So the turkey baster was a bust.  (Sad face here.)  I waited a little while just in case I was having one of those magical cycles I've heard about where, contrary to the diaper between your legs, you're actually STILL pregnant!  I even read in Ann Landers the other day some chick who had her period every month and didn't even know she was pregnant until she was seven months along. AND she was an OB nurse, or some crap like that.  But no, my monthly visitor was a gusher… thus proving that all those stories of periods-while-pregnant are utter poop-stinking myths.  At least for me.

I can't say I'm OK with all this… but I'm okay.  (I did watch a lot of TV for a couple of days and hide in general but I'm good now.)  I do have a wonderful son, and I'm pretty darn pleased with him even when he's yanking my chain.  I think we may consider doing the turkey baster one more time and that's about it.  No big journeys down the infertility treatment highway.  Technically, there isn't much wrong; we're just getting older, you know, and sometimes it just doesn't happen.  Of course, we'll keep having frantically unprotected sex.  At least for a few more months.  

But I am so done with peeing on sticks.  I'm sorry, ovulation testers.  It's not you, it's me.

I ran into caffeine over the weekend and we're getting back together.  We may even look up booze and unpasteurized cheese for some partying.  (I'm all kinky like that.)

                  – the weirdgirl