Saturday, May 26, 2007


This has been a weird week. A lot of things are hanging in the balance, mostly stuff having to do with the Road To Potential Parenthood. And let's face it, I wouldn't inflict discussions about my ovaries on either one of you!

(That's right- I actually do care.)

So here's the generalized update- this week and next are centered on a few strictly timed doctor's appointments, and sometime over the weekend I get to give myself a shot in the abdomen.

I am vascillating between staying away from whiskey cold turkey, or just getting wasted and giving myself the shot.

Hey! Cold Turkey vs. Wild Turkey! It's a toss-up.

It (the shot) supposedy is easy, but I am freaking out about it. And so is my mom.

"You have to do it yourself?!!!"

"Yeah. I'll manage."

"Maybe you could take it to the ER and explain, and they could do it for you."

"They are going to be way too worried about gunshot victims to give me a shot, Mom. Plus, I don't think ovulation counts as an emergency."

"What about our next door neighbor...the one who stitched up your leg?"

"He's a pediatrician. I was ten!"

"But he knows how to give shots! He could do it!"

"I am NOT going over there with a syringe and requesting that the poor man give me a shot in the abdomen!"

With my luck, Mom called him as soon as I left, explained everything, and asked him to show up at my house at 9:30 PM on Sunday night.

Don't think that she wouldn't. This is a woman who wrote a letter to my doctor outlining all my "health issues" and sent it to my doctor a week in advance of my appointment. When I was 22.

Entertaining anecdote: I was at my dive bar over the weekend, and the bartender gave me his number and said he wants to go to sushi with my buddies and I.

He was doing that "leaning" thing at the time, so it could go either way. Or he could just be really friendly. Or he could be planning to ask us if we're about a size 14 and then drag us to his basement in order to skin us and make a suit to transform himself into a real woman.

I am not sure what to think, except that there are plenty of single, skinny girls who would be happy to accompany him to a Japanese restaurant. Why me? I don't think he appreciates my sparkling wit, such as it is. What gives, bartender?

The reason I think he may actually be a teensy bit interested: That same night, a guy seated two barstools away spotted my (prominently displayed) wedding ring.

"You're married!"

Since I hadn't talked or made eye contact with him, it took me a minute to figure out A. who he was talking to, and B. where this was going.

"Yes, I am married."

"Wow. Do you know, you're a total MILF?"


For some ridiculous reason (OK, because I am a dork) I felt the need to explain that the first word in the acronym MILF is actually Mom, and since I am not a mom, I would have to be a WILF. The W could stand for Woman, or Wife, or Whatever.

(Jenna! Just shut up! Quit being an ass and arguing about acronyms! Oh shit, you just made eye contact!)

"Doesn't matter. You definitely are one."

I wish I could be, you know, offended. Instead, I am analyzing it, which is just lame. Hey, who knew? Maybe I was having a good boob day or something.

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