Tick Tock Goes The Clock

A good friend of mine (who has a wicked sense of humor) prefers to refer to the monthly visitor - aka Aunt Flo - as "George".  She figures that something that brings so much pain and discomfort should be named after a male and not a female family member.  Now before any males out there start hatin' on me, please realize that I do not share her feelings of humorous contempt for the male sex.  In fact, if it were up to me, I would wipe the slate clean and refer to my period as The Monthly Exorcism or OhMyGodWhereDidIPutTheEffingMidol. 

Nonetheless, in honor of my friend, for the purposes of this blog I shall hitherto (or at least today) refer to it as George.

When you are trying to conceive, George is the last thing that you want to see, for obvious reasons.  The only mildly good thing for some is that if and when George shows up on your doorstep, there is a small window wherein one could imbibe if one was so inclined.  Even if you weren't inclined to drink to derision, the very fact that George shows up and shreds every ounce of hope is enough to make some people head to the nearest bottle of whatever-floats-their-boat and latch on like a newborn to a nipple. 

I'm on the fence.

I sit here, 2 days late - that's right, count em- 2 days late.  I have had minor weirdish cramping for 3 days that has felt like twinges in weird places. I've been crankier than a crack-ho without a pimp, john, or stash.  The "girls" feel like someone filled them with lead.  My ankles are swollen past recognition. Oh, and bloated?  I feel like I swallowed a beach ball.  And yes, there have been tears.  Over nothing.  One day the dog looked at me and wagged her tail, and I burst into tears because she was so cute.  I've alternated between ravenously hungry and nauseous.  And I've had a headache for the last day and a half.

I also sit here with 2 negative home pregnancy tests, one yesterday and one today.

All of this conception business is starting to swirl around my head like a fog that won't quit.  So I may be preggers and just not have enough hormones in my pee to register yet on a home pregnancy test.  OR, these symptoms can all be related to the pending arrival of George.  Come to think of it, I never did like George... nasty Effing Mother Effer.

BUT... honestly... at least at this point if George was to ring the doorbell, at least I'd know.

Knowledge, my friends, equals power.

I guess I'll have to do the traditional wait a few more days to see, then either head to my rockstar Doctor for a blood test or curl up in a ball while I rock myself out of a breakdown.  (Ok, so I'm kidding about the breakdown, but this is all a lot for a person to take).

Here's how my coming week is shaping up:
In the next few days, figuring out if I am with child or not.
If I am, celebrating not only the fact that I am with child, but also that there is a reason for the general assholery that I have subjected everyone to lately.
If not, the assholery is prolly going to continue... don't say I didn't warn you.

To top it all off, the coming weekend features a ginormous family wedding... the last one was ours 3 years ago... and I'll have to be prepared to come up with answers to questions such as

1:  "When are you guys ever going to have a baby?"  (Um..... wish the eff I effing knew... hold on while I get my crystal ball out of my purse you nosey wench...)

2.  "Aren't you trying yet?"  (Ok. To be fair, I understand why you might ask that because you're family, and there is always one or two nutty members of any family who know no bounds...  but come off it.... eff off... and while you're at it, has YOUR husband been making you scream lately as he plunders your booty???  I mean, if our sex life is a topic, let's ask about yours!)

...and my favourite:

3. "When are we going to hear the pitter patter of tiny footsteps?"  (as if there was an impending invasion of smurfs on the horizon and we had better prepare ourselves for their arrival)...  This comment is usually offered up by older folk, and let's face it, sometimes they just don't know any better.  Depending on the offender, my response will likely be either "when you get a hearing aid you deaf twat!" or "Oh, we're not sure.  How's that mole coming along on your back?"  After all, skin cancer trumps infertility any day!  (oh gawwwwd please know that I'm kidding here... and I'm not trying to make light of cancer once again... if Anonymous crawls out from under his or her rock, I'm sure to get another hateful comment but at this point I don't care)

Any luck at all, George will hold off, I'll find out I'm in fact knocked up, and I'll be able to tell them all to kiss my pregnant ass.  We wouldn't tell the family yet, especially as we wouldn't want to steal the show at a wedding, but if we are so lucky as to be preggers it would make facing the endless questions a little easier even if we dodged them with a twinkle in our eye...

I guess at least if George shows up I can choose to hit the bar at the reception and drown my sorrows.  Might not help with the general assholery though...