It's Thursday, but also Fry-Day

What a day!

The Boy suggested breakfast around 8:30, when it was still relatively cool. Good thing he waited as long as he did too, since by that time my stomach was just about finished getting over my tiny hangover. (Guinness and Crispy Crunch shooters. Ugh.) We jumped in the Jeep and headed out for my hometown. There is a truckstop there that should really be called a trainstop since it has been inhabited by all manner of CN and CP employees for as long as I can remember. I have always been enamoured of their fries with gravy, hamburgers and chocolate shakes, but only in the past year have I discovered the joy of their breakfast buffet.

So good, we were going to be near le maison de mes parents, affording me the opportunity to drop in, steal some bologna and a processed cheese slice and get my old neighbour/accountant to sign my passport application. Gord wasn't home and the cold cut drawer contained something more akin to head cheese than bologna, although when you think about it, it's all pretty much lips and assholes. Things were beginning to take a turn away from the perfectly pleasant day I had planned originally. (Ahhh, all hail alliteration!)

We left to head to the animal care and control center to reserve Murphy some kennel/grooming time while I'm away at the con. We also got some tips on dealing with his chronic separation anxiety. If you all have any ideas on the matter, keeping in mind that he's a second dog and a rescue, I'd be more than happy to hear them. Because I don't want him to have to spend every day of his life in the crate, locked away from our belongings because he can't help but shred everything when we leave him alone. It doesn't seem right.

From there, it was off to MetsPart for doggie goodies. A brush, a new pad for the bottom of the crate and some Bitter Apple. Okay, the last part wasn't really for the doggies, it was for us. But you knew that, right? Even Petfree People will assume that something called Bitter Apple doesn't equate with Good Times. I wanted to get another toy, preferably another booda, but I could give Murphy 100 brand new toys and he would still covet Bailey's disgusting, stinky, saliva-coated booda from eight years ago. What a headcase. The mart is conveniently located right next to a Chapters, meaning I could whip in and snag me a soy chai without ruining my delicate schedule. Although at this point in the day, the only thing I wanted to do was hole up in the Jeep with the a/c on full blast.

We whipped around to Dr. Dolittle's for some kelp and I made calculated small talk with the store owner for twenty minutes. As an 'afterthought', I asked if she was interested in carrying local products. I gave her my card, told her I did indeed make a wheat-free biscuit (she's very crunchy, you could see that from twenty paces) and she in turn agreed to check out my website. Go me! Just yesterday, I approached a woman in the Jeep ahead of my at a stoplight. Her dog's humungous head was sticking out of the driver's window: yes, this 80-pound guy was parked right on her lap! I ran up, said "Hi there!" and handed her my card. She thanked me and we drove off. I'm getting very nervy, and I like it.

Now it was off to the hospital to speak to our fertility doc about my inability to make a couple of baby cells stick to my plumbing. I feared the word Laparoscopy, but that will gladly wait until we try two cycles of my original meds with some Orgalutran mixed in. It's not oral, but I was expecting to hear that. My deep tissue bruises are only just gone from the last time I had to use a syringe to inject my HcG. I prefer the Puregon pen, as the needles are very fine and manageable. Especially when someone (I'm not saying who) aims the pen, closes her eyes and rams the thing into the just-risen-dough-y parts around her belly button. TMI? Try living it, pet.

After that, we had to head to the other end of the city for more blood tests. My local end lab burned down a month ago and they're still cleaning up the biohazard mess left when you ignore hundreds of petrie dishes and the power's gone out for weeks.

But after that, I got sushi! And tempura scallops! And more sushi! Mmmmm, I love the reward part of the day, let me tell you. Next time, I get to go to my favourite Greek restaurant and eat a metric tonne of tzatziki. I'm such a food whore, I should really hang my head.

Now, we're home. The dogs have been fed, I'm chowing down on a Big Turk and my boss left a message on my machine about coming back to the college for at least two weeks. I won't live my life this way much longer, but I'll take a paycheque when it's offered. I'm dumb, not stupid.

Man, what a day.

I went off my pills yesterday when Meghan told me the insemination hadn't worked. I forgot that the resulting Crimson Wave is about 5x a normal monthly 'visit'.

Add to that my lack of carbs and man oh man, you probably don't want to get in my path today. Last night, I talked to The Boy at work and he told me he'd made a cheesecake that just needed the cherries added. He counseled me on being so bummed, suggesting that a piece of that sugary goodness might just allow me to recover. What I didn't anticipate was my body's reaction to both a chicken shwarma in a pita and dessert: a rush of carbs like that left my heart pounding. Yeeshk, I'll think twice next time.

Strike Three

I just got off the phone with my caseworker, Meghan. She went to great lengths to cushion the blow of my third failed cycle. I'm told the next step might be to have a laporoscopy (?), but at least we're still moving ahead. I'm certainly not looking forward to calling Mom later.

In other news, I've restarted my altered diet. So I'm cranky. I'm bound and determined to look better than I do when I go to DC in August. Oh, carbs, why hast thou forsaken me?