Funny story. I can pinpoint the moment my obsession with pink began. My good friend Courtney and I were going to hang out at a local bar. Which shall remain nameless because I'm afraid to be associated with it. Plus, it has a very distinctive "odor" (code for "smells like a rat died smoking a carton of cigarettes 4 weeks ago and has been baking in the sun and marinating in stale beer ever since") and I'm afraid that like Beetlejuice, if I say the name three times in a row, the smell will magically appear. And unlike Lucky Charms, it is NOT magically delicious. So, Court and I were headed to the place which shall not be named and I was obsessing about the girl in the mirror again. After trying on outfit number 14, I came out adorned in a black v-neck sweater, bright pink ribbed turtleneck, and jeans (I promise, it was cute). My dear friend exclaimed "OMG you look FABULOUS in pink." And an obsession was born. In hindsight, it's entirely possible she was just desperate for a beer. But whatever. I'm pretty sure I still look fabulous in pink. After that, pretty much everything I purchased was pink. At one point, before we were married, HG said "Do you really need another pink sweater?" To which I replied, with appropriate irritation at his naivete, "This isn't pink. It's salmon." (um, duh). Since then, it has occurred to me that my wardrobe needs a lot of different colors....and I'm proud to say that I honestly only have one pink shirt. Maybe 2. Unless you count t-shirts. But I'm not.
So, as much as I love pink, there is on place I don't like to see it. In one, sad, lonely, stripe on the pee test. It's so lonely. It really needs a friend. I'm all about two lines. Perhaps tomorrow. Because this is that time of the month where I start peeing on random sticks. Dogs in the neighborhood see me coming and run to get to the good sticks before I do. It's a problem. In the world of women trying to conceive (TTC), it's known as POAS (pee on a stick). And I am a chronic pee-er. (Generally I do prefer sticks wrapped in their hermetically sealed little packages. But I don't know that I'd rule out peeing on just any old stick.) So today marked day one of the peeing. The peeing will continue until there is a clear reason not to. And, no, only seeing one line is not a reason to stop. What a silly idea. The package actually says that if you get a negative test, you should wait a week and try again. HAHAHA I have a hard time typing that without laughing. A week? For real? A man must have come up with that silly plan. A week. **insert hysterical laughter**
For the record, the odds of my being **whisper** pregnant ("pregnant" is like ((cancer)) or ((dead)), you cannot say the word out loud to an infertile woman), are virtually zero. But this doesn't stop me from hoping, praying, and peeing. Why? Because they're not actually zero. And I will cling to my "virtually" like Britney clinging to her dignity. Or Kevin's boxers. Whatever.
Speaking of dignity. In my quest to lose weight for IVF, I'm going to start a gung-ho diet program on the 23rd. Complete meal replacement. And I checked, and they will not be replacing my meals with McFlurries and fries. That's too bad. That's really a plan I could get behind. It's not one of the Nutri plans and I'm not calling Jenny. I'm calling Dr. Mitchell. I call it "NutriHospital". Should be fun. I use the term "fun" loosely. Very loosely. Paris Hilton loosely. (Wow, I'm fully of celebrity similes and metaphors tonight. This is what happens when I surf OMG! on Yahoo before posting. -1 karma point for not doing the dishes in favor of reading about the latest celebrity drivel.) In preparation for said torture, I have to have a bunch of blood work run and an EKG. The whole EKG process starts off innocently enough. You strip down from the waist up and slop on a cute paper 1/2 shirt (with the slit in the back). Then the nurse comes back in and asks you lay on the table where she wallpapers you with electrodes. So far so good. Oh, wait. Apparently you can't wear stockings. So, roll off the table, reach up your skirt in front of the nurse, and peel off your stockings. Then lay back down and let the nurse rip the fancy new shirt she gave you (Hi, I paid for that. Well, sort of. But you know they're going to bill blue cross like $75 for that) in half. (Um, can I ask why you didn't have me put the slit in the front?) Then, with one boob surrounded by electrodes (and it's COLD. You do the math.), she leans over you and starts attaching wires. At this point, her mouth is so close to your boob, in some countries it could be considered a commitment ceremony. On the bright side, the whole processes is over in like 30 seconds. And you know, after all of that, I could have still walked out of there with some dignity left. However, there is absolutely no way to maintain your dignity while standing in what amounts to 2 pink (Pink!!) paper sleeves while helping Olive Oil find the fax number at the "Center for Bariatric Surgery and Obesity Treatment". "Dear Dignity, don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."
So, having not eaten all day, I stopped at McDonald's for a Southwest Chicken Salad. When I got back to my desk and opened it up, this is what I saw:
Am I the only one not feeling the love? I was, however, really feeling the YUM. I highly recommend. Even comes with a lime wedge! Hi, what's not to love?
Look what came home to see me. Cute boy rocking a new hair cut. (Honey, I love you so. But can we PLEASE wax the brows? It can be a group project. Mine need a weed wacker.)
Ok, but seriously. He's only the sweetest man ever. (Even if he refuses to read my blog. No soup for him.)
And as a final thought, if someone thinks they look good in, say Orange, should you tell them spare them the fact that nobody looks good in orange? OR just let them have their moment? For the record, I didn't tell but I'm not sure if that's a net karmic win or loss.
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