From petit filou pots to shot glasses
Could be the title of my book if I ever got off my ass and wrote it. Alas its more of a description of baby making fun and frolics. We started with sperm in a pot and now its onto peeing in a shot glass to check ovulation. Fun. From day 10 to ovulation day, you test for ovulation and when you get the 2 stripes, you ring the clinic and ask them politely if they would inseminate you. It all sounds so straight forward. I think I’ll pop into the clinic for an old insemination and then head to Tesco and do the grocery shopping. It sounds straight forward. Anyhew, this month is a dummy run, just to get me used to testing for it. Apparently, the clinic wanted something more trustworthy for calculating ovulation then my sudden interest in big shouldered men. I would think that would be enough for anyone to be
quite honest? Some people. The plan is we test, we check, we ovulate and get inseminated and hope that the ovaries are in a receptive mood. Apparently we catch them on the hop. The clinic wants the sperm sitting around, reading car magazines or the latest paper and voila when the egg arrives, it catches it on the hop. Well this is what I heard when the nurse was talking about it. Who am I to aruge with the medical profession ? Eh?
I feel washed out. Really emotional and I’m no-where near PMT. Hence the peeing in a shot glass. I think the lack of work at the weekend is starting to get to me. Ordinarily I work a lot. Outside of the day job. I usually have a few projects on the go. Things are calming down to the state where I had no work this weekend. I started thinking about things. I hate thinking about things. It always worries my brain and then I got a headache cause I was overthinking things. The brother rang and he was the last person I wanted to talk to. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother and in the last few years we’ve all made huge efforts within the family for us all to get on with each other. Its amazing what the
loss of a parent will do. But sometimes he wants to hang out and I don’t. I have a different relationship with him then I do with the sister K and the kid. We have a completly different relationship. So sometimes he wants to meet up, or wants me to meet his friends and I feel like I don’t have the energy. Which I know is unfair on him. Perhaps if I was meaner to him, he wouldn’t want to hang out! By the time he had hung up, my head was pounding. I turned on lyric FM, usually calming and soothing music. Someone’s firth overture came blasting on sounding like yer man was having a tuba removed from his ass and it did my head no use at all. By the time Mammy2 came in I was in a tizzy. She calmed me down. We had a chat about the headache eased off. I tried explaining I need more work to do or something. I might try Art again or reading. Which is hard to do when your head is pounding at you saying all sorts of stupid things like if you start sketching, you’ll forget about me.
I’m also peeved about something that I have no control over. You know when you make a mistake, I mean a huge mistake and you are so head wrecked over it. Then its okay and its history and you’ve moved on. Only to be reminded of it again by someone who should know better. Sometimes I don’t like opinated people who feel they have to share how they feel regardless if you want to hear it or not. Its even harder when its a good mate. There are things that I have done, things I’m not proud of. But I am aiming to do better. The old cliche of I was a different person sounds tired but its true. I guess for someone people maybe not. And would you look at that? There I am wallowing in the pit of despair * slaps self *
I was in work late this morning and enroute decided to pop into a department store and exchange a top for a different one. I know fashion/clothes are individual to people but did you ever find yourself in this situation. You are walking past hideous, and I mean hideous blouses. At least I think that’s what they were. I am a laserbeam though so they could have been anything. If they are not checked, they are blouses. I recoiled in horror much like the lady in the cellar of a horror movie who finds out the dead body that’s been down there for the last year is her much beloved husband whom she had assumed ran off with the postman. I paused in my recoilng to notice someone holding it up and looking at it. Not as in Oh my god how hideous look, more as it would this go with the equally hideous trousers I bought last week look. I tried to look away, I really did. But its much like a car crash. You have to see what happens. Sure enougn she heads to the counter with the monster in hand. I feel the need to intervene, to do SOMETHING to save the woman. But as I run, in slow motion with the music of the fifth overture blazing behind me, I find my foot caught in a hanger and I slump to the floor as the checkout eats up the latest victim of hideous blouse number 5. I guess I did all I could. I turn around to leave the store, passing the orchestra who have stopped with dramatic music now and are putting away all their instruments. I can rest easy knowing I tried to save her. I guess.
