can i just say...

how much I hate work. Hate it. And it's only 8:25am. Yea yea yea, I should be grateful I have a job when 10% of the country is unemployed and would trade places with me anyday. Actually, yes I will trade places with one of you that is very fertile and do not know how to miscarry. Take my miserable job and I'll take your body. Even if you have a muffin top with short legs. I'll take it.

I am grateful. I'm grateful I get a paycheck every other week that supplies the food on our table, a roof (ceiling between upstairs neighbors and us) over our heads, and allows my husband to go back to school and work part time because he was part of the 10% unemployed for awhile. He bravely decided to stop looking for a job in an industry he hated anyway and go back to school to do something he's always had passion for - food. I however am not grateful for dealing with morons and nonsense all day. I work for a bank. A very big bank. Think of the biggest bank in America. I help (or destroy, whichever way you look at it) clients fulfill their dreams of buying a house by approving (or declining) their mortgage loans. I can make or break that dream, and thesedays there have been a lot of breaking rather than making due to as you already know, failing economy. The best part of my job is hearing how happy some of the clients get when they finally get to sign their closing loan docs and move into their home, especially first time buyers. This and free premium checking account. The worst part of my job is not hearing them bitch me out when I decline their loans. You would think it is, but it's not. I've heard it so many times that my ear now knows not carry it to the brain but out the other ear instead. Rather, the worst part of the job are the assholes that ARE going to get the loan but STILL are assholes.

Me: "Mr. Asshole, I see you're on the loan by yourself. Are you married?"
Asshole: "....y....es..."
Mr: "Will your spouse go on title with you?"
Asshole: "Oh Jesus, why? Why do you care?"
Me: (Well, I don't care but the BANK does. And I'm not Jesus!) "I just need to know if your spouse will go on title with you to draw loan docs correctly. Title will want to know how the vesting should be held."
Asshole: "I've already gone over this with everybody (Well, not me homie! And I'm kind of the most important person to be talking to if you want this loan!). YES, whatever she'll go on title!"
Me: "Okay, what is her name?"
Asshole: "Why do you need all this! What does it matter! She's not borrowing the money! It's just me!". I thought he was going to have a heart attack.
Me: Put the phone on mute and yelled "Because you're buying a fucking house!!!!!!!!!!"

Everyone in the office just froze and looked at me. Steam was coming out of my ears. My manager was not happy and we had a "talk". It was a day big execs were visiting our site. BIG execs as in right below CEO BIG. I can kiss my raise in February goodbye.

This is by no means the career of my dream. I grew up wanting to be in the TV/Film industry. No, not in front of the camera. I wanted to write or produce. It was even my major in college. College doesn't mean shit. I actually was in the industry for awhile during and right after college. I hated it more. Watch Entourage? I worked at an agency where agents like Ari prance around with sticks up their ass all day. To make it in the film industry - you gotta know how to do one if not two of these things: 1) kiss ass 2) wear boom boom skirts to work 3) be shameless and ruthless. I do not do any of these. So I got a job that actually pays and didn't require the above. The perks aren't the same but I'll take a bigger paycheck and dignity over seeing a famous celebrity any day.

So what does all of this have anything to do with my TTC and IF? Stress. Hormones. Anxiety. Did I mention stress? While Mr. Asshole was asking Jesus why I was asking for things like his wife's name and his rental history, all I could think was where are my symptoms? Am I not pregnant? I hope the decaf really was decaf!

When I do get pregnant (hopefully am like NOW), would asking my doctor to put me on bedrest right away be just ridiculous and make me a wuss? Because I don't know how I'll put up with Mr. Assholes while pregnant. I might just get fired.