missed connections

I, was wearing purple polka-dotted crotchless panties, yellow fuzzy tap dancing shoes and rainbow knee-high socks with swirly peace signs. On my tits, I had disco pasties. I have sicc multi-colored dreads.

You, had a green goatee, and no pants. A cow patterned blazer, No shirt. Sicc tatts.

I saw you hula'n on the multi-colored flying dragon art-car as I was riding my TIGHT cruzer thru da sicc playa dust.

We made eye-contact and never saw each again! Hope the universe brings us together. Namaste.

P.s. my name is Raven.

p.p.s we saw each other at burning man. 

[You guys: I could not make this up. Also, I just lost a little bit of respect for the Atlantic. I mean, really?] 

The truth is my crotchless panties are striped OMG JUST KIDDING MOM I had a little missed connection of my own last week. The above writer’s schizophrenic commitment to commas notwithstanding, it turns out that I, egg had a missed connection with You, sperm. Namaste. Also: ofcourseyournameisraven.

I went to the doctor this week for a follow up appointment in case I needed additional confirmation that I am BARREN not pregnant. In addition to not being with child, I am also apparently on the accelerated ovulation track (note to my first grade gifted and talented program: you failed to account for this particular predilection). Basically, I ovulate(d) too early. Although my follicles “looked great” and the nurse provided all kinds of false hope, my progesterone levels were already elevated by the time of my day 12 wanding. By the time of my post-coital headstands, it was probably too late.

So. Where do we go from here? (I know – this narration is just BRIMMING with intrigue.) This week I will conclude ten radiant days of birth control (again) at which point I will get my period for the second time in one month[1] – please, hold your applause. On day 3 of my period, I’ll hit the bottle Clomid for another five exhilarating days of what completely insignificant event will make me weep today gonadotropin adventure. On day 10 of my cycle, it’s time for a preemptive wanding,[2] just to make sure we don’t miss the party again. Then, to ensure a timely “surge,” a generous dose of genetically modified Chinese hamster ovary for everyone. And finally, after days of growing anticipation, the doctor-sanctioned relations shall commence, likely coinciding not with a carefully planned out-of-town-vacation but, instead, with C’s 72 hour shift of celibacy on-call at the hospital. Perrrfect.

Plan in place - and yellow fuzzy tap dancing shoes on feet - so begins Sarah’s holiday estrogen adventure!

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[1] Because if there’s anything more exciting than not being pregnant, it’s being reminded again, just how un-pregnant you are.

[2] Or, as it’s listed on my most recent bill in the most transactional, cold language possible, “echoexam, transvaginal.” Oh to hear the echoes in my cavernous pelvis!