways.  I find it totally obnoxious to tweet/blog/facebook/tattoo on my forehead to enter a giveaway.  Maybe it's just that I'm lazy, but no thanks and plus I don't really know how to tweet anyway, so there.   

But this giveaway was easy to enter - just leave a comment!  Well.  I'm a piss poor commenter.  I must have felt ambitious that day or whatever, but I left a comment and I'm so glad I did.

I won a six week session with a life coach.

What exactly does a life coach do?   I had no idea.  From what I gather, in a nutshell, a life coach helps you reach a goal.  Whatever goal you decide on.  The life coach helps you work through the kinks so that you can do whatever you're trying to do.

This is good for me.  This is potentially disastrous for her.  Heidi is her name, and her website is To Be Luminous. I want to make sure to tell you this because I know that you all Pity The Fool who has to deal with me and my neuroses for the next six weeks in 45 minute intervals.  She lives in Prague now but plans to move back to the  US in June.

I'm afraid I will change her mind, is all I'm saying.

I suck so thoroughly at life lately.  I feel like I'm in a constant sprint and even when I have free time I can't get caught up because my ass is drawn to my couch like some sort of enormous magnet.  It's not that I'm really unorganized.  That's not true.  I have lots of help from Mark.  I'm just busy and kind of being a baby about it.

As a matter of fact, it took me two weeks to schedule a time to speak with her.  Because, you know, typing a two sentence email and hitting send is just way too much for my delicate psyche.  And then to think of what I want to work on?  Really? 

This required pulling my head out of my own ass.


My only actual workable idea was to be more healthy.  I eat like shit 50% of the time, and then spend the other 50% of the time eating healthy and wondering why my pants are too tight.  I do exercise, but it really means nothing when I'm shoving a super sized fry into my mouth and daydreaming about a large DQ Blizzard for dessert.

So for the next six weeks, every Saturday morning, Heidi gets to listen to me babble on about my various neuroses in an attempt to help me make better food choices, exercise, and just generally be a more healthy person.  My accountability partner.    I'd love to lose 5 pounds, but I'm trying to focus on being healthy instead of feeling skinny. 

But skinny would be nice, wouldn't it?

Also.  I'm planning to be stuffed full of frozen embryos sometime soon, and I think a lower weight and good workout routine will help with The Diabeetus.  I'm sure I'll still have it because God Hates Me but maybe I will be able to drink milk and eat fruit this time without falling to the floor into a diabetic coma.

 And since I know you've all been missing Wilford Brimley, here you go:

Diabeetus!  Diabeetus!  Diiiiiiiaaaaaabeeeeetuuuuuus! 

Diabeetus. 

--

One Year Ago:  The End of the World As We Know It
Two Years Ago:  Infertility Pants

This is why I have 285 pictures in my April folder.

I am completely incapable of deleting anything. I've been through my April Shutterfly album at least 5 times trying to delete some pictures and I can't. Because MAH BAYBEE! And NOM CUTE NOM!

Example: These pictures are nearly identical. If they are not identical, they are kind of stupid. But can I delete the picture of her cheesing so hard that her eyes close? No. Can I delete the serious Get Out of My Face I'm Trying To Play picture? Um...also no.

Perhaps I would have more time to blog if I spent less time looking at 285 imperceptible toddler expressions?

So now you're pissed, and you're all, "I clicked over from Google Reader for this?" and if you read this blog I bet you're just the type of person to give your computer screen the finger. 

But maybe those baybee pictures will make you feel guilty or at least a little more forgiving?  And then you'll come back tomorrow(ish) when I tell you about how I have a Life Coach for the next six weeks?  Maybe?


Please?
Kthxbai.

Zoo Rip Off

Our house is for sale.  Has been for about three weeks.  If you'd like to do me a solid and buy it, let me know.  Kthxbai. 

It has been super fun trying to get two adults, a baybee, and two dogs out of the house for an hour.  Especially since anyone we know well enough to impose upon during dinner time on short notice lives too far away for us to impose upon.  So we try to Go Places.  Going Places is a good plan when it is nice out, but hi, we live in Ohio and so it's only nice out like 30% of the time.

Anyway.  Last week we had a showing from 6-7 on a weeknight.  So we're all Yes!  Easy!  We'll go to the park, twill be great! 

Except it rained.  Which, of course it rained, right?  Hello, Ohio Weather.   Since it rained, that means there were only two choices:

1. Shoot myself in the freaking head, or
2. PetSmart.

I don't have a gun.  So we went to PetSmart.  It's pretty much the only inside place that allows dogs and also has Many Interesting Things for a baybee to see.  It's, like, a zoo.  Sort of.  A zoo rip off, but whatever, there are animals so shut up.

Riveted by birds. For three entire minutes, which is like three entire hours in adult time.

(In the interest of full disclosure, she is also riveted by the green light on the smoke detector in her bedroom.  That thing gets more smiles than Elmo these days.)

Riveted by fish.  For about sixty seconds.

Fish: they are no smoke detector light.

She is just so NOMable.

100% Baked Pork Skin Bones: A Close Second to Smoke Detector Light

Everyone had a great time - Milo pooped in the store, Baxter ate some sort of debris off the floor, Olivia was riveted by crappy animals.  And we all lived happily ever after, in our same house, that is still for sale.  The End.

BAMSKY!

Sometimes I read blogs while I'm at work.  On my work computer.

And by sometimes?  I mean just the two times I'm going to tell you about.  That is all.  I'm usually very busy doing other things that involve being very busy and very...serious.

Last week marks the second time that I got surf controlled at work because I tried to access something pornographic.  On my work computer.

You guys, I KNOW.

I know what you're thinking.  That I'm going to be a terrible waste of an unemployment check when I get fired sometime very soon.  For trying to look at pornographic materials on my computer.  Oh.mah.gad. 

The most important thing for everyone to know is this: it was an accident.  I promise I do not like pornographic material.  I like...shopping.  Candy.  Shoes.  Nachos.  I like baybees.  LOL Cats.  I do not like to watch people Do It.  I'm totally serious. 

A couple of years ago, I was thinking about signing up for Weight Watchers Online.  Because, you know, I needed to lose three pounds and that just seemed like the rational thing to do (I also could have stopped stuffing food in my Nacho hole, but that would be free and also no fun).  I had a little free time at work and thought it might be a nice time to check out the Weight Watchers website.

So, do I Google Weight Watchers like a normal, upstanding citizen?  No.  I do not.   I know more than Google so I go ahead and just type in www dot ww dot com.

The Weight Watchers Website?  Is NOT ww dot com.

I repeat: the Weight Watchers Website?  Is NOT ww dot com.  It just isn't.  Trust me.  Trust me completely, especially if you are at work.

So I type in ww dot com, and BAMSKY!  Surf control, pornographic material, you ignorant slut.

And then I died, the end.

That was a couple years ago and now I've learned to just Google things.  I know that you are all very intimidated by my Smarts right now and I beg of you: Please don't leave!  If you work really hard you can be as smart as me.  Someday.  Probably.

Last week I was reading a new blog that is very hilarious.  However.  I made the mistake of clicking a link on the sidebar that was named something completely normal, like Bunnies and Puppies or something, I don't know I don't remember.  Because then, can you guess what happened?

BAMSKY! Surf control, pornographic material, you ignorant slut.
(P.S. Shouldn't you be doing work?  Useless whore.)

And about a half hour later, someone from our computer department called began a conversation with me, as follows:

Me: * insert work phone greeting here*

He: Ah, Jennifer.  Yes.  I don't know exactly how to start this with you...

Me: * insert death.  destruction.  woe.  begins to pack desk.  about to say, "I swear I don't like pooooorn."

He: Do you know about such and such boring work stuff not at all related to surf controlling or porn?

Me: * insert such relief that I almost make a dirty-sounding noise. *

I suck at life.

--

One Year Ago:  My First Period
Two Years Ago: What are my plans for April?

A sure sign of spring.

Exhibit A: itty bitty baybee boo boo

In all my Easter Posting Glory, I forgot to tell you that I was totally negligent on Friday and let Olivia fall, go boom boom, in our driveway.  Result is one delicious and chubby skinned knee.

No, she didn't cry.  She did give me a dirty look.  I don't blame her, because there was blood.  And scab. 

But yay for spring!  And baybees in dresses and shorts!  Unless they are boys, then maybe not the dresses but hey it's your kid do what you want!

Honorable mention but not worth labeling in this photo:

1. Mah bra.

2. Mah roots. 

3. Mah strange post-baby hair regrowth: the bangs that will not grow past two inches dammit.

 

Should have purchased three sets of ears.

But I didn't, so my Easter gift to you is three separate ridiculous picutres of The Kneppers in bunny ears.

Jen: Dis Stoopid

Olivia: Gimme Dem

Mark: Wants Divorce

Olivia: Nevermind; dis stoopid.

And since you so politely took the time to click on this post, here are some delicious baybee pictures.

Easter dress: check

Bow on practically bald head: check, surprisingly

Frilly Socks: oh, you bet your ass check

$10 baybee shoes to be worn once: uh huh, check.

NOM?: NOM.

Zebra Wearing Red Tennies: Hilarious, in case you were wondering.

Why I never get anything done...how could you resist picking her up?  HOW?

This kid always has food in her hair.  Probably because it is hard to eat with one tooth, and so she has taken to smearing food on her head as some sort of coping mechanism.

(We are working on FIVE teeth.  It's been about as fun as...well.  It turns out that it has not been fun and I cannot think of analogies when I have been up every two hours because boo hoo hoo teeth the end.)

Happy Easter!!  I hope you don't stain your clothes when you tear into your chocolate bunny!

(I hope that for myself, too.)

 ---

One Year Ago: Mister Yuck, Look Out

Two Years Ago: The Longest Post in the History of Infertile Whining