Green Eggs and Sam

Between eating egg white omelets almost every morning (they are low in fat and no cholesterol), Easter eggs and the hormone shots I’m taking to produce more eggs, I’m on egg overload. I’m also premenstrual. If I were Justin Timberlake, I’d be bringing crabby back.

This morning, at our favorite diner, our chipper waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs. Sunnyside up? Scrambled? It took all the strength not to answer with “Fertilized and implanted, thank you.”

Even the mere existence of Cadbury Crème Eggs pissed me off today. I found them patronizing.

Also, in some weird irony, we got a voice mail around 5:15pm from a woman named Erin. She said, “Hey, I’m sorry but I think we left our diaper bag over there when we were at your daughter’s birthday party. If you could give me a call and let me know for sure, that would be great. And we had a great time and your daughter is adorable!”

After rolling my eyes, I decided I’d better call her back and tell her she had the wrong number. She answered the phone and I said, “Hello. I got your voice mail about a birthday party but um, well, I just wanted to let you know you have the wrong number.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Is this Kate’s mom? Do you have my diaper bag?“

I responded, “Listen carefully Erin. I don’t have a diaper bag nor do I have a daughter named Kate. The only thing I have remotely close to either is a purse made by Kate Spade.”

She apologized for bothering me and quickly hung up. My first thought was, “At least she didn’t say, ‘Boy, I’m so embarrassed. There’s certainly egg on my face!‘”

Eggs, eggs, eggs…

And in case you’re keeping track, today was day four of the Gonal-F Shots and the last few nights have been better than the first night (not that the first night was a disaster but still). Despite the improvement though, there’s something I still find semi-traumatic about the whole thing. Sam sincerely does a great job and handles the whole sticking-his-wife-with-a-needle-thing very matter a fact (i.e. “This has to be done and by golly, I’m going to do it!”) and I admire him for that. He even refers to himself as Doctor Sam these days, but despite the bravado, he always asks if I still love him about 20 minutes after the injection. Obviously, he’s in a tough spot and I do feel for him. However, I can only have so much compassion for someone who says every night at 7pm, “Time for me to shoot you!“

Tonight, my personal highlight was right after Sam “shot me”, as the medication burned in my stomach (a.k.a. the bagel), he looked at me and said, “There. That wasn’t so bad, right?” He then proceeded to accidentally prick his finger with the needle and yelled, “Ouch! That hurt!” Really, Sam? Really? Does it?

Sam truly has been exceedingly patient, understanding, loving and encouraging without being dismissive of my feelings (if that makes sense). Even though I’m going through all the physical hell, I can’t help but feel bad for him as he has to deal with ME on a daily basis. Heck, I often annoy myself.

I always have a hard time explaining Sam to people. He’s absolutely adorable to me and I thought so from the first second we met. He’s smart, funny, charming (when he’s in the mood to be charming mind you), and can be absolutely and incredibly sweet. Then, there’s this other side to him that can be stubborn, defensive, and occasionally forgetful. He also seems resistant to closing cabinet doors as well as unable to turn off light switches after leaving a room. Sometimes, you really don’t know which Sam you’re going to get. No matter though, I adore him and no one makes me laugh as much as he does. I’ll shut cabinet doors and turn lights off after he leaves a room any day of the week.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention that Sam’s a terrific cook. He makes all our meals (I’m actually not allowed in the kitchen as I tend to burn liquids) and as much as it pains me to say this today of all days, he makes a killer omelet. *sigh*