Bud Light Presents: Mr. Baking Aisle Trash Talker

Lately my blog material has been downright non existent. I’ve been thinking that I’ve been stuck in a funk and unable to see the world through my hilarious rose colored glasses. Things that would normally strike me as funny and blog worthy have come and gone without so much as a flinch.

I don’t know if it has to do with the 6 month anniversary of the loss, another failed month, or the false hope that was built up last month. Whatever the reason, maybe a combination of the three, I don’t think it matters.

I think there is light at the end of the tunnel. I believe the fog is lifting. Maybe we are making forward motion. Just maybe.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store by my work to pick up a few things for dinner (holy hot mother of god best shepherds pie recipe eva).

I hate going to this grocery store because it’s not my regular. I don’t know where anything is. It’s a 45 minute ordeal to try to find cheese and gravy (both delicious ingredients to my wanna smack myself good shepherds pie).

Visualize this:

I am coming out of the baking aisle, as another gentleman is coming into the baking aisle. In an effort not to do the right/left, left/right dance, I stop to allow him to go around me, right? I smile, and say, “I’m sorry, excuse me.”

After he walks by me I hear, “Excuse YOU!”

At this point I can’t believe what I’ve just heard and am nearly pissing my pants with laughter. I can’t wait to tell my coworkers about this. Excuse YOU! Lmao, what?!

Then, as I walk back by the aisle again, to go check out, I hear, “That’s right just KEEP ON WALKING!”

Uhm, do I know you? Did I tease you in high school or something?

I say, “EXCUSE me?!”

Crazy man says, “YOU HEARD ME!”

Oh no you di’int. Listen you crazy sonofabitch, you can’t just run around the grocery store telling people off!

But at this point I think, Wait… if this man is crazy enough to yell at complete stranger in the baking aisle, then what else is he capable of? Am I having an encounter with the un.abomber?

I decide to walk away when I hear him shouting at me 2 aisles over, “That’s right, you just KEEP ON WALKING.”

How is it that wherever I go the crazies just hone in on me? They must know I am one of them.

Bu.d L.ight Presents: Here’s to you Mr. Baking Aisle Trash Talker. I’m sorry that your life sucks so bad that you have to tell off a total stranger.

I am thankful that I am not yet that flavor of crazy.

Putting a face to the name

I hate infertility this much. :::insert arms open wide::: And I am such a juvenile imbecile that it helps me hate IF even more if I assign it an evil identity.

Like the Grim Reaper. Or Jason with his freaky hockey mask. Basically, someone’s ass I wouldn’t mind kicking.

But in my version of childish imagery IF doesn’t hide behind a cloak or a hockey mask.

In my mind, it looks something like the gigantic snot aiming to get people to purchase hoards of Muc.inex because they have gobs of snot and phlem running down their face.

You know who I mean. That sick SOB that wants to take up residence in your sinus cavity. Imagine him hunkering down for the long haul, duct taping his crap down, so that when you try to hock a lugey he will remain comfy and cozy.

Well, in my minds eye IF looks something like that, but instead of snot, it’s a shrively dried up ovary. She has hunkered down and downright refuses to blink first.

Yes, putting a face to it really helps my anger issues. Obviously.

A friend ever so gently, in a “dealing with a crazy person” kind of way, suggested I go back to my crazy doctor. I opted to go back to bikram yoga this weekend instead. Because I got on the scale on Saturday and it literally read, “FAT COW.” So. That always comes as a surprise.

Suffice it to say, the injection and progesterone supplements did not work. I had to wait 5… count them with me… 1.2.3.4.5. days for the blood test results. Because, really? Why isn’t that reasonable? To wait 5 days for results that take a maximum of 4 hours to obtain. Gah!

I actually called the Office Manager to complain. Little did I know the “Office Manager” is Dr. piece of cake’s husband.

You: You’re kidding me, right?

Me: I wouldn’t do it to ya.

Next round is TBD. That is, if I can get Mr. POC to call me back. Damn. Why do I get the feeling I will soon be shopping for a new dr.?

Flaunting it

I don’t even dare mention the last name of the people expecting their 18th, 19th, 20th , … whatever they’re up to, child. I really don’t give a flying crap what they choose to do, or how many lives they choose to populate their cult clan with. But they’ve been flaunting their fertility for 16 kids now. They are rubbing my nose in the turd of their fertility. Really, just rubbing it in. Then whacking me with a newspaper and throwing me out in the rain until I’ve learned my lesson.

With this in mind, I’ve decided to petition the D%**@!$ for their 18th, 19th, 20th, … whatever, child.

Here’s what I have so far:

Dear D%**@!$,

May I puhlease have your 18th, 19th, 20th, … whatever, child?

Thank you kindly, Kansas

What do you think? Too direct? As if they would even notice if one or two were missing from the herd.

Anyways…

As predicted I broke down and tested yesterday and today (day 8 & 9). I know this is bad for many reasons. But I wanted to see if the hcg was still in my system to give a false positive. I am happy (?) to report I got a bfn yesterday and today. But I won’t fully trust them until Tuesday of next week… So, my status at the Early Test Club has been restored.
Regardless, I’m in a bad place today. What exactly does that mean? Honestly, I’m a little fuzzy on the details. But my brother and SIL use it to define when my nephew is having a bad day. They say, he’s “in a bad place.” Is that like cutting a tooth? Or like picking blueberries on an island when your kayak floats away? Or like playing football at the beach and you lose your wedding ring? Either way, I don’t have a great feeling that the injection worked. Like when you get fried dough at the beach, even though you know what fried dough does to you, and the only bathroom around is a porter potty a half mile away. Or like when you start spotting on day 27 of your cycle even though you have your fingers, toes, legs, eyes crossed that this is the month for you. Yeah, it’s like that.

At any rate, progesterone testing is tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll have to feign some emergency on Friday to get the results. “Yes Dr. piece of cake, my ute is actually falling out right now, I think I need to come in.” I know all of you internets will be waiting with titillating anticipation.

Can someone wipe the turd off my nose?