Item – We are preparing for our voyage to the Chalet of Terror (as HFF so fittingly named it), for the In-Law Extravaganza. So far the preparations have involved me accidentally finding the sun-screen, and having a panic-attack about my passport (when I, apropos of nothing at all, suddenly muttered ‘shit!’ and hurled myself towards the study, H leapt after me shouting ‘your passport’s FINE.’ And then he claims he is neither observant nor empathic. LIAR). We set off on Wednesday. Ample time for dithering about trousers and which of the 97 books I wish to take will actually fit in the suitcase. Ample.
Item – I admit I am in a bit of a state (my God, you mean your last post was a clue?). This culminated last night in me losing it with H for not having done his teeth yet, inconsiderate swine that he is, and rapidly passed through the ‘and another thing!’ fringes of disconnected lunacy before landing with a tearful squelch in ‘And My Entire Life Sucks’. And then I looked up at H through red and puffy eyes and said ‘This is PMT, isn’t it? I know you’re thinking the same thing,’ and his ears went absolutely scarlet.
Item – The thing is, I really don’t like my job. Not because it’s a bad job, or at a bad place, or among bad people. Obviously, there are frustrations and the odd work-place loon, because that’s standard and how work just is. But I don’t like it because it’s not what I want out of my life. At all. I thought perhaps getting a professional qualification and a proper full-time job like a real grown-up would help. Actually, it’s making me feel increasingly trapped and dear God I am so bored. If I had a private office, hell, a private cubicle, and if I had more flexible hours, then I think I could take it, as the work itself is interesting and I am good at it. But, as any fule kno, Hell is other people. Even when they are harmlessly humming to themselves or slurping Cream of Pondweed soup at the desk next to me or peering over my shoulder to ask who I’m emailing and why I’m emailing instead of cataloguing those DVDs on the urgent shelf. (We in Britain spell cataloguing with a u. Because it’s French, apparantly, but when we first adopted the word in the Middle Ages we spelt it without the u, by and large, so this is mostly affectation. But it’s our affectation, so it must be right).
Item – Anyway, I am in a bit of a state. Is it very noticeable?
Item – Furthermore, today is 10dpo. For the past few days I have been having odd cramps and twinges. Yesterday (9dpo) my temperature dropped, bastard temperature, possibly not helping with the ‘My Life, Suckage Of’ crisis, as I thought this cycle was a bust. Today, however, temperature was higher than ever. I mentioned this to H (well, he did ask what my chart was doing, so…) and he gave me a hug. I was impelled by Mysterious Forces to say ‘and the last and only time my chart did that…’ but H interrupted, saying ‘I know‘ very firmly indeed, earning himself several brownie points for observation (again, when he next insists he’s not very observant, one of you set fire to his pants for me, would you? Because, LIAR).
Item – And I went bra-buying today. After much wrestling in and out of various confections of lace and elastic and wire, I bought another copy of the rather plain and menopausal bra I got last time I went bra-buying. Because seeing my squashed nipples through the mesh of a sort of frilly shrimping-net was depressing me. Also, bra-shopping with noticeably enlarged and painful breasts is a very very silly idea. I am an eejit. I need more bras. Arse.
Item – So, basically, I am pissed off with my job, and Bitch Hope is tearing holes in my trouser-legs, and I only have three Internet Pee-Sticks of Doom left. I had two batches, which ended up in the same box. One batch is labelled 25 mIU, and the other isn’t labelled at all, so is probably more of an ‘oops, you’re crowning’ mIU. I have two of one and one of the other. I am pretending I have none at all, and this is all nothing to do with me, and on Monday I am going to the Big Chemist near work to get my prescription for mefenamic and tranexamic acid, and lots of sticky-back duvets, and I am not going to go and look at the pregnancy tests at all, oh no, absolutely not, so there.