(Start with "Monday" if you can. If you can't, don't worry about it. I'll get over it. Just probably not anytime soon...If you want to make it up to me and also happen to like my posts: Find them interesting or funny or anything at all... think about subscribing. I send some background on what I write and other stuff.) So, what were we talking about? Oh right. I was going on and on and on about my passion for football four days after the superbowl and you were wondering why I'm not in a twelve-step program. And then there's the whole ugly infertility thing in the midst of it all.
Funny, I don't remember going through infertility treatments in the fall. I love the autumn. Love the cool air, love Thanksgiving (no matter what I said during my hateful Thanksgiving week posts), love foliage (well, I've only recently started using the word "foliage" again. For the longest time it irked me that the word looked and sounded too much like "follicles" or "folic acid". For about a four year stretch I took the long way around and said "I love it 'when the leaves change color'") and of course... I love football.
You know those guys whose wives can't stand to be around them in the fall? (Are you one of them perhaps?) The guys who wear team jerseys every Sunday afternoon, Monday Night and Thursday night and refuse to wash them if their team is on a winning streak? The guys who during those three sacred hours every Sunday afternoon would sit on a burning sofa while you yelled: "Fire! Fire! and emptied the contents of the room around them minus the engulfed couch and the sparking TV and not even notice it was getting a little warm?
The guy who if you stripped naked in front of the television would only have the comment: "Dance to the left! Dance to the left! Oh great! You made me miss the play! Dance to the left! You want me to miss the re-play too?!"
Okay... I'm that guy.
So, right. I don't remember going through fertility treatments during the fall. But I know I did. I just can't imagine how it happened.
My Darling Husband: "Honey it's time for your progesterone shot."
Me: "Can't you see I'm busy?! Throw the ball! Throw the ball! Why's he holding onto it for so long?! Throw the ball!"
My Darling Husband: "We're supposed to do it around the same time every night."
Me: "My ovaries are going to know the difference if we wait until half-time? They've waited forty years, they can wait until half-time."
My Darling Husband: "I've got the needle in my hand already. Can't you just come into the bathroom for two minutes?"
Me: "Wait until the two minute warning. There'll be a commercial in a minute. You know the second a bleach-blond babe in a bikini carrying beer on a breast-high tray comes on, I get up to snack or pee."
My Darling Husband: "Come on this is important!"
Me: "I know it is. That's why I'm willing to give up one of my snack/pee breaks....Ow! How'd you get that needle between me and the couch cushion?"
My darling husband is a football fan too. But he's, you know,... normal.
Listen, I gotta go. We're bracing for another big snowstorm. They've closed all government offices and schools. The prediction is for a "trace" of snow. Apparently "trace" is another word for "blizzard".
I'll talk with ya again tomorrow.