One boxing class, two glasses of red, ice cream and no topping.
Well after the adventures of a blogging virgin yesterday, I shopped. Woo hoo chemist warehouse. I bought one of those ovulation sampler kits (seriously, why were we not built with a flashing neon sign to tell us fertiliy is nigh) and some more get-a-baby-vitamins. I also lost focus and bought a whole lot of other crap. I managed to buy a lifetime supply of the WRONG vitamins WITHOUT the lets-not-give-birth-to-a-mutant folic acid, so I’ll have to go out and purchase more. Idiot. I hate that.
On the way home I stopped to feed my friend’s cat. This is my fourth cat this year. I am officially a cat lady now. What is it about me that says “hey I’d feed your cat while you’re on holidays?” They are on holidays for ten days. This kitten is a real little shite. He bights like buggery. I am not surprised though – they spend no little time with him. So I bought him kitten food (softy) and he was pretty happy with that. And while he ran around and wore himself out I sat in their backyard and read the instructions on the ovulation sampler bag. He kept trying to eat the part about peeing on the stick. And there’s nothing like peeing on a stick to put us in the mood for love, is there?
Finally, after the cat feeding duties, with bite marks all over my shoes, I headed home. Hub in boots had beat me in the door, so i am surreptitiously stashing all baby related merch (vitamins, sampler bag) in the back of random draws so as not to freak out his delicate masculine sensibilities. He was positioned on the couch like he’d never move again…I can’t win. He’s totally absent in footy season, running kilometres and kilometres a week, and when it isn’t footy season he’s like a buddha, sitting in the corner. Though buddha did not generally sink beers, which is the other problem with off season…
So what do I do? I decide to pee on a stick with him just 10 metres away. Subtle. ducking in an out of the bathroom checking the timer. Blasted ovulation lottery. Seriously. He’s saying “hey look at this on tele” and I’m going “yeah babe, wow that’s cool!”. Inside I’m going only one line and we’re at three minutes now, damn. It must be a competitive thing. I mean does it really matter if there’s only one line? I was at day 16 which actually is probably a bit late for ovulation (so google tells me). Do I keep peeing on sticks every day? Or just leave the bloody thing tell next month? I am betwixt and between. I think I’ve missed my window…but we were at it like rabbits. You don’t actually HAVE to have a stick to tell you when to go for it.
Hub in boots is being a bit of a problem at present. There’s this weird twilight thing going on where the “mad old mate” is in town from Vietnam. All the drunken, stoned, mad stories of his twenties include mad old mate. And after two years of dating and 10 months of marriage, I still hadn’t met mad old mate. So I thought it was reasonable to request this. From the stories of his legend, he was insane, drunken, wild, lived in various animal houses and was the ring leader of trouble. I imagined someone six foot tall, handsome with boyish charm. Every time he comes to Sydney mad old mate organising “the Grande bouffe”. It is a giant dinner, somewhere nice, with excellent wines, where they pore over all the old escapades and create a few new ones, losing a day or two along the way. Trouble is:blokes only. I mean I’m cool with that, but I think as someone defined as “one of my best mates” I should, hub in boots, get a chance to meet him.
turns out he’s 1. decidedly middle aged (looking 10 years older than hub in boots) 2. married and kidded up with a vietnamses family 3. is not tall, not handsome, and wears coke bottle glasses. The legend, my friends, is dead. And he actually wasn’t all that entertaining.
I went to boxing before we dropped in to see mad old mate. My class was so ridiculously full on I couldn’t tell if I was going to spew or faint. It was ugly ugly ugly. I got home, and was unable to speak during the ten minute turn around from sweaty to ready to go. Hub in boots? Hub in boots had NOT cooked the beef stir fry I’d left for tea. No no no. He’d fried some chips (what the?) and made sandwiches. Sandwiches. For dinner. with the SAME toppings as the ones I made for lunch. I think he’s missing the point just quietly. Luckily the friends we were dropping in on had a barbeque on. Phew. I was starving, and bloody turkey bloody sandwiches were just not going to fly.
I thought about sex last night, then shuffled deeper into my pillow and my I-only-got-one-line-no-proper-dinner-at-home-buggered-from-boxing-sick-of-mad-old-mate mood, and went to sleep. zzzzzz