Hello Monkeyface

Some of our closest moments have been snuggled on the couch under a big blanket watching old movies and eating popcorn and junior mints (and yes, you must eat them together - as in mix the junior mints into the hot popcorn. Trust me, I didn't believe it either, but it turns into a salty chocolately melty wonderful mess). For the holidays last year I bought him a big box set of old Hitchcock flicks, including Suspicion with Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Cary Grant's character has a line where he says "Hello monkeyface" to Joan Fontaine in the flick, and after hours of laughing and repeating the heavily accented phrase over and over and over, somehow I ended up with that nickname. I also use it for him upon occasion - although he is usually relegated to just "monkey." Our cats (and occasionally me) are known as "kittenface" and he is often "muffinface." It's a ridiculously sappy life we lead, I tell you. I could make you really ill and tell you the remainder of our nicknames for each other, but I'll spare gagging you.

This morning, I got a Land of Nod email in one of my typically unused mailboxes, and I have no idea what in the HELL possessed me to open it as I usually try to stay away from cutesy baby stuff somewhat like the bubonic plague. But I did open it. And I fell in love with an item, and -ohmygod- ordered it. I have been staunchly opposed to buying anything for as a yet unconceived child, because well, obviously I realize it may never happen. I used to shake my heads in wonder at women who had a secret stash of things hidden away in their closets, I wasn't that strong. I was too bitter, too jaded. It may never happen, I kept telling myself. And then what - how sad would you be when faced with these things that you've lovingly kept for so long? I was set to go with the Jewish tradition of waiting to buy anything for the baby until it was home safely from the hospital.

But I folded today and bought the cutest things on the planet.

Hello Monkeyface.

Hello hope.

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NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (that's me wailing). The R.E.'s office just called, and the doctor absolutely does not want to set me up with injectibles until the CA-125 results are in (I had the blood drawn Wed. a.m.). My period decided to surprise me early, and for the last two days I've been debating - Is this it? Is this spotting? Today is arbitrarily going to be counted as CD 1, but they will only let me start on CD 4 at the lastest - which is Monday. And that won't happen unless they get the blood results in today and the levels are low enough.

Please, please, please, please let the results come in. I've now been charting for THIRTY-ONE cycles (admittedly we haven't been trying for all of them) but please. $*#@!

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thankyouthankyouthankyou. I don't know what deity or fate or muse to thank - so I'll just thank them all. Ganesh, Jesus, Jehovah, G-d, Mohammed, Allah, the patchouli scented chick with dangly earrings who offered to read my palm for a mere $40, the guy who preached at us with a bullhorn in New Orleans, St. Anne - did I leave anyone out? If so, uh - it was unintended.

The nurse just called and she's been trying all day to get in touch with the lab. The antibody tests aren't in yet, but the CA-125 came back at a "6." A "6" is o.k.

I am set for 11:00 a.m. for labs and sonogram on Halloween. We are ready for lift-off.

Countdown may commence now.