The croc wearing baby-wishing leaders have spoken!
We have been graced with a verdict from 'the board' after more than two weeks of waiting for a decision (that was made on that very day).
They will NOT perform a HSG, or a laparoscopy, meaning despite 16 cycles with no apparent reason for failure, they are not interested in checking for a blocked tube or two.
Yes, perfectly logical. As logical as, say, having your toothbrush in your own anus for safe keeping, but we've come to not expect much else from these dudes and dudettes.
On the upside, (and you better be seated for this, -I am) they WILL go all out and monitor a whole cycle!
Those of you who haven't come over all faint at that startling news can ignore the fact that we've monitored 16 of the buggers ourselves already. Our amateur, uneducated, non-croc sporting opinion is, they haven't worked.
We can't be 100% certain of course, but as neither of us have an infant dangling from a breast nor are actually pregnant, we are going with the verdict of 'not successful'.
So, the next cycle, should there be one (I'm touching wood here) will be monitored by the clinic, with an ultrasound on CD10 to check the womb lining and follicle development, with further blood tests on CD21 to make sure all the various gross hormone levels are ok.
The observant among you (or those with no life, like us, for the last few months) will recall this was already done when I got to peer into ET's vagina like someone who'd dropped a tenner down a manhole.
I think we can safely say we don't have a whole lot of faith in these guys at the moment, but we will gratefully accept any and all interest they show in our wee human harvesting plans.
In the meantime, we have fought ovulation battles, and fought them pretty bloody well if I do say so myself. For anyone who doubts the wicked, wild and spontaneous nature of ovulation day trying to conceive humping sessions, lets just say there was nekkidness while the oven was still going....
...Rawr.
Now I'd better stop touching wood, we can't afford any waste.
Friday, 18 July 2008
The croc board speaks
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
A warning to the txt generation
Due to the wonder that is a rural Irish Catholic background, I come from a somewhat unusual family, demographically speaking.
In an era and area of Ireland where the only contraception was pregnancy, potato harvesting, or death, never ending families were the norm.
The 2nd or 3rd 'accident', I'm the youngest of eight children, by quite a margin. 
Take into account the fact that the rest of them are much older, are poster children for fertility, and that they got jiggy with it at relatively young ages, and the result is a flummix of nieces and nephews.
18 of them I believe.
This in itself is a bit of an issue. The very genes I share with my siblings are waving fertile chromosomes in my face and taunting me in unison.
Screams of 'jaffa' ring in my ears from the souls of long spent semen.
For Christ's sake, there was period in the 90's where you couldn't walk into any one of our family homes without slipping on a freshly expulsed placenta.
ALL up the duff, ALL the time.
Thankfully, I am zen personified, and for the most part I let this genetic mockery wash right over my lower than average head.
Having quoted Bonnie and Bono last time around, I'll now quote Bob - " The times they are a changin' "
These kids that resembled safari park monkeys as you approached their homes in the past, are growing up.
They have been going to college, working, living abroad, and I presume (while using all my strength to avoid mental images), fornicating.
In fact, six of them are in their early or mid twenties. You see where I'm going with this?
Sooner rather than later, one of them is going to report back that they have gotten themselves, or some other poor misfortune, knocked up.
No doubt the moment of impact will occur with a post cider party knee trembler up some side alley, or some other gesture of mockery at my own redundant efforts.
This simply can not be allowed to happen.
These people say things along the lines of "Yeah like, I was totally like shocked like n'stuff", they drink alcopops and other blue shit, they have rap songs for ring tones, they haven't got a clue how to spell words using vowels, and they've never even once seen an episode of Dallas, Dynasty or Falcon Crest.
Mother of mercy they have 'Bebo' pages for f&$% sake.
I will go ballistic if I receive one of these: "HI XBX JST A QCK MSG 2 LT U KNW I R PRGNNT. L8R UR FAV NECE"
If one of them informs me that I'm going to become a granduncle before I get ET knocked up I'm going to take a bath with a toaster, but not before I get into the ford focus and mow down all of humanity, showing no mercy to man nor beast.
A granduncle.
A grandparent's brother.
I'm just warning you, that's all.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
A fornication fifty-fifty
As the saying goes, time flies when you're having a mental battle with utter misery. Or something vaguely similar at least.
Time does fly, it seems like just yesterday I was crawling backwards out of a champagne bottle in a feeble attempt at sorrow drowning.
Today is day 7 of a new month, 'CD07' for those into the lingo.
This means that it's almost ugly bumping time, time for the mattress mambo, time for a frank exchange of bodily fluids, time for a squelchy session.
Which brings us to a dilemma, of sorts. You see, for 13 months, we have copulated ourselves senseless with no notable results.
That is of course unless you count aching wobbly bits, an increasingly disgusting rancid under-the-arse cushion at the foot of the bed, and a realisation that the bedroom ceiling is badly in need of a new coat of paint.
None of these were the actual desired result, of course.
Basically, shagging doesn't bloody work. We have taken every approach known to man, even some only known to woodland creatures, and nothing works.
Not to worry, we have a follow up appointment with our reproductive specialist in a little over a week, and by hook or by crook we are going to get somewhere with her, even if it means I have to tie her up, and raid her cabinet for drugs and needles and stuff.
Where does this leave the humping? It is, for all intents and purposes, useless in this case.
So, the question is do we stop and take a break and have a 'copulation kit-kat' so to speak, or do we carry on 'carrying on'?
Stopping, would mean that this cycle is screwed, blued, and tattooed before it's even gotten started, leaving us bouncing off the walls for a month.
Continuing, means that we are signing up for the stick pissing Olympics again before the month is out, reading too much into every single gurgle, belch and yawn that emits itself from ET's fornication riddled body, all the while knowing that it's 99% certain to be futile.
In the midst of a rant I was having the other day, I blurted out something along the lines of the following. When I removed the expletives and spittle from the sentence, it rings genuinely true to me, and probably answers the very question I've just asked.
When you first realise you want to have a child, you unwittingly pawn your free will in return for a dream, but no one tells you that you can't ever have it back until the dream is realised.
Well fuck it anyway, pants off Spencer my lad, I've got a little job for you.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
I said 'Nappy', dammit
I've found, not all of them to be quite what I had imagined
Unless your pre-TTC rate was at porn star frequency, you are probably at it more than ever, and despite the often dreaded 'timed' occasions, you soon realise that you actually can't get enough.
You lose all sense of shame....
Quite self explanatory if you read through previous entries.
Imagine leaving your sister so horrified that you can sense a 'gasp' via MSN when you tell her about her baby brother producing semen samples, or visiting your GP to discuss providing said samples whilst wearing two odd shoes, or actually using the words 'tilted cervix' to your office manager.
You become over-sensitive and soft....
I have already rambled on about this in some detail, but indeed, with the exception of genitalia, trying to conceive turns a man to mush.
I've used the word 'cute' so much in the last year I should be carrying around a feckin chihuahua in a dolce & gabbana purse, and I've uttered the word 'sweet' so often I am writing this from the midst of a diabetic coma.
That's my quasi-qualified medical opinion anyway.
You'll try absolutely anything.... This goes into the mad realm of ordering fertility dolls off the internet.
This goes into the realm of two grown, educated and semi-intelligent people in their thirties, sleeping on yellow knitted booties, incredibly generously hand made and sent to us from the other side of the planet.
And yes, I said 'for skin'. Smart arses.
EDIT: It appears that the deceptively named Newbie nominated this for post of the week and it's been shortlisted along with 5 very different other posts on other interesting blogs. Go check them out.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
24,000,000,000 to 1
350,455
310
26
25
12
5
2
1
24,000,000,000
This is the number of Spencer's buddies I calculate have been dispatched into active duty in the name of trying to conceive. That's twenty-four billion.
300,000,000
That is further number that have been sent out on research duty.
350,455
This is the number of milligrams of vitamin supplements I would have taken in order to help the cause, had I been taking all of them from day 1.
310
This is the number of days we have been actively trying, and failing, to conceive.
26
This is the length in days of cycles it now seems. 28 don't live here no more.
25
This is the number of siblings (& their children) I have. A fertile bunch eh? Another cup of irony soup anyone?
12
This is, as of today, the number of failed cycles. A bloody year.
5
The percentage of couples our age who don't manage to conceive in 12 cycles.
2
The number of times I've had to 'milk' myself in the name of science, Not once, but twice.
1
This is the number of very pissed off Irish brace-mouthed, sub-fertile bloggers who is wearing correctly matched shoes for once.
It's the total number of sperm actually needed out of that twenty four feckin' billion to be any bloody good.
It's the number of wives that I have, and have disappointed time and again over the last 310 days.
It's the number of chances I want, just the f#*$ing one.
Thursday, 3 April 2008
Return of the sperm runner: This time it's personal
I was prepared.
I had everything timed to a tee: Alarm, packed for work, showered, shaved, and lab paperwork in order.
Just fill this pot up with what must surely be a half litre of my finest saved up 'sample' was all I had to do, before hopping into the car and off to the hospital.
"Squirt".
What?
That's it?
You have GOT to be taking the piss, it's less than the last bloody time!
There I sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaking my (upper) head in disbelief, trying to screw the lid back on the pot, and strongly contemplating the possibility that testicles have an underdeveloped sense of humour completely independent from their owner.
Where were the GALLONS I had most certainly saved up?
Disheartened, I put the container (which looked more like I had sneezed in it rather than filled it with a well timed semen sample) carefully in my pocket.
Down the stairs, out the front door, down the path, past the pond (where I swear I could see a couple of frogs lighting cigarettes), into the car, and off I drove to the hospital.
(Incidentally, while sitting in the car park I had one good hard look into the container. It was hard to tell but I couldn't identify Spencer in there. Fingers crossed he's already gone off with his whip and hat leading the charge on the temple of doom.)
I was prepared.
I knew EXACTLY where I needed to go, so no cringe inducing conversation at reception would be necessary.
Confidently clutching my pot of man milk like a hand grenade primed for launching, straight past the hideous receptionist and off down the hallway I bounded.
Upon stepping into the lift, the blood drained from my brain.
There stood a pretty wee nurse with her petite finger hovering over the button...
Pretty Nurse: Which floor?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (rapidly losing oxygen to my brain) ...er...I dunno
Pretty Nurse: What number route then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (at this point in grave danger of losing consciousness) ...er...I forget
Pretty Nurse: (getting impatient) What DEPARTMENT then?
Sperm Clutching Idiot: (almost yelling) I know this one!...medical microbiology...
Pretty Nurse: Oh (smirking) I see.... 2nd floor.
A short 4 hour lift ride and 17 popped blood vessels later.
BING!
Practically ripping the arms off my jacket in the still opening doors, I walk-ran up the corridor, and through the double doors to where the medical microbiology office was.
No.
No. No. NO.
No light, no nurse, no give way with the door handle.
It wasn't bloody open yet.
So, what? I just have to stand there in the hallway turning redder and redder, in front of a sign that may just as well have read 'WANKERS WAIT HERE', grasping a thimblefull of lukewarm semen in my chubby sweaty hands for every passer-by to snigger at?
Yes.
9 of them. I counted.
Every individual face now branded onto my brain, so I can rapidly flee, or scratch their eyes out should our paths ever cross again in the future.
10 minutes later, a woman shuffles up along the corridor to the office door. With a key in the lock, and her creaking neck straining backwards to look at me, she croaks: "Semen?"
My head bowed, all faith in lucky breaks lost forever, I replied: "Yes".
Into the office we step, she continues to shuffle around the room, flicking light switches and opening windows.
On my life, may God strike me down dead on the spot if this woman was not at least 70 years of age.
All well and good, at least she's experienced I thought, as she asked me the standard set of questions.
I was prepared.
Then it came: "When was your previous ejaculation?"
Now, fellas, I can guarantee that you haven't lived through shame until you are faced with the question of the timing of your last sexual climax from a woman as old as time itself, and who bears a startling resemblance to the owner of 'Tweety Bird' in those cartoons.
Unaware that I was now in the foetal position, rocking too and fro, I answered her.
I was now also highly conscious of the fact that if she calculated the days backwards she would work out it was in fact on a Sunday, which was undoubtedly going to seal my condemnation to eternal hell in the eyes of this 420 year old spinster, even if it would in fact, at this point in time, be a welcome relief for myself.
I picked up the remainder of my self respect, balled it up, tossed it in the bin under the desk, confirmed the 2 week waiting time for the results, and left.
Out the wrong exit (,again) I go, past the inexplicable chickens (,again), and vowing never to go through that again (,again).
Honestly, I WAS prepared.
Monday, 31 March 2008
Mocked by nature
Sometimes the irony of it all is just unmissable.
Nature has started to take the piss out of me.
We have a wee pond in our front garden, and from time to time we've noticed the occasional frog hopping and plopping about.
Last Thursday evening, ET mentioned how the croaking from the pond had become really loud.
Google soon informed me that this was the frog's mating call. Just f*@%ing brilliant.
By Saturday we had literally dozens of froggy couples shagging their brains out in our garden. They sure can pick their moments can't they?
Only feet away from the frog orgy, two other bug eyed creatures were in the midst of their own mating frenzy, huffing and puffing in the name of procreation.
Granted, our mating call was somewhat less primal, "I'm ovulating, come on, drop 'em... " doesn't quite compare with a pond full of randy amphibians ribbitting away to their hearts content, but it's certainly to the point and should be just as effective.
Unfortunately, the probability is, that it was no where near as effective, not with all the will in the world.
We've be doing this FOR a year, with nothing to show for it. That is of course, unless you count humiliation, humiliation, and humiliation.
They get to do this ONCE a year, and I just know we are gonna be over run by the hoppy bastards soon enough.
A host of spineless water balloons with legs have just spent this last weekend outside our window creating babies and us, two relatively intelligent human beings, can be pretty certain that our weekend's efforts, aided by prediction kits and stopwatches and gravity boots, will prove to be another failure.
Maybe I should fill my sample pot with some of this on Thursday?
Mother nature, you're a right bitch.
Monday, 17 March 2008
Spencer
Dear Spencer,
I know you are only one among millions down there, but you're the one I feel I have a connection with, the one I can talk to. I see you as a leader among men. Well, semen at least.
We've been through a lot together, you, your buddies and me.
Remember the first time we met? That was an eye opener, certainly was for my stuffed animals anyway.
Over the next few years we had lot of good times, we met up with each other at every opportune moment, and quite a few inopportune ones.
In fact, to date, I can only think of one single occasion where we met that wasn't entirely pleasurable.
But things are changing...I'm not gonna butter you up, I'm gonna tell it to you straight.
You need to get your act together down there and get your crew in order.
Lets look at the facts.
You have one hell of a crew, a big following, in fact every time we throw a party, 160 million of you guys show up. That's great, it's just what we want to hear.
Of that 160 million, just about the right number of you lot are not complete freaks.
Heads - check, tails - check.
Again, great. The 33% of you that are in decent shape leaves us with 52.8 million studs.
You should be pretty proud of that. I know I am.
Now comes the tricky stuff. I know you don't wanna hear it but you need to face up to it. 35.9 million of those studs are time wasters. They don't move AT ALL. They sit on their arses admiring their perfectly formed heads and combing their tails and totally miss their cue.
I would appreciate it if you could see your way clear to doing something about these guys, they are good enough, but they gotta get some inspiration from somewhere. It's up to YOU Spencer.
Failing that, you must, at the very least, get these fellas out of the way, keep them at the back, out of harms way if you will. This is because you have 16.9 million stud buds who DO know where to go, and of those, 11.6 million get there bloody fast.
We've got a few really big weeks coming up Spence, you and me. You have a few days for practice runs but in less than two weeks you're going to be called upon, for real. No more dribbling out like a runny nose, you've got to fly like you've never flown before, and swim like your life depended on it. (Actually, it does depend on it but let's not dwell on the morbidity of it all.)
At best only a few of you will make it, but I have every faith that you will be there, leading the charge. When you get there Spence, hang on for dear life, sink your little teeth in. Work that freakishly big head of your's inwards, wiggle your bum, worm your way in, weather the storm, and don't take no for an answer.
I know you can do it, ET knows you can do it, all your buddies down there know you can do it, together Spence, we will help propel you to greatness.
You can achieve fame beyond your wildest wet dreams. Forget the creepy anonymous sperm guys from 'look who's talking', forget the D-list 'celebrity stain' on Monica Lewinski's dress, you are on the verge of spunking heroics.
I know you are apprehensive. I know this is unchartered territory. I know this is a long way from the safety net of a kleenex. I know you are doubting if we can do it, but Barack, Bob the builder and I are here to tell you Spence, that - Yes.We.Can!
Don't let the significance of the day that's in it pass you by, it's St. Patrick's day, the day of celebration of your proud people all over the world, who left their homeland and made a life somewhere else, you need to follow in their footsteps.
You're a big time player now Spence.
'Carpe Diem' Spencer my faithful buddy, 'Carpe Diem'.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Number Crunching
You lot are a right shower of useless donkeys aren't you?
You were supposed to give me some deep insightful thoughts into my results, showing me the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead you faff about in your mother's slippers wishing me "Good Luck". Well, good luck bites.
For those devoid of a sense of sarcasm, I'm actually quite grateful for those who reacted with their knowledge on the figures (albeit somewhat limited and/or obscure to say the least). Thank you.
Here's some number crunching for you.
Some online doctor website who's name I can't ever remember has a formula for calculating the number of champion sperm per swimming competition.
X
Progressively Motile Sperm (A + B)
X
Morphology
X
Volume
This gives you the total number of Potent, fast, direct and correctly shaped sperm, in other words your final haul of ammunition.
It takes into account more of the overall situation, and not just individual scores.
It makes sense to me, as a scientifically challenged male at least.
If I were an egg (now there's a blog entry for the future), I'd be more worried about 25% of 100million sperm rubbing up against me than 50% of 30 million
Taking the 'norm' values as the bench mark:
20Million X 50% X 30% X 2.75ml
This gives the 'norm' a total of 8.25Million real hard bastards per squelchy session.
Now take my results:
64Million X 32% X 33% X 2.5ml
This gives Xbox Balboa a total of 16.9Million of the fuckers. That's DOUBLE the normal army.
Am I nuts?
Am I grasping at pubes here?
Am I being testicularly testy over my test?
Am I onto something?
Am I on something?
Am I 15Million sperm short of a mouthful?
I give up thinking.
The bottom bloody line is that it doesn't matter if my scores came back all double the norm, it wouldn't change a thing, there's no baby.
With these results there IS still a chance, and not a bad chance either.
Today, I'm confident, this CAN still happen naturally, and if it doesn't I'm POSITIVE that with a little assistance we'll hit the jackpot.
So I'm still game for a miracle, and I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
48 hours and counting...
Thursday, 13 March 2008
Laid Bare
Having already left 'too much information' airspace, I've proceeded to fly over 'please make him stop before my eyes bleed' territory.
For your amusement, and to further my seemingly uncontrollable hunger to make an unmerciful eegit out of myself, I'm gonna give you the blow by blow of the results, which I received the details of today.
Volume:
2.5ml (Norm 0.5 - 5.0ml)
You'll note that I was concered about the volume at the time, I'm pretty sure that under normal circumstances (i.e. not sitting on the side of the bath with a stopwatch between my teeth and a plastic pot my left hand) that I would usually get another 50% onto that.
Sperm Concentration:
64 million per ml (Norm approx 2omillion per ml)
I'm Lee Majors and I'm getting T-shirts printed...
Total Count:
160 million
Seriously, -who da freakin' man?
Motility A(fast progressive):
22% (Norm >=25%)
Oh...
Motility B(Slow progressive):
10% (Norm >=50%)*
Shrivel...
Motility C(non progressive):
0%
Sweet Jesus...
Motility D(totally fucked):
68%
My house IS built on a nuclear reactor, right?
pH:
8.0 (Norm 7.2 - 8.0)
ET disputes this. Don't ask...
Morphology:
33% (Norm >= 30%)
Big heads, go figure...
Mixed Agglutination Reaction for IgA:
0% (Norm <=10%)
Them's my boys
Mixed Agglutination Reaction for IgG:
0% (Norm <=10%)
Whoooo, ride 'em cowboy...
Presence of agglutination:
Present.
Bugger it anyway.
Liquidity:
noted as 'abnormal'
I'm putting this down to the 'running like a whore out of church' to get the sample to the lab as fast as possible, and also the period of abstinence, which has been noted as not long enough.
Now, if you have managed not to throw up your lunch (Yank region), or breakfast (Aussie region), or fish fingers (Dan), what do you guys make of this?
Some individual scores are good and some are not, but I am a little bit encouraged by the combinations of it all. To be honest, I'm as confused as a blind lesbian in a fish market, but I have some theories.
A lot of you are obviously quite well versed in these matters, I'm genuinely interested in your take on the overall picture.
Do I need to eat more cabbage, or rub sea shells against my testicles 3 times a day, or pump more cash into my 'bribe Jesus into leaving a miracle unattended' fund?
If you have something to add, please do....
For completeness' sake, (the post's and my humiliation's,) I'm sorry I don't have a picture of the sample to add.
*The defining measure of 50% motility, I'm not so sure of, is it 50% falling in A & B, or 25% in A, and another 50% in B, leading to 75% in A & B. I'm not having great luck nailing that definition down consistently from any sources.
The Norm values I mention are those on the lab report, I have seen some variations on these elsewhere.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
Dusting off
Please stand up & pat yourself on the back.
You all deserve that(and a hefty bosom full more to boot) for all the amazing comments you left
last time round. I don't do soppy as a rule, but you guys 'complete me'.
Well, not quite.
Not at all in fact, that was a big fat lie.
But you do seriously rawk 'big' time for the time and effort you put into your comments, I am genuinely 'awwww shucksed' by them all.
So, what next? Well, performing more sex acts upon myself in the early hours of the morning and depositing the produce of said acts into a plastic pot of course, what else?
I will take a repeat test in three weeks just so I can hand a pot of semen labeled 'useless bastard' to Grizzly Adams, and then 2 weeks later I can revel in the joy of my GP looking down her nose at me while asking if I have ever considered the priesthood.
Then, and only then can I discard my last shred of manhood like a snotty tissue.(except it's not snot on that tissue as all you parents to teenage boys know)
Hopefully before that time comes we will have identified a suitable fertility/reproductive specialist to go further with.
I can't believe it's come to this.
I can't believe that when I wrote my first post that I would be here almost a year later, so much further away from what we had aspired to.
I was pretty sure that I didn't take it as a blow to my fundamental maleness, I wasn't sure I had any 'fundamental maleness' left after the last year, but fuck it I do, and it's been dented.
The real obscene aspect to this stupid feeling is that it doesn't arise when I think of my uber potent sperm who are just too glued to American Idol to swim a few centimetres, it comes when I imagine someone in the future confirming that ET has gotten pregnant, - no thanks to me.
It may be my sperm, but I couldn't even get it to do the basics right.
I don't know which I'm more ashamed of, the facts or the feelings.
In other news, my recent forays into the world of dentistry saw me back in the chair today, this 
time at the orthofeckindontist. The good news, (if you are a sadistic son-of-a-dogwithtitties,) is that I get to have a brace fitted. Yes, you heard me correctly, I, a thirty year old professional will be sporting a brace in two weeks time.
For those of you not so good with numbers, 2 weeks is 1 week less than 3 weeks. Therefore I will be a chubby, short arsed, 30 year old, brace mouthed, serial mastubator when I hand over my next jug of jizz on this quest for fatherhood.
...but you know what? I will do it a million times over if I have to.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
Updates & The 'Rash Review
Baby Juice Update: There is no update, the results were not in. Just as well seeing as ET left the country this morning without her phone and I would have had to have used smoke signals to give her the news, but there isn't any. I'll try again tomorrow, if I haven't spontaneously combusted or been arrested for throwing stones at passing cyclists in the meantime.
Free Stuff Update: I've decided, thanks to Monique's* powers of perception, that I DON'T want a free XBOX360 from Sony to blog about in a witty yet boyishly charming manner, because they don't bloody make them. Instead I think I could do Microsoft a great service by telling the word how their products make me no longer want to change nappies.**
Meanwhile, back on the ranch. Being the wonderful, generous, loving itchy gonad that I am, I've decided to offer my literary services to you all.
Due to the facts that A) I very obviously have no children and therefore nothing to do with my time, and B) having to partake in squelchy sessions more often than was ever intended for a man hurtling towards middle age, and therefore can no longer walk properly or interact with society, I have plenty of time on my hands.
I'm offering, for a limited time only (i.e. until I get bored), an Xbox4NappyRash style review of, or interview with you for, your blog.
If you don't want anyone thinking that you've got a really big head, I'll take nominations for blogs from other bloggers and clear the nomination with you before I write anything.
For reviews I'll even provide a summation in the form of a semen analysis. Now who doesn't want that? eh? eh?
You can e-mail me your request or nomination for a review or an interview on the usual e-mail address I leave when I spam your blog with asinine comments, or at the new sexy, whiter than white address of Xbox4NappyRash@Gmail.com, or even just leave a comment here if you are brave enough.
I'm not one to play the guilt card, but if no-one responds, I'll be f*&^%%$ gutted.
*Go check out the most beautiful baby photo ever on her blog.
** A big fat lie.
Monday, 3 March 2008
La Blitz Du Ovulation!
This is probably venturing into the realm of 'Too Much Information' but what do I care anymore, you get to hear about my inability to be correctly dressed -before, during and after important occasions such as this or this, you get to hear about my unintentional workplace kinkyness and indeed you get to hear about my enforced self pleasuring, using the term pleasure very loosely of course.
Anyway, It's a big day or so here in the mad house on humping hill- It's ovulation day (and a bit) !
Now, in past months we've gone with varying saddle strategies, such as:
-Gung-ho!, whenever, wherever, all month long with no idea of when ovulation is occurring.
-Guesstimation! Strategically planned around a best guess time when ovulation is probably occurring. Using the aqua team sparingly.
-L'Execution! Finding out exactly when ovulation occurs and pinpointing that time precisely. One fleet of marine experts with one mission.
-Oh-is-that-the-time! Being super cool and casual and pretending that we don't know when ovulation is. Flabby, pasty faced drunkards splashing around.
-La variation! - Variations of all of the above.
The quicker witted amongst you will be the ones to realise that none, to date, have worked.
So enter the month of 'The Ovulation Blitz!' ( or 'La Blitz Du Ovulation' for our French readers).
What does this involve?! I hear you all cry with trepidation...Well, it involves pinpointing exactly when ovulation will occur, and then proceeding to putting rabbits to shame from a day before, right through until the smile is gone from our, and the (very creepy) ovulation prediction kit's faces.
We've gone for blowing the text book standard of 'every 2 days' out of the water, and we are going warp speed.
We've 'ooooh la-la-d' our way through the past 36 hours. I've
removed my underwear more times in the last day than any self respecting European male does in a working week.
Just this evening, entering the tail end of the ovulation comet (24 hours +), we arrived home to the usual argument of who is to cook. I pointed out that she needed to first go wazz on a stick, and the resulting smiley face meant that pizza got ordered, uglies got bumped, and dinner for Monday was a post coital pizza. (If that's not a gem of a marketing idea for Domino's then I don't know what is)
I'll admit, it was not easy, there were a few moments where I needed an inner pep talk and intense concentration ('focus dude!') to get through it, but we (Team idiot) did it!
Team woman, laid back and finished today's sudoko. I'm proud to say, by the end, she was finding it difficult keeping her numbers inside the wee boxes(Go team stud!).
We plan one more orbit before the ovulation comet trails off into the darkness...but hopefully not for a few hours yet...
Told you it was 'Trop d'information'...
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
The Sperm Runner
Alarm rings as normal...
Stumble blurry eyed to the bathroom as normal...
Open up the cabinet, & fumble around for toothpaste as normal...
Grab a semen sample pot instead. Now, I'm no genius, so I can't be 100% certain, but I think...I THINK this was the point where today stopped being normal.
Now, I'm not perverted (well, not much), so I'll spare you the gory details.
The container got 'filled', with a socially acceptable ratio of ease and difficulty.
It didn't take so long as to cause mental scarring and anxiety, and it wasn't too fast to add a possible plastic pot fetish to my burden for the day.
(BTW Pet, knocking on the door to announce you were leaving for work didn't help much)
Not a drop misplaced, just as well considering the volume was questionable. (By that I mean the volume of the sample, I wasn’t screaming, out loud at least.)
Having already made surely everything else was ready I made a quick getaway, my precious cargo in my inside pocket.
(For those who've read 'inconceivable' by Ben Elton you'll recall that the character carried his sample down his trousers, to replicate the appropriate temperature, I decided against this, as I haven't quite yet reached the point of no return as regards insanity. Anyway the thought of having to fish it out at it’s destination was too much to bear.)
The lab is part of a nearby hospital, which was surrounded by road works and signs for ‘no parking’ while they were in progress.
My blood chilled at the thought of having to park half a mile away and walk the rest of the way clutching a pot of my own semen, visions of being mugged and having to explain what was taken to the Dutch ‘Politie’ exploded into my head.
Thankfully, the Gods of mortal shame were on my side and I was able to park right in the hospital grounds, and at that unearthly hour of the morning, the only onlookers were the dozens of chickens (don't ask, I don't know why) roaming the hospital surrounds.
(There is a chicken and egg joke in there somewhere, but I'm far too conflustered to work it out)
Onwards I go, plenty of potential death traps behind me, performance, aim, and parking as I march through the main entrance.
With chest out, and chin up, I strolled confidently as if I owned the place, James Bond-like to the reception desk.
I'd peaked too soon...
"I have an 8am appointment with microbiology" I half whispered, half choked at the professionally disinterested 8 foot tall woman behind the desk.
"Follow route 70" she sneered, while looking me up and down.
The game was up, she knew why I was there, I started to panic, she knew what I had in my pocket and I certainly wasn't happy to see her. I turned and walked as fast as my butty little legs could manage without breaking into a jog. As I turned the corridor I'm almost sure I heard her snort and laugh.
After a Left, right, 2 floors up, 3 floors down, a few more lefts, and a handful more rights I ended up outside the door of route 70 - 'Medische Microbiologie'.
I peered through the glass of the door at the back of what I can only describe as the receptionist's bigger, uglier, older brother in a dress and questionably applied make-up.
I knocked. At least I thought I did. No reaction. I knocked again, harder. The beast-head turned around and glared at me, glared towards a sign on the door, then back at me.
Being super quick on the uptake I decided to quickly READ the sign on the door which said 'Patients - don't knock, come in'
Mumbling my apologies I stepped in, mimed that I had an 8am appointment, and proceeded to cower in front of Ms Grizzly Adams.
GA - Have you your laboratory form?
ME - Yes (fumbling in inner pockets), Here.
GA - (Scowling at the one single box ticked on the form) Semen Analysis?
ME - (Whispering) Yes.
GA - Have you your 'Material'?
ME - Yes (now sweaty hands fumbling again in inner pockets), Here.
GA - (Holding the pot between finger and thumb, obviously not impressed with coming into contact at what I KNEW was sweat but she was unsure of) OK. I have a couple of questions.
ME - (To Self) Shit. Here goes.
GA - Have you had a cold in the last week.
ME - No. (To self) That was easy!
GA - Taking any medication?
ME - (Very proud that I had for once written the proper names down) Hydrochlorotheozamowhatsitiozide
GA - (Sighing) Give me the piece of paper. (To self, probably) Idiot.
GA - When did you produce the 'Material'?
ME - (I was torn between desperately wanting to say it wasn't mine at all & running off and asking her when was the last time she performed a sex act on herself, just to even things up.) Less than half an hour ago.
GA - How long did you abstain?
ME - (Hoping that I had understood her correctly and was actually answering the right question) [Insert answer here] (Some things you lot just don't need to know).
GA - I see. Your results will be known by your doctor in 1 to 10 days.
ME - Ok. (While actually meaning) What in the name of Jehova do you mean 1 TO 10 days you hideous creature, what use is that for a timscale, you might as well say 'sometime before Christmas' - Maybe.
GA - Goodbye. (while actually meaning to add) you filthy little man, get out of my sight.
ME - Goodbye. (while actually meaning to add) please take care of my little pot, Frodo had it easy with that ring of his compared to my journey here, and I don't want to have to go through this again.
With that, I turned and ran.
Of course, true to form, it was out the wrong exit.
Turning the key in the ignition, the clock flashed up the time. 8:03am.
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
A REAL pain in the bum
I've no idea how I managed it.....but I've managed to pull a muscle in my gluteus maximus.
Fore the commoners amongst us, that's arse, or ass, or bum, or butt, or fanny(for US readers, definitely NOT fanny for European readers), or hole.
It's not a constant strain, but a darting pinch every time I lean forward. I now remember that it's there and take appropriate due diligence, but for the last 2 days I've been bending over and hopping back up with an 'Ooooooooh' reminiscent of a rather camp proctologist with a pinching fetish.
It was a source of amusement at first, but now it bloody smarts so it does!
Luckily the 'gettin jiggy' phase has now passed and I can rest my weary bone(s) for a few days , that is until we get good or bad news again which should be somewhere about the 26th.
Santa, I'm f&^%ing warning you buddy....
Monday, 10 December 2007
My boys and me
Inspired by this very 'enlightening' comment from Tiff on a recent entry, I started thinking about the following....
"Did you know that the ovum (eggy) actually spins and turns when the little guys find her. We women are always making choices and changing our minds, even at the most basic level!
When she (I'm talking about the egg now) detects the tadpole with the strongest concentration of enzyme she slows and stops. Then all the taddy's friends help him along,by breaking down the protective layer of the egg for him, giving him a heads up, so to speak."
It's good to hear that Ms Egg does her best to pick out the most suitable partner for her
endeavours, in a way, just like ET herself has done in choosing (multi award winning) me as hers. Lets face it, I'm a catch, I have all my own (milk) teeth, I know to use the cutlery from the outside-in at a fancy dinner, and I've never once relieved myself against my mother-in-law's kitchen wall unlike other relatives I could mention.This makes me think that her reproductive bits and pieces are taking after her, in principle this is great...BUT....This leads me to the soul destroying notion the Boys could take after ME!
Are they all gathered round Ms Egg scratching their little heads like a bunch of confused Casper the friendly ghosts, trying to figure out what the hell they're supposed to do? After all, give me an IKEA anything to assemble and I would probably have an aneurysm before figuring it out. Instruction MUST be stupidly clear for me, and I don't think Ms Egg provides any. (Or does she - Tiff?)
Are they just like me at the height of my romantic prowess, all circled around this foxy lookin' egg, making pathetically lame jokes, or blushing and looking at their shoes when she speaks to them, or trying so hard to look cool and disinterested to the point where they don't notice that she's buggered off somewhere else?
Are they sharing my predominant trait? Laziness. Did they get half way up a fallopian and say "Ah feck it, I'm going back to veg out on the tip of the cervix and watch 'Deal Or No Deal' with a beer"?
Are they sharing my next most predominant trait, lack of will power, and have all caved in to the lazy guys suggestion and headed back with him for that beer?
Do they share my sense of direction? or more precisely, my SD (sober/drunk) selective sense of direction. Basically, with a clear head on their shoulders are they incapable of finding ANY single destination in ANY time frame that would be useful, and with 14 Belgian beers down their necks they find their destination in record time but pass out semi dressed at the foot of a frustrated Ms Egg's bed?
Just like me, do they tease and irritate an originally eager Ms Egg to the point where she just can't be bothered anymore and goes spinning off mumbling bad things about their parentage?Oh my God! Bloody hell - Like me, can they not even SWIM? Are they, just like me, stuck in a place where you are expected to already know how to and that doesn't provide lessons?
Tiff mentions that when the target is established, all the buddies help the best candidate to succeed...er...not if they've got my spiteful and competitive tendencies they won't. If they've taken after me, Mr Right was just about to march victorious through the gates of 'Chez-Egg', when one of the other shorter fatter guys whacked him from behind.
So what do I need to do?
Should I give them a pep talk, like the under 12 hockey team would get before facing a local rival? At what point during their preparation should I do this?
Do I need to tell them where to go or do they implicitly know this? Just how compact DO they make sat nav systems these days?
Should I be following up with encouragement after they've been sent on their way? With some rolled up cardboard or just my cupped hands for acoustic aid?
Should I google local swimming lessons for 'loin fruit'? or at least try to fashion some kind of miniature flotation devices and hope they figure out the rest as they go along?
Should I see just how small our local printers can make up pictures of my wife's reproductive organs, a map ALWAYS helps?
On the flip side, ET has put up with my shortcomings for 10 years almost, (granted, in a way that makes me wonder if she's a little touched,) we've come an awful long way and are on the cusp of something wonderful and life changing, so I may just pray that her bits have inherited her patience, her perseverance, her loyalty, and strength of spirit to see get us through, just like she always has.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Morning Glory
Yes, yes my mind is still in the gutter this morning, but so are yours, admit it, you thought the same thing.
Anyway, this is just a super quickie to proclaim to the world that I am a winner!
Ole! Ole! I hear the peasants cry.
Now if you could see me sitting here in my tattered underwear, unkempt hair (doing a remarkably good impression of Amy Winehouse), morning breath, and with a little man hammering at my brain with a mini pick-ax thanks to the obscenely cheap bucket of wine I drank last night, you may find MANY words to describe me.
I'm in no doubt that 'Nice' would not be one of them.
Veronica, on the other hand, who is obviously feeling the side effect of questionable judgement from too many sleepless nights, has decided to bestow the following on me.
While I wonder if she's confused this award with the 'Occasionally not a total prick' award, I gratefully accept this and will have it tattooed on my left buttock.
If you take a trip over to her new shiny re-hosted blog at sleepless nights you'll see from her entries and comments that she is infinitely more deserving of such an award than this semi dressed, semi hungover dirty old man.
Now I hear music and a pair of 7 foot blondes in ball gowns are dragging me from the stage so I bid you all adieu....
P.S. maybe 'Nice' on the left and 'Matters' on the right buttock?
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Wet and wild
That's the story for tonight...
Of course I'm not referring to volume 7 of my favourite adult entertainment series, but rather, the weather forecast.
The wind is howling, the rain is thundering, and a fine cold breeze whipping up.
So ET is doing some fine smelling cooking, I'm about to light some candles, turn the lights down low, select some serious tunes, open up a bottle of some dodgy vino, and sink into the sofa with heavy hazy eyes and fuzzy minds in front of some non-descript movie of some sort, before (**cough** **cough** ) retiring for the evening....
In my youth when I'd had a few too many, I always managed to find my way home, here's hoping my 'boys' have inherited my tipsy homing skills.
Just so you know, eh ?
