Thursday, March 15, 2012

Chico the Chihuahua, or, Waiting for the Clomid Challenge

We have a small dog.  He was Heather's long before I moved in, but I feel like if you pick up a dog's poop enough, you've earned yourself a few shares of that grumpy stock.
Chico has a lot of personality, he's a devoted snuggler, and he's a fine greeter.  However, he is a grotesque failure when it comes to choosing appropriate locations to relieve himself.  He's small, so the pooping part is more of a, "Goddamn it, Chico.  Again?"  The only time our Rottweiler let loose, I felt as though a Dementor had flown invisibly through our front door; everything went cold and dark, as though we would never be happy again.  Chico's defecation barely merits a Patronus.  (Bonus points or penalties for the Harry Potter metaphors?)

The real issue with Chico is that he pees in the house and we don't know where.  I mean, we can tell what's up when our beige bedroom carpet gets a fluorescent tint, but the rug in the living room is darker.  What we really should do is use the carpet steamer every day when we get home; instead, we begin to recognize a sour smell, curse to ourselves, then curse at Chico and open the windows.  Heather's contention is that we should put him in his crate-- an item that has not played host to Chico since the first night he cried and broke Heather's resolve.  I don't think we'll ever manage that and perhaps a tarp over the rug would make more sense.

Why on earth should we have to tarp the rug every morning?  We shouldn't.  But when you know your dog isn't going to take the whole house/yard distinction seriously, you resort to absurd solutions.  I was always disgusted by people who get fake grass or pee pads for their dogs-- train the jackasses!-- but I have to say I'd consider us lucky if we could toss a pee pad when we get home from work instead of crawling around to sniff the rug.  It brings the room together, guys.

This absurdity isn't very different from the strange enthusiasms of the ol' TTC grind.  I, for example, am super-pumped for Heather to get her period this weekend so that we can kick off the Clomid challenge.  Day 3 she gets blood drawn; day 5 she starts taking Clomid; day 10 she loses some more blood, and then they get the results and hand us an infant.  Right?  Heather and I went back and forth with each other about when exactly she would get her period--

"Day 27?  I never start on day 27."  
"Yeah, you do.  It varies between 26 and 28, but usually the 27th."  
"No, I don't!  Sometimes it's the 29th!"

I would pull out the charts, but fuck it.  There's no point arguing with someone who's about to be proven wrong.  Yeah, I said it-- and, yes, I will add a note to this entry if she begins monsterating on the 26th, 28th, 29th, or any day other than the 27th.

My mom reacted to news of Heather's forthcoming niece or nephew with conviction.  "Rachel, I've been thinking about Ashley's pregnancy since you e-mailed and I believe this is a sign from the universe.  You guys need to go up there and get it."  I couldn't see her face in the dim lighting, so I'm not sure if it was a joke or not.  At the rate we're going, though, it's not such a ridiculous suggestion; the only hold-up is that Ashley's not into it.  Fuck.


  1. I wish I could like this post, like, 43278947398 times.

  2. The "guys" part was all you. I felt you were writing at my side, much like freshman year and that paper on Frederick Douglas.