I said 'Nappy', dammit

"Nobody ever told me that."

I've said those words to myself countless times over the last year.

'Trying to conceive', or more accurately 'trying and failing miserably to conceive' not only brings about the standard old side effects you read in the books or on websites, but there are hidden and unexpected side effects too, particularly for us gentlemen.

I've found, not all of them to be quite what I had imagined

It makes you a randy badger....

I haven't used that word since I was about eleven, but it does. Trying to conceive basically gives you the horn and reveals to you the real reason behind sofa cushions.

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.

The primative urge to spread your seed, even though it's as useless as tits on a bull, is all powerful.

If the regular thirst isn't quenched, you are frequently in danger of poking your own eye out.

You lose all sense of shame....

Quite self explanatory if you read through previous entries.

Even outside the topic of trying to conceve, you find yourself diving into conversations where no sane and/or hetrosexual man belongs, and being totally unphased by situations that would previously have resulted in you soiling yourself.

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.

These are just a couple of things an idiot would do. Yes me. Sod off.

Prolonged trying to conceive desensitises you, and reduces any sense of acceptability, respectability and sensibility in relation to biological matters, to shreds.

Basically, the downside about becoming practically qualified to perform reproductive surgery in 14 Eastern European states, is that you become the person people really don't want to tell a knob joke to, for fear of the repercussions.

You hear the words 'too much information' 8 times a day

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.

You blub watching the neighbours out and about with their kids, you blub on a sunny day, you blub when somone takes your parking spot. (You know who you are you bitch.)

You become uber sensitive to the point of paranoia about people who don't have snot bags hanging off them, "maybe they have, you know, 'issues' too", when in fact they very possibly just can't be arsed.

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.

It's probably all the testosterone focussing on your jolly rodger that leads to a deficiency in your brain and turns you into a 12 year old girl.
That's my quasi-qualified medical opinion anyway.

You'll try absolutely anything....

Logic flies out the window. Actually no, correction. Logic pulls down your pants, kicks you up the arse, blows a raspberry in your face and then flies out the window.

This goes far beyond having Ms. shagee remain horizontal for about 4 days after bumping uglies, with her backside hoisted aloft seven cushions.

This goes into the realm of counting and waving at magpies.

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.

One under each bloody pillow.

I know it's utterly illogical, but God help you if you try to remove them, I'll bite your non-believing fingers off and feed them to the frogs.

You get what you wish for...sort of....

The observant among you will have put two and two together and come up with the logic behind the name, Xbox4NappyRash.

For those who haven't, bless your cotton socks, I'll explain. The idea was to sacrifice using my xbox in return for nappy rash(preferably on the arse of a kid).

Well, maybe the Gods of fate have a cruel sense of humour, or perhaps they are hard of hearing, or most likely they just can't understand my funny accent, but they have given me what I asked for, almost.

Instead of nappy rash, they have provided me with a nasty rash. On my bloody fingers.

Yes indeed, it's a joy to share the news that I have developed a charming wee reaction on my right hand. Excema-esque in appearance, some bright sparks attribute it to stress and frustration.

I've no doubt in my underdeveloped mind that it is due to the lack of penile contact (with not one, but two, notable exceptions) This naturally arises from the absence of acts of self love, which are rightly forbidden during these trying times.

Incidentally it's also frowned upon by my buddy, the pope, but frankly, I fear the wrath of ET a million times more.

Are these male side effects of trying and hopelessly failing to conceive common, or am I just odd? Scratch that, the oddness is a given, some things I don't need to be told.

For those who feel the urge, "judge not lest ye be bitten on the calves by a chubby Irishman, for skin is a real bitch to remove from my braces".

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.

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.

'twas the night before er...you know...

So here we are again. The eve of another 'sample' giving.

What will the morning bring?

Hopefully I won't see Spencer tomorrow, all going to plan he is already heading an expedition up through the fallopian wilderness, a la Indiana Jones, with words of inspiration ringing in his wee spermy ears.

Mind you, I sincerely hope he is raiding a bloody egg and not a lost ark, although with my guys you never really know what they've got planned, and with women's bits you never really know what you'll find.

Either way, we'll know the answer to that particular poser in a little over a week.

The chances are I wouldn't recognise him in the crowd anyway, not being racist or anything, but they do all look quite similar. The ones with two heads or tails aside of course.

All in all, my concerns before the previous 'handover' are all but gone.

While I'm no sharpshooter, I know I can aim well enough from close range, and if the previous attempt is anything to go by I shouldn't have the mental trauma of delivering not too fast nor too slow, but just right.

Kind of like a masturbating version of 'goldilocks & the three bears'.

I refuse to think about handing it over again, that just makes my testicles huddle together for comfort.

On the bright side, (I use that term in a manner as loose as an Australian's morals), I've been 'saving up', and therefore the questionable volume (again, amount, not noise levels) of semen from the previous time, should be improved upon.
Although bearing in mind the size of the bloody container, we may need to put some paper down.

I could be optimistic and hope that this sample turns out to be as productive as Doodaddy's sample which has apparently yielded interesting results. As much as I want to kick him in the 'nads right now, I'll just say congratulations. You greedy maggot.

So, the only remaining question is, bedroom, bathroom, living room, office, kitchen or garden shed?

Maybe I should remove my shoes and socks, take a paddle and join in with the frogs....

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'.

Sad Sunday, Shouting, & 100

==Sad Sunday==

I hate Sundays. Always have.
This one brings us the not so surprising, yet tormenting news, that yet another month has been a failure.

Shouldn't be surprised considering the results of this week but we still had hoped for that outside chance. Not to be. So begins cycle 12.

We've told some friends about what's been going on, I'm not so sure about their reaction but for me it's a relief not to have to hold my tongue so much anymore.

I don't know if ET is happy about this or not. She says she feels exposed. I can understand that, I think, but I hope she talks to her friends about it, it can only be a help, right?

I don't want to push, or pressure her, but I think my frustration and impatience is doing just that to her. I just don't want to let you down any more than I already have.

Tomorrow we are going to attempt to jump start our progress with a specialist, i.e. get in touch with one. Hopefully the regimented Dutch system will allow us to go ahead and not force us back through the painfully slow 'everything via your GP' route.
Wish us luck.

Well that's enough of the serious stuff, and not a testicle nor blind lesbian joke to show for your reading efforts.

==Shouting==

I've added a few blogs to my reader this past week or two, you should check them out if you haven't already.
There's "there's never a line for the men's room" which is quality over quantity but nice and self deprecating, and I loves me a bit of self abuse.

Then there's A whole lot of nothing which is worth the visits for the beautiful pictures of their wee girls alone.

Also, Fuse Moms is a well written blog, a good mix of funny and sweet...and Lyssa has been to Holland, the poor woman.

Magneto Bold Too is probably the funniest woman blog I've come(note correct spelling) across. Foul mouthed and unsympathetic, and Australian, which makes her Irish really. Probably descended from criminals but it takes all kinds, eh?

I've been getting braver and braver and checking out the Immoral Matriarch. She scares the shit out of me, but makes me laugh & pity her husband.

It seems that people really take pity on subfertile idiots like me and give them stuff.
I've been given 2 bloggy type awards from BusyDad and from Kelley at Magneto Bold Too.

These two are weird and cool seeing as I haven't got a bull's notion what I'm actually doing.
Thanks guys.




Then Kim at Frog Ponds Rock created an award and gave it to me. Frogs are my second favourite thingys after ducks so this is really cool.


Also, I must point out that she gave this as award for my masturbation incident, which I think we should highlight as something that isn't rewarded often enough.

==100==

Now, if you're still awake, listen up.

I'm a couple of posts off 100, I couldn't believe it when I noticed that. As I'm am lazy (No sperm jokes you pricks), I want to mark this post, yet I can't be arsed coming up with any ideas.
This is where you come in.

Leave a comment or drop a mail with an idea for my 100th post and I'll go with one (or maybe more) of the best suggestions.

Anything you wanna hear about? see? ask? Be as creative and as weird as you want. Remember I have no more shame left so I'm game for anything.

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.

Sperm count
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...

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.

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.

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.

The Part-Time Transvestite

I went to work today looking like a part time transvestite who hadn't quite managed to make the transformation back to day time state.

Totally oblivious to this fact, I did wonder what the sniggering and whispering was for as I walked away from the coffee machine.

A moment in front of the bathroom mirror told me all I needed to know.

So, toothpaste manufacturers, if you MUST make your toothpaste tubes all glittery and shiney, please try to ensure that it doesn't flake off and transfer itself to sleepy morning hands, that eventually rub sleepy morning eyes, and go to work looking like a tranny with a hangover, eh?

Thank you.

F5

Time for a refresh, added and removed some blog links, changed some wording as it ain't all about dads anymore, and considering the fact I ain't one anyway (Damn you mother nature, why oh why ? ! ?). Reality Check.

Then, just to prove to you how dull this blog is when I can't moan about being seedless, this is what I'm a'gonna do this grey Saturday morning in North Western Europe...

-Get a coffee - damn, can't - caffeine
-Get an overpriced haircut at the chatty English speaking barber's
-Go to the gym and sweat myself stooopider than I already am. No sauna, the best part by the way, 'cause that's out too.
-Come home and scratch. No self touching though, as that's also banned.

To add to my disillusionment this week I made contact with the local pool, 4 minute walk, about swimming lessons for adults. The 9 year old Olympic champion swimmer receptionist scoffed at me and informed me that they stopped giving them years ago... due to lack of need.

I may just add -Cause pain to a cloggy (Dutch person) to my list, probably after scratching.

EDIT: Continuing the scratching theme, Scratch what I said about a grey day, it is a stunningly beautiful 'late Summer's' day.

Small Mercies

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh....

My home is in-law free once again.

I can return to living a life of inapropriate self-touching and vigorous scratching.
Oh and of course daily sessions in the saddle to help nature on it's way.

Ironically, next week we again have visitors, this time my family, which will clash with the time when we discover if this month has been successful or not. These guys (gals to be precise) are much younger and should result in a chilled out few days for next weekend.

Overall, we are much more relaxed about everything, we have a pretty full schedule for the coming weeks and even months which should keep us occupied when things start to get us down.

At what point do people normally start wanting to get some medical advice?, I know that it's widely said to be a year for our age group, but I'll be a sailor's willie before I believe that people haven't gone about it sooner....

I am one impatient paddy.

Anyway...I'm off to treat myself to a new xbox game, disrobe and scratch to my wee heart's content...