Who says that
infertility can’t be a barrel of fun? Today, I got a gift. A very special gift.
Wrapped in an ice pack. And left on my doorstep in, I kid you not, a gift bag.
That’s right. The man from the fertility pharmacy, which has a sickeningly
quaint name that basically makes it sound like the boutique-neighborhood-cupcake-store,
actually left my prescription – including a giant needle and something called a
“sharps shuttle” that looks comically like an uncomfortable plastic dildo
space… shuttle – in a gift bag. On my front porch, INPLAINVIEWOFTHEREALLYNOSYNEIGHBORS.
That’s right. Just like this. You sure do know the way to a girl’s heart, boutique-neighborhood-cupcake-store-pharmacy-delivery-man[1].
[1] Or
not. There were decidedly no cupcakes in this bag. Which is disappointing and
frankly untenable. Do you know how
ravenous hormones can make you?
