vilest concoction of tea

Scott’s been working 80 hours/week between Home Depot & LEI, his new engineering gig. I never see him. Not even today.

I continue to drink The World’s Vilest Concoction of Tea. We have yet to conceive, and I think it will be a while yet, but — hey — two servings of that a day had better be doing something good. In fact, a few mornings I’ve woken up and felt things going on down there. I don’t know exactly what, but the weird pulsings and pinpricks of tingly-ness mean there is uterine activity. Yesssssss!

I’m considering entirely quitting treatment with Kristie Rosser, my nurse practitioner. I don’t think the clomid is doing its job. In fact, it’s throwing my body more out of kilter than ever. But what do I know? It’s just my body. Clearly, I have no basis for an opinion. Anyhow, so I’ll talk to Scott about that today. I think he’ll have some concerns. We’ve always taken a mostly uncontroversial approach to medicine with, perhaps, some leanings toward natural methods.

But going off clomid? Not having appointments with Kristie? PLUS the two hundred-and-some-odd dollars we’re planning to spend in tea and accupuncture each month? A combination of the two seems too far off Scott’s path.

Then again, he is flexible. And what a blessing it is to have a flexible partner. One who will learn to discern between Judy Garland and Jane Powell; Bob Hope and Bing Crosby; Katherine Hepburn and Audrey Hepburn, who will sing along as you pound out a poorly-played Sondheim tune, and glide through Val-emotion-world with effortless grace. We shall see.

Yesterday I was so PMS-y that I didn’t know what to do but make Scott take me out clothes shopping and to a nice dinner. That did the trick. A real date with my husband. …Of course, it was after spending five gruelling hours between home and Home Depot, working on our bathroom. Such a task would have been enough of an ordeal without the PMS. With it, I just wanted to sit in the middle of an aisle and bawl. But I must be gateful for the PMS. It means my body’s trying to be functional.

We picked up a risque little number from Dillard’s. Okay, not really risque. Just too low of a neckline to wear in public without a jacket of some kind. But it had just the right look for him. “You look hot,” Scott said with a tone I haven’t heard him use in quite a while and have no hopes of describing without blushing. The pattern, somewhat reminiscent of grapes in a vineyard, made me look “very Italian.” It turned him on — more so than any other dress I own. Of course said dress was purchased.

I’m saving it for our anniversary. Mmmm-hmmm.