Trigger pulled. I have called the Baby Factory and made an appointment for a consult.

Somehow this visit is two weeks from today. It took me three months to get an appointment last time. I had kind of counted on a long waiting period to Think About What I’ve Done. I feel like some kind of straight, fertile person, all falling into bed drunk and ending up pregnant. (Okay, maybe this is a little extreme, given that all I’ve done is make an appointment to sit around and talk, maybe with a side visit from the ol’ dildo-cam.)

Distracting me from my anxiety nausea is humiliation-style anger over the questionnaire I just completed on the phone with Sugar’s insurance company (currently also mine) to determine whether or not my queer lady parts have the right to their precious, paltry infertility benefit. You know, the one my premiums are paying for. Yet to be determined, for the record, but the nurse on the line (who was very nice and as helpful as she could be, under the circumstances) told me how to get the consult coded so that it would come under my regular medical benefit. I hope they will decide that my various diagnoses are enough to let me use my money, should it come to that, but tomorrow I will turn in the paperwork at the distant job I took this semester expressly because it gives me a few months’ worth of the Best Insurance Ever, which brought you the Bean.

…who is currently having a tantrum over my not reading him the book about trucks that has been repeatedly shoved at my hands in the five minutes it’s taken to type this. So. Ttfn, all that.