UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Speaking his language Mar 03, 2008
After knowing Mr. Flinger for nearly twenty years now, seven years of those married, six of those as best friends, and 5 years of dating, you’d think I kinda know the guy a bit. You’d think that. And you’d be right. Mostly.
For some reason I’ve been approaching this whole birth control thing completely wrong. I’ve been approaching it like a women, with logic and emotion. *We* don’t want to have children, so *we* need to find a solution that works for *us*. *We* need to get a cost effective/low impact solution. *We* don’t need the Mommy (hi) to be an emotional wreck from the hormones of Birth Control Pills (also? I can not be counted on to take them thus making their reliability around 2%) or the IUD*. *We* don’t like condoms. *We* don’t want an abortion. *We* don’t want to do this again. We’re happy. With two. A boy and a girl. Remember?
So why is it that The Other Solution isn’t discussed? Because he doesn’t want to discuss it. Because “he’s not ready for that” and “not man enough” and “someblatheringIcan’tunderstand”.
Then it hit me. A chart. I needed a chart.
Lo, I created a chart.
Remember back when we purchased our garbage can? Remember how
he graphed my hormones during my miscarriage? Did you know he once asked me to rate my daily activities on a scale of one to ten before deciding to go back to Graduate School? You know, to quantify the decision?
Graphs. Charts. Engineer. :: Slaps Forehead ::
:: owie ::
So I decided to quantify the decision. And this is what I came up with.
Note in Figure A we have a cost ration per various solutions. Note that in Figure B, all birth control costs pail in comparison to the cost of raising a child as noted on Baby Center.
Here in Figure C we have the joy ratio of various birth control methods:
And here is the link I’m sending via IM to my husband as we speak.
Did I mention the pocket knife? You get a pocket knife. Snip. Snip.
Maybe now I’ve talked his language, he will talk mine. BowChickaBowWow.
*A note about The IUD. I thought about this route. I thought long and hard. I thought I’d go this route but in order to do so, my doctor wants me to call The First Day Of My Cycle, which as you know, is completely unpredictable and irratic (because the ENTIRE internet knows this about me) and thus have been trying to get in for three months now. Three. Long. Sexless. Months.
**I didn’t even take in the anual cost of therapy the third child will bring, the cases of wine consuned before child reaches four, or the pregnancy tests I will continue to pee on until the snip is complete.
**For your further reading enjoyment.
Randomness Aug 06, 2007
The BoyChild will not let me set him down. What-so-ever. At all. Nada. Zilch. No-go. W.T.F. This means I have about thirty-two minutes at the end of the day when Mr. Flinger gets here to do bills, clean, make dinner, eat dinner, pee, shower, and workout. Oh! And type! And write thank you cards! And give myself a pedicure because OY. Did I mention Oy? OY.
This too shall pass. I know I know. And if I was really obnoxious and deeply troubling I might say something totally gross like, “I just enjoy this time because one day he’ll be fighting me off and I’ll miss the days of carrying him around in the sling every goddamn minute of the day.”
In other news, I took a pregnancy test. YES! That’s right! Internet, I made it an entire ELEVEN WEEKS before peeing on another pregnancy stick. It’s an addiction. Did I tell you I had this almost uncontrollable urge to pee on one during the third trimester? You know, AS THE BABY IS MOVING? There really should be a support group.
It was negative. Duh.
Doesn’t explain the hormones and boobs.
Or other things.
Tonight after a bath and a story (O loves Harry Potter but we’re only on page 132 so don’t tell us who wins) I laid him down and did a rain dance to the gods of “my child has some insane sensor on him that detects a surface other than mom” and it worked. He was asleep. Or is. Or, wait…
We didn’t turn on the monitor.
Ignorance is bliss.
Celebrate* Sep 18, 2006
Just got the call: HCG is less than five. We can :: ahem :: resume “normal activity” and start trying whenever we feel comfortable.
I’m drinkin’ some wine tonight, baby! Bring on the BABY MAKING.
*upon hearing this news Mr. Flinger says, “Activity as normal? Can’t we do better than once a month? Come on, Man, throw me a bone.” He forgot about the the experiment already? Jeesh.
Because this is what I’d say if I just met you on the street Aug 17, 2006
Here is the kind of information you would get from me if you saw me on the street today.
“Yea. I’m almost five weeks pregnant. Yea. So it’s not going well. Yasee, I peed on another stick today. And, well, it’s not darker and I KNOW they say it doesn’t matter but it has to, right? Doesn’t it make sense if your HGC went up it would get darker? Yea. I thought so. So anyway, I had another blood work lab today because the nurse isn’t pleased with my score of 47 on 17 days past ovulation. Oh, we know when I ovulated because I took this ovulation strip. Oh, it’s so neat, it’ll tell you when your egg is about 48 hours from being released. Crazy, hu? Anyway, so I had to go back in and now they’re saying things like “miscarriage” and “low HCG” and “if you make it to 2000, we’ll do an ultrasound.” So now I’m totally freaking out because, yaknow, I’ve told people and people read and came, and commented. Cool people. People I’d want to be pregnant at the same time with. Or share stories of my vajaja with or about discharge and my big boobs and puking. I mean, they’re all counting on me to stark puking. Yaknow? And we have a name for him.. yes it’s a him.. and I’ve already cried several times today over the low HCG levels and well, my boobs don’t hurt nearly enough…”
And that’s about the time my inner sensor FINALLY kicks in and starts beeping loudly at me to SHUTTHEFUCKUPALREADY. Did I mention I have a malfunctioning inner sensor? Seuss and I were talking about this tonight. That little red light that should blink when you’re on the phone with the financial consultant and instead you blurt out the above paragraph, in its entirety, and she pauses, says, “well, perhaps we can fiddle with the numbers a bit” and you lock your rate just a tad lower. Or when you’re discussing the contract with the seller and you begin said paragraph, again, momments after kicking yourself from the first phone call and yet, YOU DO NOT STOP, you actually say out loud, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this..” followed by an awkward pause…. “.... ....... ........ .... Yes, well, anyway….”
And that, ladies and 2 gents, is why I didn’t post today. Because I told the real-estate gal, the financial consultant, the seller of the condo, two nurses, the lab lady, some random stranger in the library, Erin and all our family my entire pregnancy history, all four weeks in its entirety, and I can’t bear to repeat it again.
Or else I might cry.
Because I can convince a nun she’s pregnant but not that she’s a lesbian May 23, 2006
Two weeks late. Grumpy but not bitchy. Weepy but not pissy. Tired. Sore boobs. Pukey.
Wow. This. Is. Really. Getting. Old.
Maybe it’s all those women I sleep with. Yathink?*
Oooh, Internet, before you run around spreading rumors, lemme just say that I’ve stayed up late to see my hunk-o-hunk-a-burning-manhood on the Country Music Awards (which I despise) just because someone said he was on. And in the five
sentences he was on, I realize there is no way I could ever leave men. I love them. Especially that one. .. I mean.. my husband. Raaauuurrr.
Times you should NOT have to consult your blog May 08, 2006
“Babe, my uterus hurts.”
“When is your period due?”
“I dunno. I’ll have to check my archives.”
You mean I can get a poke any time I wanna? Dec 21, 2005
No, it’s not the latest porn movie hitting the Internet, it’s what my Doc said after I admitted to peeing away hundreds of dollars in pregnancy sticks. After last week’s episode, she demanded I take a blood pregnancy test because, let’s face it, I was whacked and a week late. Also, regardless of how many fake positive or real negative tests I take, I still believe I’m pregnant. Hell, I can be bleeding like a stuck pig and think I’m pregnant. Trust me. Or don’t. Read it for yourself.
Anyway, so she calls with the results telling me, upon my answering the phone, “The answer is no.” [silence] Me, “Hmm. MmmK.” She asks if this is sad news. I think about it. “No,” I say hesitating, “no, not really. I mean we’re not TRYING. Of course, we’re not NOT trying, either, so….” She tells me the details of how pregnancy tests work, very medically and not at all like the images of dancing naked in the woods at night or singing to venus or anything that I’ve done recently to make a test positive (you know, everything short of actually HAVING sex to get pregnant). She says, of course, I can still get pregnant next month, if I want to, and if I ever believe I’m pregnant for more than a few days to call her and she’ll order a blood pregnancy test.
She has no idea who she’s talking to. Poor lady.
More talk about how my nipples can cut glass and I’m about to hurl at the sight of food Dec 07, 2005
I swear to you, I can convince a nun she’s pregnant. No, Really. I could. I think I have a problem. There should be a name for this. “reallybadguessingatpregnancysymptoms-drom” or “howthehellcouldIpossiblybebutIthinkitanyway-drom” or “mynippleshurtlet’sassumeit’sababy-drom” ‘cause y’all. Every. Effing. Month.
One of these days the girl-who-cried-pregnant will actually GET pregnant and there will be no people to give a rat’s ass. “Yea. Right” they’ll say. “Uhhu.. SUUUURRREEEE.” And “Are you SUUREEE you didn’t just pee on a used stick?”
Thus is born, a new category, “times I think I’m pregnant but I’m not.” And so it shall be…
*note* holy crap! I didn’t realize just how often I write about how I think I’m pregnant. Ok. It’s official. I don’t think I am anymore. It’s just a little sad when you see that many posts all in one place. ::Slinking away into corner now holding a tampon and waiting for AF::
OH MAH GAH.. chronicles from the puke files Nov 17, 2005
Y’all… I am not just feeling pukey.. I am hunched over the sink dry heaving. Why? Seriously? Here’s the theory.
More of my phantom pregnancy symptoms Jul 28, 2005
I’m starving. I’m so hungry, y’all. I’m hungry enough that page 83 of Harry Potter had me drooling. Oh, it’s not the main point of the chapter. Unless, of course, the fact that Harry Potter eats onion soup and bread has some large meaning to the whole wizarding world. I’m sure it doesn’t. But it has a whole hell of a lof of meaning to my world. Mainly, my belly.