Cleanup in aisle 5

You know what I said about my emotional stability the other day? Lies. I did not intend to mislead anyone, but apparently my cockiness has come back to bite me in the ass. I was fine this morning despite my brief dalliance with Good Lady Cooter Poker and Junior Wandmonkey, until the sky began to fall. In my world, this was manifested by the button on my shoe mysteriously popping off and rolling into parts unknown. Despite a thorough search of my office, I came up with nothing. As I cannot fathom that there is another black leather button identical in size and design that I can realistically obtain, I am resigned to the fact that I must retire these, one of my most beloved pairs of shoes.

I tried to make myself feel better throughout the day, the voice in my head attempting to convince me that 2 hours of American Idol would make up for my loss (lest anyone think I'm kidding about this, I assure you I am not. I am really that lame.). When The Dude came to pick me up from work he was filled with sweetness and light, infused with the joy that the impending weekend usually brings. Met with my glum demeanor he thought better of asking me how I was doing. I told him about my shoe, and aside from brief protestations that it could be fixed (what, is there a magical leather button fairy I'm not aware of?), we spent the rest of our ride to the supermarket in silence.

Upon reaching the supermarket, I realised I left my final day injections for my Monday IUI in the fridge at work. Cue much swearing and throwing of purse contents, and The Dude could not get out of the car fast enough. I stayed in the car for a few minutes to collect myself, and joined him inside a few minutes later. In retrospect, this was not my most ingenius moment. I find supermarkets insufferable at the best of times, and when I'm in a mood it rapidly becomes a recipe for disaster. I started crying inexplicably in aisle 2, trying to hide my tears from the throng of people struggling to get by with their carts. By aisle 5 I was trying desperately to pull myself together and not run back to the car like I wanted to.

I stopped crying eventually, largely due to the freaked out stares I was getting from other shoppers, and the Emotional Me was quickly bitchslapped and pushed to the back of the queue by Evil Me. Evil Me became fed up with the clueless shoppers that stand in the MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING AISLE looking around aimlessly as if they have no idea what they are doing in this magnificent, brightly lit building which sells food. What? I'm supposed to push a cart and look at the products simultaneously?!? You don't say! Much to The Dude's supreme embarrassment, I said quite loudly, "C'mon people, it's not like it's fucking brain surgery or something." and pushed my way past the offending shoppers. I think The Dude might be doing the grocery shopping alone for awhile.

My madness does not end there. I've just recovered from a half an hour crying spell in which I berated The Dude for his choice of porn for the upcoming pre-IUI masterbatory session. As I've mentioned before, I like to be a very controlling wife and select his wank material. He bought a DVD featuring the "best" strippers (how is this determination made I wonder?) for Monday morning's festivities and I was not best pleased. I can cope with straightforward porn - getting off on seeing people having sex is natural. I don't compare myself to those women because I tell myself it is the act of sex that is turning him on, not the women performing the acts. However, with this DVD it's strictly appearances and I hate that. I have tremendously low self-esteem and as melodramatic as it sounds, I cannot stand the idea of him getting off by looking at strippers. If they were strippers having sex, I'd be ok with that, oddly enough. The Dude's response was, "Well, I'm a man." Gee, thanks for the clarification. You really know how to make a woman feel good.

So basically, broken shoes, forgotten drugs, the wrong porn, and Blogger having comment-leaving issues. What a great day. I fucking hate infertility.