How was your weekend, awesome? Awesome.
I spent my weekend in my pajamas, minus a couple of trips to Chipotle. Bub is doing some sidework doing web stuff for a plastic surgery place, and some mail they sent him went to our neighbors who promptly brought it over. Did I mention he was on the couch with his dingaling out when they came to our front window? Oh, it was. And they're new. So far they know the following about us:
- We appear to be getting some sort of plastic surgery.
And that's what's new in the house of Stupid.
Oh, and Bub found me a clueless looking stork to replace my picture of pelicans (that I took at Santa Monica pier of a man who literally fished out of the water, and then fed fish to said pelicans. Amazing.)
So here I was, trying to think of things to be thankful for in relation to IVF, other than the fact that it exists. And then it occurred to me - SEX. Yes. Sex, ladies and gentleman, S-E-X.
I am blessed with a high sex drive to begin with. (I know, I know.. I'm like that girl who's 95 lbs, looks at your flub and says "OMG I wish I could gain weight like you" and you want to blink, turn to her, and swallow her whole without chewing... But I said I was going to be honest in here, so there it is).
However, when I was harboring under the delusion that I ovulated, or even when I did ovulate with Clomid, I did not enjoy the horny and horned little Jenny on my shoulder that shouted "I don't give a rats ass that he's late, exhausted, and you are bloated like a life-raft, do it, do it NOW you wee harlot".. (Did I mention horny Jenny is also a pirate?)
The beauty part about being at the last stop on the crazy train, aka IVF, is that you're pretty confident that no one is going to get knocked up unless there's at least half a dozen people in lab coats in the room. (Admittedly, knowing what I know now, I would've been a bigger whore in high school).
So sex can, yet again, be totally recreational. Mission: give me some of your best swimmers and then I'll stare into the abyss with my legs in the air for 30 minutes becomes Mission: if I put my legs in the air I wonder if that'll give me a better orgasm.
Gone are the days where one has to say "watch porn if you have to, we're going in 10 minutes" or worry about anything that involves mucus.
Adios, BBT thermometer, the only digital things I will be inserting into myself will have been purchased at Hustler.
If I were single and devoid of morals, I would get a bumper sticker that said "barren and disease free".
Sound the trumpets, bust out the costumes and strange vibrating purple things, sex can be fun again. And I don't have to involve a half a dozen people in lab coats unless I'm feeling really saucy.