Not Precisely Waving Here

My Visa bill fell incandescently onto the doormat this morning.

Among other items, it details

  • charges for the IVF I don’t think is working
  • interview clothes for the jobs I didn’t get.

Yesterday, I made toasted cheese sandwiches, without noticing that the flex from the toaster was caught in the back of it.

Big bang, big blue flash, big fucking surprise, and a zapped left arm before the circuit breaker took the fuses out.

The temptation to crawl into a hole and wail is fairly compelling, but Harry has been sick all morning – the poor chap scored a Direct Hit on my brand-new, not-yet-networked iPhone4 and my clean duvet cover with his first upheaval – so I can’t afford to waste my strength on histrionics, because it’ll likely be my turn to invert my insides this afternoon.

The peesticks  – aka, my best attempts at chemical WombCam – have gone from pretty-much zero (they sneakily acquired lines after 12 hours) to a ridiculously faint smudge after a mere 30 minutes (I knew my uterus couldn’t be wrong!) telling me a story of a very biochemical indeed pregnancy; however, my uterus is now quiet as the grave I hope it isn’t.

Oh, and Harry’s speech therapist saw which way the redundancy wind was blowing and left. Smart girl, but because of ubiquitous funding cuts, God alone knows when he’ll get another one.

I give up on suffering quietly: I’ve turned the comments back on. I’ll take all the comfort I can get!

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