Friends who know me best will hear me refer to Dirty Sock and Zen, at which point they’ll smile and nod and think to themselves, there’s Miss Tasha going on about something esoteric as usual, with it making sense only in her brilliant mind.
So it is with Dirty Sock, who I’ve mentioned before in this blog, but it bears repeating. You see, Dirty Sock makes his appearance in the Tom Robbins classic, Skinny Legs and All, whereupon Dirty Sock and his comrades Spoon, Can O’Beans, and Conch Shell are all making their way to Mecca. Because of course.
On the way, Dirty Sock winds up in a creek, and is struggling to stay afloat, getting waterlogged and gasping for air, and eventually he gives up all hope, resigning himself to a watery grave. Just as he does so, he gets hooked on a log that flips him out of the water just in time, and he lays there exhausted on said log, thanking his good fortune.
The lesson here being that sometimes, just when all hope is lost, things take a turn for the better.
So there I was, despairing, albeit cheered up by friends like Kate Gace Walton from (ahem) Wharton, who posted a link to abandoned hotels on FB for me to cheer me up (thanks Kate!) (because I love that stuff, and have dreams of going to each abandoned building and exploring and recreating scenes from The Shining) (I know, I’m weird), bummed because I had missed the call on Saturday from ORM telling me the results of my blood test. But of course they’d be sucky, because everything else had been.
Lo and behold, I called this morning, to find out that I have fricking rock$tar results. An FSH of 9. Estradiol of 11.7. Again, for the uninitiated, fucking awesome results.
I then immediately jumped to the logical conclusion: my follicles might be few, but they’re mighty and fierce, dammit. They’re the uber-super-mega-awesome follicles that people dream about. They’re the toughs at the…Follicle Bar, yeah, that’s it, swaggering around and boasting about how awesome they are, and how they don’t want nobody nobody sent. That’s the Chicago in them talking by the way.
They’re the badass Logan’s Run of follicles, hunting down and exterminating all the lazy-ass slacker follicles with their shitty subpar eggs. Or maybe that would be Mad Max and the Thunderdome.
Point being, Miss Tasha has wound up on a log, and despite staring down a rabbit hole of madness, I’m going to take my shiny optimism and run with it. Yep, Imma take my little waterlogged socky self and just hang out right here for a while, thankyouverymuch.
On another note, I’ve been looking through the ORM Sperm Bank for a donor, and while I don’t want to post anything that would risk my getting booted out of the program, I have to say that they have some goofy names and descriptions of these guys. Names like Cedric, Thurmond, Alistair, Warrick, Sterling, Leopold, etc and so on. Seriously, Leopold?? Clearly someone’s having fun with this.
The best parts though are some of the descriptions.
“Cedric has an impeccable smile and symmetrical features. He dresses well in button down shirts and khakis with a smart leather jacket on top.”
Khakis? At this rate, it looks like my donor may be Jake from State Farm.
Tomorrow I start my “Clomid Challenge,” or, as I like to call it, Battle of the Network Ovaries. Seriously, who comes up with these names anyway? But being the uber-competitive type that I am, I say, bring it. I will report back.