Vagina bucket

Ovulation has left the building.

"OvFest 21" was a roaring (well, grunting, at least) success, earned much critical acclaim, but we have to wait a couple of weeks to see if it will gain nomination for any major awards.

What I'm noticing more and more is a tendency to give it 'one for the road'.

This is a 'just in case' coming together of weary reproductive organs, long after the realms of possibility and fantasy have been left far behind.

"We have a .0001% chance of it working"
"ah, try it anyway."

"Ovulation was a week ago you fool"
"ah, you never know, try it anyway."

It's come to the stage that the physical act of attempting impregnation is becoming so addictive, and therefore so drawn out past any point of possible success, that my wee baby bullets would have to actually swim backwards in time to hit their target.

Marty McFly meets Spencer, if you like.

Nevertheless, even as I write this and put it out in plain black and white, knowing that ovulation has come and come and come and gone, we'll still end up giving an encore performance of the pubic polka even though the audience have all left and gone home.

We'll take that penile cloth, and wring it out one last time, in an attempt to get one more drop of jolly juice into ET's baby bucket.

All in all, after all the ups and downs of the last year or two, hopeful and randy isn't a bad place to be at all.

Back to square (twenty) one

Our trying to conceive efforts have come of age.

It's with great pride that I announce the systematic ravaging of our wobbly bits is all grown up.

Twenty one cycles old.

ET's battered love cavern can buy beer in New York.

Spencer can legally engage in homosexual activity in Poland.

Ellie can drive a bike over 25kw in Estonia.

Today, Monday, is CD14.
Yesterday we had a positive OPK, so we celebrated in appropriate fashion with a performance of the grunting boogie.

If things are normal(yeah, go on, laugh), we should get the trail off of the positive OPK today, with ovulation then tomorrow, and the temperature spike the day after.

We are then back in the two week wait, which will be an anxious one. That's really saying something considering the last two week wait seems to have lasted about 8 weeks.

The operation ET had is known to increase pregnancy rates in the following months, so this cycle is the most optimistic one we'll have had since the very early days.

Shiny tubes, polished and primed, ready for gallons of man milk to ride the go-goo surf and hook up with some chicks in record time.

Stale sheets, fresh start.

While I dry off my grapes of wrath which have been resting in an ice bucket, I won't even dare tempt fate with mentioning that this is the last chance we have to be pregnant by Christmas.

"Santa, baby" indeed.

Does this make me look fat?

For the first time ever I think I've had second thoughts on posting something.

Half because it's a sappy video clip that has me wondering if I've picked up a head injury unknown to myself, and half because I just don't understand what the post is about.

However, as they say, "publish and be damned".

Or mocked, as the case may be.

I think I have a leak somewhere and I'm losing testosterone, probably in survivable amounts, but I suspect that stocks were dangerously low to begin with.

I'm turning into a woman. One that I wouldn't really fancy either, fabulous hair aside.

I think I'm PMSing.

That last entry was a bit on the whingey side for starters, but I then saw the above video clip on K8's blog the other day and melted into a keyboard assaulting skinsack of contradictory hormones.

In the absence of a tub of ice cream as big as my head, I settled for a bunch of grapes.

Probably subconsciously due to them looking like the testicles I was lacking.

Although, they were seedless.

(Noelie Mcdonnell's track 'Nearly four' and the album it appears on 'Beyond hard places' are both available on itunes. The best link for the artist himself I can find is his myspace page)

One stepping out, one stepping in

They say the draw of excitement and danger is addictive.

I think my wee wifey is hooked.

Barely two weeks after braving surgery she once again put her head in the lion's jaws.

She came out.

This weekend she told her parents about the last year and a half, what we are trying to do, and what we've done to try and achieve it.

It can't have been easy, I know how nervous she gets, but thankfully, the reaction was positive. They are happy for us, and I believe they will be the 'right' amount of supportive.

I'm so glad she has that now, for when she needs it, for when I can't provide. More people who care for, and worry about her. She deserves it.

Funny thing, I think I'm jealous of her now. The people who I have on occasions spoken to about this, seem to either just not understand, or don't really want to hear about it.
I truly don't blame them, everyone has their own plate full, but there's only so many times you can sense someone thinking 'Oh no here he goes again' before you just stop bringing it up.

So, from now on, I think I'll be keeping the public conversation to the football, and my thoughts to myself and my two best friends.

ET, and this blank page.

Suitcase

I knew it was going to happen, sooner or later. Last night it did.

I stood in the doorway as she pulled clothes from the wardrobe and threw them on the bed. I could only watch as she gathered them into a suitcase.

Packed. No more to say, ready to go.

To leave.

This morning I drove her to the airport.
"I'll call you when I get there" she said.

I don't think she will.

It was inevitable I suppose, no matter what I said, or how I pleaded my case.
No matter how many times I tried to change her mind and make her see that she was better off here.

Here with me.

"It's for the best" she said.

That was it. This is it. I'm alone.

What do I do now? How do I spend my days?

Sometimes I have nothing, no answers. I guess this is where this blog comes in.

Can anyone help me now?

Can anyone tell me which pub I should go to?, which pizza place I should call?, can anyone tell me how to work the washing machine and where the key to the back door is?

It's going to be hard. Living alone.

I should be thankful she'll be back from her mother's on Monday.

I wonder will she bring back teabags?

Anyway, now where's that remote...

Clockwise

Last night, nobody noticed when the world stopping spinning.

Well, why would they, it's quite slow anyway.

Yet, stop it did, giving a deep sigh, slowing starting up again in the opposite direction.

Everything back from whence it came.

Cats started barking and mice chased dogs. Muggers stole from one another and gave their loot to little old ladies.

Fish sported canes and giraffes held tea parties. Paperboys placed your daily reads gently on the doorstep and closed the gate behind them.

You stopped on green, went on red, pressed up to go down, and down to go up.

You remembered your mother's birthday, your door keys, and to pay the phone bill.

You forgot your team lost on Sunday, that you can't really afford that uber coffee, and that some guy yelled at you on the train.

Maybe all these things didn't really happen, but I think they must have, how else could you explain how ET and I celebrated her getting her period and the passing of another cycle.

Twenty behind us, the sweltering tarmac of cycle twenty-one stretching ahead of us. Our freshly serviced engine is gleaming in the sunshine, and revving, ready to burst forward at a millisecond's notice.

Roll on next week, spinning anti-clockwise, this could be the one.

Anyone got a cigarette?

As this is a family show I won't be going into details, but suffice it to say that the impending insanity from earlier is no longer a threat on the horizon.

If you live in Western Europe, I apologise if I woke you.

Wounds and scars have healed and I've been saved from the fate of slowly turning into a smurf from the scrotum outwards.

Incidentally, in searching for a picture of one, I've noticed how odd they are.

There is only one female among them.

The male ones have no nipples, so I conclude that Smurfette doesn't have them either.

The guys all go around bare chested, and wear quite tight trousers with ne'er a glimpse of a bulge, or roll, or smuggled banana.

All in all, it's shockingly bad situation to be in, reproductively speaking.

Today is CD27, the red menace should be making an appearance, today or tomorrow, Wednesday at the very latest. She's never bloody around when you want her.

Our 'Fertility Friend' chart shows us a possible ovulation back on CD17 based on OPK result and very slight temperature rise, even though it was higher two days previously.

It's all irrelevant anyway, as to be pregnant this cycle we are missing many vital ingredients.

A stable, a donkey, and three wise men for starters.

Notes from a post surgical desert

Bed - 7:02am

Dear Ellie,

We've left several messages, could you please get back to us as soon as is possible.
Please note that you have previously been warned that you are supposed to inform us if you are going to be away for any extended period.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Train to work - 8:58am

Dear Reproductive Organs,

Hang in there guys.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

My desk - 11:14am

Dear Blog Conscience,

It's come to my attention that the recent enforced suspension of trying to conceive activity on our part makes it somewhat difficult to write anything worthwhile for a trying to conceive blog.

"Never stopped you before" you say? - bite me.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Staring out the window - 1:09pm

Dear Red Menace,

Due to unforeseen circumstances this month, we would like to request your attendance at your earliest convenience.
Your arrival and subsequent departure would be met with gratitude and greatly appreciated

No, it's not a trick.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Basement level gents bathroom - 3:42pm

Dear Spencer,

Don't go towards the light.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bus home - 5:31pm

Dear Texter,

I can read the message you are typing, you really should be more discreet.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bus home - 5:32pm

Dear Text Recipient,

Change the sheets, you're going to score.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bus home - 5:33pm

Dear Texter's Husband,

Your son's skin colour is probably not a throwback, she's not working late, and you may have an STD.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Couch - 7:19pm

Dear ET,

You look positively ravishing in that torn tracksuit pants and top with fresh lasagna stains.

Care to...?

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bathroom - 9:01pm

Dear Right Hand,

Don't you dare.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bed - 11:20pm

Dear Erectus Nonclimaxicus, Greek god of enforced abstinence,

Help me.

A cold day in ET

Heat.

It's missing.

Not in me mind you, I'm all hyped up on heat. Unfortunately ET's occasional 'Oooh' and 'Ahhh' means that I don't get to 'Oooh' and 'Ahhh' at the moment.

Being the sensitive chap that I am, I'm relaxed about it, I can wait. I wait for her to nod off to sleep before rubbing off her.

I digress, that's not the heat I'm talking about, the heat that's missing is in ET.

We've been charting temperature for months now, and the rule of thumb is that the day after ovulation you get a spike in basal body temperature.

Now, the surgery was on CD14, she tested positive with an OPK on CD15. So we should be all set for ovulation by CD16 - Thursday and a temperature spike on Friday, yes?

No.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday - Nada. Absolutemente nada! (I envisage body temperature as being Spanish speaking).

So I ask all you incense burning, placenta munching, earth mothers out there, where in the name of all that is uteral is our temperature spike gone?

Swallowed by the surgery? destroyed by dye? escaped out an incision?

Has this conception effort taken on a life of it's own and started making conscious resource deployment decisions of it's own accord?

-'They're not shagging this month, no need to spike!'

Answers on a tampon box please.

Someone else that is a tad low in the body temperature stakes is the dead woman I had to walk around on the way to work Friday. Shot in the head so she was.
Normally this would be seen as a bad thing, but in the charming centre of vice and crime where my office is located, it has it's benefits.

With all those extra crime scene investigators, police, and TV reporters buzzing around the place, our friendly neighbourhood prostitutes were expecting a bumper weekend of business.

Their windows, plastic bedding, and crotches all got an extra wipe of a damp cloth in anticipation.

While I am squeezing the last drops of irrelevance out of the wet rag that is our non shagging days into this empty bucket of a post, I might as well mention that last night I experienced a 'first'.

I almost put my foot into a hedgehog.