It's Bump Day at Baskin Robbins

Dearest Baskin Robbins,

Today I see that you are honoring the bump babes. The ladies with big bellies. The expectant mommies.

 

How very nice of you.

 

Please excuse me if I am way off base here, but I suppose you are trying to target the hormonal and hungry? Am I right? Did a bunch of people meet in a room one day for a brainstorm session to bring traffic into your stores? And someone had the brilliant idea to plaster that adorable cartoon pregnant lady all over the Internets in the hope that the pregnant ladies would see it and think, "OH MY GOD MY BABY NEEDS BASKIN ROBBINS NOW! NOW! NOW!" And then maybe once she has your ice cream for free, she will continue to have cravings and spend $3 a day on delectable globs of your new soft serve?

 

Well, I'm no marketing mogul or anything like that. I didn't go to Harvard, but to a state school, and everyone knows that state schools will take most anyone with a pulse and cold hard cash, right? I have a business degree but if we're being honest with each other, Baskin Robbins, I don't know all that much about mass marketing.

 

However.

 

If you're targeting the hormonal and hungry? You are missing a HUGE section of the "Hormonal and Hungry" market. The Infertiles. We are the perfect target market for your sales schemery – we're not only hormonal and hungry – we're neurotic and emotional! Emotional EATERS! See where I'm going with this?

 

I'm not really sure how you would verify the whole infertile part. I mean, you could ask to see our horns and tails, or maybe require us to inject our meds at the counter before we get our free soft serve. Or maybe you could just tell by the smell of desperation when we walk in the door? I don't know, you can work out the details.

 

I look forward to Infertility Tuesday really soon. In the interim, I will be getting my ice cream from Dairy Queen, Coldstone, or from the freezer aisle at the grocery store. Or maybe I'll eat cookies. You can never tell. I'm unpredictable like that.

 

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. And if you'd like to pay me for this fantastic idea? I wouldn't object.

 

Best,

Jennepper

 

p.s. – I do have some ideas for the Infertility Tuesday Free Soft Serve campaign. Have your people call my people.

p.p.s – I don't have people. Call me directly.

p.p.p.s. – I have lots of other ideas. Preview: Menopausal Monday. (Call me.)

Back In The Saddle...Well...Stirrups

The stirrups in the ultrasound room don’t have covers on them. Which sounds kind of inconsiderate, but I’ve developed an elaborate explanation for the lack of soft covers on the shockingly cold metal.

Dr. Goldfarb told me that every afternoon, all of the doctors get together and review every patient file. They have to do this, because they are very busy and work as a team, and this helps them to all be familiar with every case. And that all seems like a very good idea, except nobody ever knows who the hell I am without going through my entire file while I sit and watch, thinking, “Seriously? I’m going to be late for work.”

But my theory is that one day, while at one of these daily afternoon meetings, one of the doctors started complaining about how all the patients fall asleep on the ultrasound table between the time they tell you to STRIP! From the waist down and when they come back to view the girly bits.

Who hasn’t been tempted to just take a teeny little nap on that ultrasound table? Sometimes you have to wait for, like, two minutes! That’s two whole minutes of precious sleep! I mean, we’re on Lupron after all…and we can’t have caffeine, because it’s clearly Satan in a Styrofoam cup…

So the doctors came up with the brilliant scheme to keep us awake. Are you ready? Because I’m about to blow. your. mind.

I think that one of the doctors, or maybe an ultrasound tech or a nurse, had the brilliant idea to set the room temperature to a frigid 22 degrees. And just in case the arctic blast of the room wasn’t enough? Let’s not cover the stirrups! Let’s leave the metal bare, and maybe even rub it with ice cubes before each patient, so that when they lay down, they can’t nap! Because it’s cold!

And everyone at the big wooden table does a long, evil belly laugh…

Other than the frostbite that I got on my pinky toe during today’s ultrasound, everything else went well. The regular ultrasound lady, Martie, is back from Paris – so no more Teeny McShortarms. And Martie? Is fabulous! She explains everything – not in a condescending way – and says things like, “your antral follicles are like ladies in waiting,” and “your uterus is lovely, and your ovaries are really working hard.” And Martie? Calls you in by first AND last name. No confusion of the Jennifers when Martie is in charge.

And she wears cute shoes.

It sounds like maybe I have a girl crush on Martie, doesn’t it? Clearly not, but I think we’re going to get along juuuuust fine.

One ultrasound down. One million to go.

Are you doing treatments right now? If so, where are you in the process? And also, do they cover the stirrups at your office??

I'm 1 Day Pregnant!

According to my "perfect case scenario" I am 1 day pregnant on this very day.

Things I am going to do, now that I'm pregnant:

Park in the "Expectant Mother" spot at the grocery store.
I mean really, would anyone challenge me? I think I could make it work, especially since my father-in-law called me Miss Piggy the other day.*


Let my fat roll hang right out.
Why even try to suck it in? I'm one day pregnant, after all. Maybe I'll even invest in one of those shirts that says, "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant."


Eat 7 chocolate chip cookies after dinner.
Because the baby wanted them. Not because I am a total hoss.



Talk nonstop about my day-old pregnancy.
Loudly. In the lobby of the fertility clinic. In front of all the baby-lusters waiting for their daily meeting with the vag cam. Hoping they won't have to come back next cycle, and wanting to kill me for my obnoxious bragging.


Wear a Bella Band
Because seriously, you've thought about it. Don't lie. Who needs Thanksgiving Pants when you have a Bella Band? Clearly, I'd be wearing it because I am totally pregnant, and not because I ate 7 chocolate chip cookies.


Tell me: WHAT ELSE SHOULD I DO??





*Then promptly told me not to put it in my blog.**
**Pfft...like I wasn't going to blog that. Come on, now

Jen’s Anatomy

Bladder – is pissed. Is having no more of this scrunched up, crowded abdomen. Is making me pay with multiple trips to the bathroom and vague symptoms of a UTI. Ovaries are being overbearing and Bladder is so over it.

Ovaries – planning hostile takeover. Are strong and mighty from the fertility drugs, and are revolting in what can only be compared to a roid rage. Are in cahoots with Bladder but negotiations are at a standstill (Ovaries are trying to steal all the glory, obviously). Thinks Bladder is a pansy ass.

Ass – Hurts. Is big. Has prick-marks all over. Is threatening to bruise. Wonders why someone hit me in ass with a baseball bat, but the realizes that it is from the PIO Shots. Considers joining the Bladder and Ovaries in their mission to FUCK JEN UP!

Stomach – is sick of all of these drugs. Is churning at smells, but strangely wanted to suck Grey Poupon directly out of the little foil packet in my sandwich kit. Now producing Grey Poupon burps every 5 minutes (is not so bad, actually).

Face – is ugly. Has morphed into pizza-faced teenage boyface in the past week. Beginning to bear an odd resemblance to Gary Busey.

Bewbies – Ouch. And veiny. That is all.

Brain – finds this post to be lame. And thinks that maybe I should be studying for my accounting test, while at the same time refusing to retain any additional information like a baby refusing to take a spoon full of pureed carrots.

The only reason my back isn't on here as an enemy of the state is because guess what I found out today? That my car seat as LUMBAR SUPPORT! My fucking god. In my defense, I've only had the car since December. But still I probably should've realized sooner because I've had the car since December.

 

The longest post in the history of infertile whining.

So it seems I've gotten a little bit behind! My most sincere apologies.

I had my retrieval on Tuesday, and it went pretty well.

We started off by meeting with one of the nurses, who taught us how to do the Progesterone in Oil shot. Call me crazy, but this does not look like good times. Leave with my giant bag o' giant needles and head back to the operating area to get ready for the retrieval.

I get back to the room, get nekked under my lovely gown, and begin answering a million questions. While answering questions, a nice nurse comes over and says, "I'm going to get your IV in while you're finishing up with these questions."
I'm forever having problems with IVs. What can I say? I'm a delicate flower. Here is a recap:


Nice Nurse: OK, Jen, I'm just going to try to find a vein here. So let your arm hang down and make a tight fist.

Jen: You should know, I'm kind of a passer-outer.

Nice Nurse: No big deal. Keep making that fist...just don't punch me!

Jen: I'm not making any promises.

Nice Nurse: *laughs* (she was so innocent)

Nice Nurse: I'm going to try your hand here...

Jen: Oh, shit.

Nice Nurse: Hmm...this doesn't seem to be working. Hmm...OK, I'm wussing out.

Jen: Oh, shit.

Eventually it was all OK, and the anesthesiologist had to come and save the day.

After that it gets blurry. I went back into the OR, verified my name for the embryologist, and lay down on this crazy table where your arms are out to the sides and your legs are in these giant padded stirrup torture device things. The last thing I remember saying is, "I'm having trouble focusing." (No shit, dumbass, you're drugged.)

As you know, we got 13 eggs. If I'm being honest with you? I was kind of disappointed and thought it would be way more. But I suppose beggers can't be choosers, and I suppose I'm being a greedy whore. An honest greedy whore.

When I woke up I felt fine and was ready to get home and get some sleep. First I ate some Burger King, because yum.

The next two days, we found out that we made 9 embryos, and they looked great. On Thursday I got the call saying that we would be doing a day 3 transfer for Friday.

I was really excited about the transfer, until I started to mentally torture myself over why I wasn't doing a 5 day transfer. Were my embryos not strong enough to go to blast? Was this just a shot in hell at this point? Am I being set up for a major disappointment?

It really sucked, because since IVF started, I've felt good. I've not been focused on getting pregnant, which sounds crazy. I was taking shots, yes. But it just felt like something I was doing. I felt really disconnected from the entire process - going through the motions, doing what I had to do, suffering through the side effects. It was fine.

But after the retrieval when I knew we had embryos, it felt more real and I started to feel invested. So when I made the mistake of googling "Day 3 vs. Day 5 Transfer" I was in for a ton of unnecessary worrying and turmoil. And anxiety. And just general bitterness that I've been keeping tamped down and not showing anyone.

At the transfer, we found out that we had four perfect 8 cell embryos - two to transfer and two already in the cooler (our possible fututre babycicles). Five more are playing in the lab and if they reach blast, they will go to freeze.

The reasoning, according to the doctor, for the 3 day opposed to the 5 day - we had 4 that were clearly the strongest and didn't need to wait to go to blast because they were perfect. They already knew. The others were still developing well, but they were not the strongest and they needed to wait until day 5 to see if they were going to make it to freeze.

Day 3 does not = gloom and doom, apparently. I was assured by the doctor, the embryologist, and the nurse that the embryos looked great.

I got to see the embryos on a big screen, and got to watch the catheter place them in my uterus. It was so amazing. We got pictures of the embryos, and of the catheter. We also got the petri dish. But I don't know if I'm into the petri dish thing...it seems weird. "Hey kids! This was your first crib!"

After the transfer I was put in my room and told to wait 20 minutes then get up and go pee. Now, this was scary to me because I was hurting really bad, and the prospect of waiting 20 more minutes to pee made me want to pee my pants, but I couldn't pee my pants for obvious reasons.

I waited 15, then absolutely had to get up. I was having really bad stabbing pains in my bladder. My bladder was so full that I couldn't sit up, and Mark had to pull me up like Frankenstein. I ran down to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, expecting sweet relief.

Nothing....

I couldn't pee! I couldn't pee at all. I started to cry. It was embarrassing. Finally, a little bit came out and then I was completely nauseated and had to run back to the room and lay down. The nurse came in to scold me for getting up before my 20 minutes, and saw that I was crying and decided to take pity and get me some cool towels for my head.

A few minutes later, I tried to pee again. A little more, but mostly just pain. I kept telling the nurses, and I was getting looks. Looks like, "Welp, we've got a crybaby here who is nervous about the transfer."

Looks like they weren't realizing that FREDDY KRUGER was stabbing my bladder, and Edward Scissorhands had just left, and I couldn't give a shit about my embryos at this point because I would never pee again and would die from bladder-related complications. Fuck.

I was so pissed (heh...) that I went back to my room and started to get dressed, because if I had to be in pain and cry, I wanted to do it at my house. I couldn't stand up straight without having knife pains in my bladder while still feeling like my bladder was overfull.

I was half hunched over, walking down to the bathroom again when I think they finally realized that yes, I was in pain, and no, I wasn't just anxious or nervous. The doctor said that I was probably having bladder spasms, and that I needed to let them put in a catheter or I would end up in the ER.

10 minutes and one catheter later, I was lighter a few ounces of pee, but still in pain. Again, I decided to give up and go home. I was told to take two Tylenol 3 and relax.

I was in severe pain all night. I did feel better when I woke up this morning. And I didn't want to write about this, because it's all so negative. And the transfer is supposed to be positive and exciting! And it was, sort of.

Today I feel good. I'm definitely enjoying the bedrest!

More positive posts to come (probably)...I promise (sort of).

Don't be a jerk. Delurk! (And, Tootsie Rolls)

Ok, well, maybe jerk is a little strong. The problem is that my rhyming skillz are a bit lackluster, and what else rhymes with lurk that fits the sentence?

But Mrs. Higrens asked what everyone could do to make my two weeks go by more quickly. And I could think of a lot of things:

1. Send money. For shoes.
2. Send cookies. For nom nom nom, Cookie Monster Style.
3. Send nachos. For obvious reasons.
4. Send comments. Delurk. Make your self known, and whatnot.

It seems like # 4 is most realistic, no? (Now anyone compelled to comply with 1 - 3 should go for it.)

I know people are reading...but not posting comments. So leave me a comment! Tell me how you got here. Or what you're infertility situation is. Or hell, tell me you love me and want to marry me!

That would make me feel better.

Now, on to other things. (Other things being me, making an ass of myself and totally oversharing.)

I feel really shit-tay today. I was suffering through work, and I skipped class tonight because I couldn't see getting through it without falling asleep. Or without having my abdomen explode and covering everyone in follicle goo.

Back when I was still seeing Dr. Fabulous, I went to their required IVF informational meeting. It was...informational? Yes. It was.

The speaker at the meeting said something that didn't mean much to me at the time, but hit me like a ton of bricks today. Apparently, when you normally ovulate, your ovaries are the size of the tip of your thumb. And, apparently, when you're stimming for IVF, your ovaries become the size of your FISTS.

And really, that seems appropriate. Because before I remembered that, I was almost thinking that there was some sort of mini-hulk taking lodge in my abdomen. Making me bloated and punching me right in the ovaries (Right in the babymaker, if you will).

I keep wondering if it is the size of your own fists, or the size of, say...the fists of Arsenio Hall? Because my fists are not impressive because I have freakishly small hands. Carnie Hands. (Not! that there's anything wrong with being a carnie...)

Yesterday when I went for my super pleasant and painless ultrasound, my ovaries looked all cattywhompus. There were so many follicles, that instead of being round, they were kind of square? I guess they were more rectangular. Dr. Goldfarb called them oblong.

I think they looked like Tootsie Rolls.



I've never been a huge fan of Tootsie Rolls. I think they're a piss poor excuse for chocolate. Impostors! Plus, they make my jaw all hurty when I eat them.

But ever since yesterday, I've been really hungry for a damn Tootsie Roll.

More about my hairy legs and underwear.

Where on earth is this blog headed? I'm completely fixated on underwear and leg hair and pretty much ignoring the fact that I'M DOING IVF!

IVF = BIG DEAL

UNDERWEAR AND LEG HAIR = NOT SO MUCH

But still. Let me tell you about my leg hair and underwear.

Today I broke down and shaved my legs. I wasn't sure if they would be willing to do an ultrasound on a sasquatch, and I really wanted to get my ultrasound so I figured I would take one for the team and get up 15 minutes early (yep, that hairy). And guess what? It was the best decision I've ever made in my entire life. Because guess who was doing ultrasounds again today?

Yep: Teeny McShortarms.

Today, Teeny McShortarms got on my bad side a little bit, and I was kind of wishing that I had NOT shaved my legs, because that would've really shown her. First off, Teeny McShortarms took me back into the ultrasound room and made me go pee. I know to you it doesn't sound like that big of a deal, but to me it was because surprise! I find really stupid things to be a really big deal.

I hate peeing when people can hear me. HATE it. This means that I avoid peeing in public restrooms unless it is an emergency, and if I must, I find the stall that is the farthest away from anyone else peeing in the same bathroom. I am so lucky at work right now because our floor is empty except for our office, so we practically have a private bathroom. I even keep my tampons in my stall. Keeping my tampons in the bathroom is really convenient because: 1. I work in an office with 7 men, and 2. I have to leave the office and walk ALLLLLLL the way to the other end of the building to go to the restroom. Which means that I have to carry my tampon ALLLLLLL the way down the hall in plain sight of all of the men in the office. No thanks. I value my privacy whilst carrying my tampons and peeing.

(Yes, I realize that I am saying how much I value my privacy at the same time as I talk about my hairy legs, underwear, and vagina. Believe me, the irony is not lost. Am walking contradiction.)

Given my hate for public peeing, I always go to the restroom down the hall from the infertility suite before I check in so that I can pee in peace. (peece, if you will) About 10 minutes pass between my peece and my date with the ultrasound wand. Logically, 10 minutes is not long enough to make generate new pee. It's just not!

Teeny McShortarms was having none of this logic.

She made me go in the bathroom and go pee, and I literally peed one little drop and then had to wash my hands with the horrible soap that dries out my hands. Annoying. Followed by more annoying leg-rubbage due to the short arm sitch. At least it was Venus smooth for this appointment.

To make matters worse, I wore a dress with no pantyhose today. So I had to shove my underwear in my purse…I had no choice. Then I was weirded out all day that my underwear had touched all my stuff in my purse, and all the stuff in my purse touched my underwear. It was almost like I took everything out of my purse and rubbed it on my crotch. It's really an unattractive thought. Aren't you glad I've shared that thought? I know you are.

After my ultrasound, I went to the waiting room to wait for my consult with the nurse (Sally, my FAVORITE!) and to check Perez on my yummy iPhone. Guess who was in the waiting room? Jennifer A from last Friday's appointment!! Can you guess what happened in the waiting room today? Hmmm…can you?

Well, if you said, "Yes, Jen, you are sadly predictable and I bet you stood up like an asshole when they called Jennifer, and they had to say Jennifer A, and then you had to sit down and feel awkward just like last Friday," then you were right! That happened! Again!

The follies are growing nicely. I have lots and lots of them, average size is about 13mm, and I go back again on Sunday for another ultrasound and bloodwork. I'm really hoping to trigger on Sunday and have ER Tuesday and ET Friday. I think Mark is pretty nervous about the PIO shots. Just Mark, not me…

Don't worry – on Sunday, I will be able to wear jeans (good for underwear hiding) and will have Mark with me to be the safe keeper of the underwear. And I will be able to sleep in until 7 so shaving my legs won't shouldn't be a big deal.

Easter Misunderstanding to Beat All Easter Misunderstandings.

Easter was pretty uneventful, save one thing.

(Unless you think that my eating so much that I gained 4 pounds in two days is eventful. Then a lot happened. A lot of eating. Not a lot of moving. Am fat glutton. Want cookie...send diet pills...)

Have you ever had someone say something to you that sounded inappropriate, but wasn't, but you thought it was because you weren't following their train of thought? I have had that happen a lot, probably because I have a strange thought pattern, but still. I had a doozie of a moment with my brother-in-law on Easter.

I'm going into the kitchen to throw away my plate, and my brother-in-law says:

"So Jen, all I really want to know is, has he gone down on you yet?"

And the room is quiet. You could hear a mouse fart at this point, so the sound of my jaw hitting the floor could be compared to the sound of a 400 pound man falling off the toilet. There is a random giggle from somewhere in the peanut gallery as I try to come up with an answer to this, this, this...question.

I mean seriously. Who says that? I don't even know what my face looked like, but all I was thinking was "ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod...what? ew... ohmygod ohmygod"

Then after what seemed like an eternity, he follows up with, "THE NEEDLES! THE NEEDLES!"

And finally I get what he's saying! He's not asking an inappropriate sexual question in front of my 80 year-old grandma-in-law! He's asking if Mark has gone down/passed out/bit the big one! *whew*

Of course Mark knew what his brother was saying, because they just had a phone conversation a few days before, and Mark was telling him that he thought he would pass out when giving me the PIO shot, blah blah blah.

And of course Mark was too busy eating cinnamon rolls and laughing his ass off during this whole scenario to end my pain and suffering, because look! My wife thinks my brother is asking her if I go down on her! So much hilariousness...and so much cinnamon goodness...!

So that was funny, and remained to be funny for the rest of the three hours we spent there. I'm quite positive it will go down in the "STORIES WE MUST TELL AT EVERY GATHERING" list.

In fertility news, I had another round of bloodwork and ultrasounds today. Things are progressing...fine, I guess? I can only assume, because I was herded through with the rest of the infertile cattle and told to keep taking 5 units of Lupron and 225 of Follistim and come back on Wednesday. Moo.

So begins the every-other-day bloodwork and ultrasound, I suppose! I just do what I'm told.

More unnecessary details about my ultrasound appointment.

So…I was the asshole who showed up at 6:45 a.m. while they were still turning on the lights. I mean, I don't want to get on anyone's bad side, but I figure they have so many patients that they won't even remember who I am. Right? Whatever – knock me up and I won't have to come early anymore! Impregnate me and you will have peace and quiet until 7 a.m.!

I'm glad I got there early, because I was the first one back. And when I came out to wait between bloodwork and ultrasound there were at least 10 couples waiting. I hope they don't catch on to the 6:45 trick (if you're reading, don't steal my early-morning thunder).

At my old RE, they would call the couple by the woman's name, so I'd be Jennifer K. Which seems stupid, but seriously, I think every woman who birthed a girl in the 80's was required to use the name JENNIFER, and now all of the infertile Jennifer's are all up in the waiting rooms at the same time as me! And at Goldfarb's office, they just call by first name. So Friday was the second time I went in, and they called Jennifer, and two of us stood up, then the nurse had to frantically flip the file around and say: Jennifer A. Which is funny, because my maiden name started with A and so I was THIS close to making the lady give out more info to the entire waiting room. But since I went and got married she didn't have to. I just stood up like an asshole when it wasn't my turn. No. Big. Deal.

I didn't pass out during bloodwork (I need to quit pointing that out, but still! Praise me! I didn't pass out and I want my props!) but the nurse did whatever it is that they do to make a big ass bruise immediately. And today the bruise is huge and black, and it HURTS like a mother.

I only had to wait about 5 minutes to go back again for the ultrasound. For some reason I was the Nervous-Chatty-Kathy version of Jen at the appointment, and couldn't stop talking! I think the nurse wanted to hoagie slap me with the ultrasound wand because nobody wants to talk to Nervous-Chatty-Kathy at 6:45 a.m. The problem was that I really wanted to start stims Friday, so I was really anxious about the results of the ultrasound.

So anxious, in fact, that I forgot to hide my underwear! Ack! I was scooting down on the table and already in the stirrups when I looked to my left and saw the horror of all horrors! Undies right on top of the clothing pile! This is the most ridiculous notion, and I know everyone does it – hiding your underwear from the gynecologist and/or RE. You're in the stirrups showing it ALL, but gawd forbid you don't hide your freaking underwear because that would be indecent. I wonder if they care? Like, if they mark on your chart: WHORE, FORGOT TO HIDE UNDERWEAR.

The ultrasound room was really cool. They have a screen for you to watch the ultrasound. It contributed to the chattyness problem I was having because I was all, "That is so cool even though I don't know what I'm looking at do I have any cysts please punch me so I'll stop talking." She pointed out all the follicles as she counted them and told me what each thing was, so it was really neat to be able to see it.

Don't get too excited, BUT! I go back for another bloodwork and ultrasound appointment tomorrow morning, and I'll surely have many pointless details to post and I will turn few words into way too many.

I can't wait to see how the follies are growing!!

0 w 0 d

Using my "best case scenario" from the nurse, if ER is 4/2, then today, I am 0 weeks 0 days pregnant.*

Which means tomorrow, I will be 1 day pregnant.

Yes, I am accepting gifts. Thank you for asking.

*http://www.ivf.ca/calcu.htm

Dear Tylenol,

Today I was really feeling like crap. I was feeling like crap not only because I'm giving myself daily injections of Lupron, but also because I got my period. I was crampy and exhausted and feeling the beginnings of a migraine. That's when I gave you the opportunity to be the hero and save the day but NO! You did not save the day.

Now, Tylenol, I would never normally buy you and waste my time with taking you. But apparently you are the only pain reliever that I can take during my month-long IVF party. So I gave you a try because I was in pain and was seduced by your promises of pain relief and fever reducing. You liar.

Let me share some of my thoughts on you, Tylenol, in list form:

• Acetaminophen? Hmph. More like Ashitaminophen.
  
• Tylenol, don't quit your day job.
  
• Hey Tylenol! You suck at life and your ass looks fat.
  
• Tylenol: I fart in your general direction.
  
• Suck it, Tylenol.
  
• I HATE TYLE..zzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
  

 

I'll have you know that I came home, looked at my dirty sexy bottle of Aleve, and cried giant crocodile tears for at least two minutes.

You are a disgrace.

Hate,

Jennifer Knepper

Good Times Over the Weekend

Or: Lupron + PMS = The Perfect Storm

I don’t know where you all live, but in Ohio, we had a fucking blizzard. Not just a blizzard. A fucking blizzard. All told, I think we got about 12 – 15 inches, but I didn’t go out there with mah measurin’ stick or anything.

Now, in my part of Ohio, every weekend the weather forecast is something like, “2 – 20 inches of snow and mostly cloudy. Bend over.” And usually, we get about 3 inches and it’s totally not a big deal because WE LIVE IN OHIO! We are badass! We are used to crappy weather from October until May and we deal with it because it’s cheap to live in Ohio, so suck it, California!

I love snow, until about March, then I’m over it. I think snow is beautiful and I have no interest in living in an area where there is never snow. I also love weekends where I can lay on my ass and eat nonstop because I have no choice – it’s a fucking blizzard outside! So, Friday and Saturday were just peachy and I enjoyed the cabin feverishness of it all.

Sunday, the shit hit the fan.

I don’t know if it’s the Lupron, or just your run of the mill PMS (AF due Wednesdayish). But there was Rage, people. Pure, unadulterated RAGE (and Loathing, if you saw Wicked). Two particular Rage incidents occurred and I will share them with you, because I love to air my dirty laundry to the entire Internet.

Incident 1: Some asshole had a baby.

OK, not just some asshole, but my cousin. She went into labor with her second baby since we started trying. (You see where this is going, don’t you Internet?) Maybe it’s not fair to call my cousin an asshole. I could go back and delete, but meh. Too much work.

It gets a little sticky here because this blog is “public” and I’ve given the link to some of my family. As I’ve metioned before, they don’t read this blog often (if ever). So when my family pisses me off, do I post it? Do I not? The dramz.

The Rage made it’s first appearance when my mom called to follow up on the email she sent me to let me know that my cousin was in labor. Email? Fine. I can have my private reaction and nobody knows about the Rage. No problem. Phone call? Not so much fine, because: 1.) I am not at a place in my life where I can be expected to have an appropriate response to such news, and 2.) WTF?, and 3.) the Rage! Oh, the Rage!

Let me replay this for you:

*Sex and the City Ringtone*

Jen: Hello?

Mom: Hey! Did you get my email?

Jen: Yes, I did.

Mom: OK, good. I just wanted to let you know.

Jen: Yes, I now know.

Mom: Well, I just want to make sure you’re sending out good vibes to Cousin.

Jen: What? (seriously, I thought I didn’t hear her)

Mom: Good VIBES. You know, you always feel sorry for someone who has to give birth, so we need to send out good vibes.

Jen: I don’t feel sorry for people giving birth. She’ll get an epidural. She’ll live. She has two kids now, so no, I don’t feel sorry at all.

Mom: OK then. (probably wondered how she raised such a Raging bitch)

Jen: * head spins a full 360 degrees and mouth expels green, pea soup-like substance. Possibly begins to grow horns *


Incident 2: Trying to get some damn chicken at Wal-Mart almost leads to divorce.

Apparently I am a poor planner and also I think meterologists are LIARS because I planned to get groceries on Saturday even though we were supposed to get a fucking blizzard. We needed groceries hard core – we were out of every. thing. We did have toilet paper, so that was good.

Since we couldn’t get out of the driveway on Saturday, this had to wait until Sunday. The day of the Rage. Now I don’t have kids so I can only guess, but I think grocery shopping with Mark would be like grocery shopping with a 4 year old.

First: decision making is not Mark’s thing, so it takes him forever to pick between things. Granola bars? 5 minutes. Deodorant? Bring a snack, it’ll be a while. Etc. Second: while putting things on the belt at the check out, you see that Mark has thrown in about 10 items in some covert mission to fill our house with shit. Example: 97 cent chocolate bunny? Gotta have it. He would be a great contestant on Supermarket Sweep.

Mark is also a conisseur of chicken, particularly chicken fingers. A true, rare expert, especially in the fried or breaded niche. He loves the chicken at Wal-Mart, and in all fairness I love it too because YUM! It smells like heaven near the chicken counter.

Rage struck at the chicken counter.
I won’t put the conversation down for you, but it was ridiculous and I wanted to rip Mark’s face off. And I swear, the Wal-Mart chicken counter worker was giving me the finger. The finger that requires two arms, because you put your fist on your elbow of the hand giving the finger to emphasize the FUCK YOUness of the finger giving.

But there was much indecision and mind changing about the damn chicken. I striaght up walked away and let Mark finish ordering because I couldn’t stand there for one single additional second.

A few minutes later we were waiting to check out, because there were literally 3 lanes open. On a SUNDAY, after a fucking blizzard, at 2 in the afternoon. And I told Mark, “I wonder if it was the Lupron that made me want to rip your face off just now.” And Mark was all, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I told you exactly what I wanted, blah blah blah.”

And this additional conversation made me not only want to rip his face off, but throw it on the ground and maybe pee on it.

Then I changed the subject to Suri Cruise because talking about the Rage only makes the Rage worse, especially when your husband doesn’t understand the Rage. And why should he? I don’t expect him to understand. He’s good about it, too, he just ignores it. That’s the reason we get along so well – he’s just a nicer person than me.

So that was my weekend. I should also mention that my weekend included about 9 hours of studying because I have a test today, so I’m sure that made me irritated and maybe contributed to the Rage because SUCK! I hate school and I want it to be over now now now! Why must you, higher education, be such a bane to my very existence?

I'm off to take this damn test. Hopefully I don't fall into a Lupron induced coma while taking it, because I am all kinds of tired right now.

*edit*
DISCLAIMER: This post is me, making fun of myself for being a Raging hormonal bitch. I should point out three things:

1. No, I don't really think my cousin is an asshole. Of course it is great news that she had her baby.

2. No, I don't think it was wrong for my mom to call and let me know that my cousin was in labor.

3. No, I shouldn't have rushed Mark while he was picking out his chicken. It was a big big decision.

Carry on.

Trying to Conceive: A month-by-month guide.

Month 1: We're SO going to be that couple that gets pregnant the first month trying.



Month 2: Ah, practice makes perfect! BDing is so much fun!



Month 3: Hmmm...Maybe ED instead of EOD? That'll work for sure.



Month 4: Damn it. I'm going to have so much sex it's CRAZY! I'm getting pregnant this month.



Month 5: Fuck.



Month 6: I still have 6 months before I need to worry. No big deal at all.



Month 7: Fuck.



Month 8: Start Charting!



Month 9: Understand charting, will totally get pregnant now!



Month 10: Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck.



Month 11: *browses covered RE's in the insurance provider book*



Month 12: Head explodes, Ovaries still intact. No visible injuries to the penis. Good to go. Also, can't get an appointment at the RE for 3 months and must maintain a good attitude.



Month 13 - Infinity: FUCK!