I ordered my drugs for my frozen embryo transfer. Well, the nurse at the Cleveland Clinic Fertility Center ordered my drugs for my frozen embryo transfer. I just ate a king-sized Hershey bar and contemplated the inner workings of the people on The Hills. But either way: drugs, they wuz ordered.
Not sure how I feel about jumping back into the stirrups. Besides, you know, being really excited to show people my Lady Business on the regular. I'm all twisty turny about it in a way that is needlessly dramatic and doesn't warrant further description than Poor Me And All My Options: A Drama.
But anyway. Worlds. Colliding.
It turns out that the new pharmacy for the spermically challenged? Requires a signature for drug delivery. Which is awesome. I mean, I wouldn't want any of my neighbors stealing my 1.5 inch progesterone in oil needles and stabbing themselves in the asses! That fun is MINE and I refuse to share because I'm just a total bitch like that.
The helpful lady at the pharmacy suggested I send my package to work and so I did. Because really, the only people who sign for Fed Ex are the people who know about my Adventures In Infertility And Moron Management.
But of course that can't work out in my favor, because on the one day that I choose to have a big ass box of fertility medications shipped to me at work? The very one and only day that this would ever happen? MY BOSS signs for the Fed Ex. For, like, the first time in his 27 years with our company.
I didn't see it, but apparently he read the address label and said, "says it's for Jen...wonder what it is?" Then, he shook it all around near his ear. Trying to figure out what it was.
WORLDS: THEY BE COLLIDING UP IN HERE * kaboom *
I mean, the only way it could have been more George Constanza is if a PIO needle poked through the box and stabbed him in the eyeball causing me to make up some outrageous lie.
(Please tell me that you remember the whole worlds colliding thing from Seinfeld? Here's a refresher.)