I am typing this in bed, but not the NICE kind of bed-typing (sitting up against multiple fluffy pillows in a marabou-trimmed dressing gown while everyone around you murmurs admiring words re: the strength of your will for blogging while consumptive). I'm typing with one hand while my laptop is precariously perched on one slightly raised knee; my other arm is wrapped around a snoring, sweaty toddler with whom I am currently sharing a nasty cold. His head is leaking fluids of various kinds onto my chest. There isn't a stitch of marabou to be found.
OK, that paragraph took waaaay to long to type (must I really use words like "precariously?"), so I'm going to attempt a Sleeping Toddler Slide-Off Triple Axel. Please hold.
Success! He's now dripping snot all over Jason's pillow. Outstanding.
Anyway. I've been wanting to post a thank you and acknowledgment for all the kind thoughts and crossed fingers you guys left on this post, but since so many of you were all, "Oh, but your sense of humor will obviously GET YOU THROUGH THIS," I kept trying to hide the extent of my true depressive funkitude about THAT WHOLE THING. The Internet thinks I'm plucky and resilient! I am a brave little toaster of staunch character! I am not burying my face in the bathroom wall tile and allowing myself a single melodramatic sob because Mother Fucking of Fuck in a Basket, it's almost 2008 and 2007 was supposed to be my year, man. The year of taking charge of my fertility (which...hmm, that's almost like...a book title of some kind?) and getting the baby-making thing done without the aid of crazy-making pharmaceuticals.
And now, in the process of avoiding Clomid or other fertility drugs, it appears that I have succeeded in making myself crazy. Amalah! FTW!
Two things to quickly change the subject:
1) The motor in my electric toothbrush died, and I sort-of panicked, holding the brush to my teeth and hitting the ON button over and over, like WHAT DO I DO NOW OMG, before it occurred to me that I could, you know, brush my teeth by MOVING MY DAMN ARM.
2) We rented Superbad, and while I like to think that I am an extremely creative and prolific user of the swear words, this movie made me feel like a fucking amateur. So much so that towards the end, when one character said something like, "You were taking a big dump and I caught a glimpse of your housing forms..." I turned to Jason and said, "Oh my God, is that what kids are calling it these days? I am so old."
Superbad Spoiler Alert! He was talking about housing forms. Like housing forms for college-housing housing forms. He was not talking about his friend's genitalia.
And now we're back:
We're going to the doctor next month. I have no idea what protocol we'll end up with, but we're going. We're doing this thang up right and official. Jason is actually noticing other people's infants in restaurants and is like, awwww. Which for him means the baby fever is pretty raging. (Then I jump up from our table to stalk these infants' mothers around the restrooms, all, "Can I smell your baby's head? Please?" so I think we're about even.)
Hopefully this will be the last time I mention my malfunctioning female housing forms for awhile. Thank you for all your kind thoughts and finger crossing, which OH MY GOD, I could have just typed that originally and saved us all a lot of trouble.