Deja Vu All Over Again

Or should it be second verse (or more accurately third verse) same as the first.

Or maybe another birthday, another crappy present for my husband.

Or Happy Birthday, Honey; nope, not knocked up again. Maybe you should really start considering my advice to divorce me and find yourself a newer model. Maybe someone like your ex-wife who has had two kids since we've been trying even though she told you that after y'all married that she didn't want kids. (The same one who was wanting a third baby and wondering if she should try again, and then was late. Yep, I found my husband's ex-wife's blog online. It wasn't hard; it was linked to a friend's blog, and she used her real name. I don't quite know why I read it but reading that entry where she thought she was pregnant, I was about to toss my computer across the room. Turns out she wasn't. Ah, the perils of being a nosy bitch.)

Or Yep, it's the pits.

Okay, I could go on, but you get the gist. It's my husband's birthday on Sunday, and all he's getting is a wet kiss from the pup and some less wonderful present from me.

Not that I didn't try to get him what he wanted. Heck, I had even convinced myself I was going to give him the best present ever. Even my acu wondered if I was knocked up. But somehow the extremely painful boobs (probably from my checking too often to see if they were sore), the metal mouth (probably more like whitening mouth, from the whitening strips to salvage my teeth that turned horribly gray from the antibiotics i took for the sinus infection), and the fatigue (probably because it's frickin' 105 degrees outside) didn't trump the period.

I'm not even going to hope that next year I can give something he really wants.

There Should Be a Law

There should be a law that if you give your child a godawful name guaranteed to make him the target of bullies everywhere and to make all other people think of him as a drippy nose nerd, you should have to forfeit him to an infertile couple who would have the sense to give the child a decent name.

Young Ovaries had her baby last month and named him Alan. At the time I thought it was horrible, but now the name my 41-year-old friend who got knocked up the old-fashioned way while not trying, eight years after her IVF twins, has given her brand new boy has made Alan seem like a great name.

What did she name her child, you ask.

Eugene.

Yep, that's right, Eugene.

What the hell do you call a baby Eugene? Eugie? Genie? Nerdboy?

So as soon as my law is enacted, those boys will be mine.

**No offense to Alan's or Eugene's out there; it's not their fault.

***And yes, I've got PMS and am jealous that they even get to give their kids horrible names.

It Was All in My Head

Chubby came home late last week, and for a while my mood lifted. But then I took to bed early Friday night with yet another horrible headache not alleviated by aspirin or the tincture my acupuncturist had given me. Saturday we took the pup to the lake. The drought has drastically lowered the water levels and made the shore less than lovely, but the water was still cool. And yet the beers did not lift my headache.

On Sunday I resorted to having sex with my husband to try to alleviate my headache. No perfectly timed sex. Not sex on a schedule. Just come in here and help me get rid of my headache sex. Worked--for a little while.

Yesterday the headache surrounding my entire head continued, with added green mucus. So my mood wasn't just all in my mind. It was in my head and sinuses, too.

Today I went to the doctor and came home with antibiotics for the sinus infection, decongestant, and a nasal spray. My acupuncturist said that the antiobiotics might set back my fertility treatment (the herbs are contraindicated for the antiobiotics), but I need a headache-free day.

I also finally asked the doctor about the toe on my left foot. For the past couple of years whenever I really exerted myself--say playing soccer, hiking, or walking on a regular basis--I would get these shooting pains through my toe. I didn't go to the doctor because well, what's the fun of going to a doctor who doesn't make you get undressed?

She thinks I have a neuroma*, or a benign tumor of the nerves in my foot. I have an appointment with a podiatrist, who most likely will tell my to wear shoes with wide toe boxes.

Could I BE getting any older?