T Minus 18 Days

Yesterday, my facebook status was thus: "Elizabeth Johnson Phillips feels like she is taking crazy pills. Oh wait, she is. And they are giving her hot flashes."

It's on, people. And by it, I mean the craziness. I'm not so sure if it is the hormones I'm taking to prep me for my frozen transfer or if it is simply that I now have a good excuse for my normal craziness and so my ego has called shotgun, letting id have a chance behind the wheel. Pending my ultrasound next Monday, my frozen transfer (also known as the day I get to take my Valium) will be Thursday, May 7th. Having been put into various holding patterns whilst trying for Henry, I have learned to write this date in pencil. But it is on the calendar, nonetheless.

The craziness manifests itself in various forms. First, in general snappiness. As in I snapped at my sweet Sloan for letting the pots and pans soak in the sink, rather than praise him for letting me sleep in an extra 30 minutes on Sunday morning and oh yeah, emptying and filling the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen. Then, upon recognizing that I'm a shrew of a wife, the second wave of craziness hit.

The crying. Because I'm a horrible wife. And why does he even love me when I am so mean to him? And then, when at church the sermon is on the road to Emmaus and I remember how Sloan and I fell in love, I cry even more. (Sloan and I met at a Recreational Ministries conference in Montreat. At the end of the week, the scripture Luke 24:13-35 was read and then we were paired off to walk a path and instructed to discuss the ways in which God had opened our eyes to Him and then at the end of the path, we took communion with our partner. I was paired off with Sloan. I have no idea what we talked about. I only remember taking communion with him at the end. I ripped off my chunk of bread and dipped it into the chalice of wine, and suddenly I knew I was standing before my husband. Despite the fact that we'd met only a couple days before.) So I'm crying and crying at church. Which led me to the following act at lunch.
Ordering a JUMBO strawberry daiquiri.(You know the giant glass normally refered to as a fish bowl? Yeah. That's the one I ordered on a Sunday afternoon.) This did not really help with the crying, because I cried at lunch when our server brought me a beef enchilada rather than a cheese enchilada. When I tried to explain to our server what was wrong, it went something like this--
"I wanted a cheese enchilada. I think you got confused because I ordered my son's cheese enchilada right after I ordered my Speedy Gonzales." The waiter flips to our order and says, "No. Beef." And then I start crying. "But I never would've ordered beef. We come here every week and I always order the same thing. Ask him, he's usually our waiter, and it is always cheese. But it's okay." So the waiter leaves. And then, when 5 minutes later I realize that I have not, in fact, asked for a cheese enchilada to replace the offending beef, I cry again. Enter Sloan who flags down our usual waiter and asks for a cheese enchilada.
The booze also did not help with the hot flashes. And because the back of my house is windows, walking around in various states of undress is not really an option. I'm reduced to boxer shorts and tank tops and cranking the thermostat to 65.

So if you decide to visit Elizabethtown, you may want to bring a sweater. And a sugar-rimmed glass.