Well, so myne wyfe and I went to the doctor’s office the other day, which is always a very silly experience for me. I get very bored in doctor’s offices, and that means I get goofy. I realize that it’s probably useful to have a Scheduler on staff, but the concept of it just strikes me as amusing, when I’ve been doddering around the clinic (“medical plaza” the sign says) for an hour.
The nice thing about pregnancy, I’ve discovered, is that mostly by the time the “pregnancy” bit occurs, I’ve done my part and am in the clear. This is very good, because there seems to be an inordinate number of needles that need to be stuck in people.
I Do Not Like Needles. Terrified of them. My right arm, when I was a teenager, needed to be stitched back together after a nasty accident involving some very old and brittle glass. The anesthesia wore off halfway through and the next dose they give me didn’t kick in until they were done. This means I felt at least twenty-four out of the forty-some stitches. Therefore, terrified of needles.
(another aside, since I’m meandering: this is actually the reason why I only type with nine fingers. My middle finger on my right arm is useless, except for gestures. My right arm still doesn’t support weight extremely well.)
Anyway…the point I was getting at was that I dislike needles, and they seem to be taking enough blood out of my wife to start a blood bank. She says I’m doing that “exaggeration” thing again, but I maintain it anyway.
If ever you need to sneakily clone someone, just tell them that you need to run Important Bloodwork and then take a pint of blood and be on your way. THey won’t even remember you amidst the rest of the hospital staff, the building which I affectionately call “The House of Knives.”
This is all a round-about way of saying that we went in for an ultrasound the day before yesterday, and the doctor-guy tells us that Tzinski 2.0 is a boy. All I saw were a series of moving gray blobs in different positions (and, once, hauntingly enough, a face) so I’ll take the doctor’s word on it.
That said, the doctor’s assured my parents that I was a girl, and they swore up and down that my sister HAD to be a boy…so I’m hardly basing my color choices on this doctor’s testimony. I’m not entirely certain, but I think that mostly in Medical School, they just teach you how to keep a straight face while you use silly words and point at blobby things and wonder what to do with the pounds of money you made this hour. At night and on alternate Tuesdays, Medical School doubles as Clown College.
But I disgress again.
Baby = 50% Chance of Boy.
It’s also snowing, again, which means this may also be my last message to you lot. We’re supposed to get upwards of eight inches. So I may have to go feral and herd wild attack moose while living in a cave in the mountains, like Jeremiah Johnson, a movie I reference all the time that no one but me has apparently ever seen.
There again. I’m off to write.