“This might be a little uncomfortable” announced a smiling Dr. Sickboy.
Yeah right… and Adolf Hitler was ‘a little’ anti-Semitic.
Armed as he was with a speculum and a foot long needle (Dr. Sickboy I mean – not Hitler) several words crossed my mind. The two that stood out the most were ‘bull’ and ‘shit’. But, being the obedient little Science-Projectette that I was, I feigned belief – though not without impatiently requesting some of his top shelf happy drugs.
It turns out that Dr. Sickboy was right, it was a little uncomfortable. If by ‘a little’ he actually meant shitloads. Fuck. Ow. Ow. Ow. Thank gods for the ameliorating affects of the drugs I say, for without them I surely would have kicked him in the nuts as an act of revenge. Acutely aware of the pain but happily distracted by the now spinning room and all the pretty, pretty lights I relaxed a little – well, as much as one can when one is on ones back, knee high leather booted legs akimbo (I forgot that you had to keep your shoes on in the lab and was utterly embarrassed) in stirrups while a strange Scotsman stands between them vaccuming your follicles.
Besides the God awful pain, discomfort and embarrassment, retrieval went well and our funky chickens delivered. Twelve eggs! M and I whooped with delight at the number. We had a full carton! And that just somehow seemed right.
M took his sperm to their day spa appt. where they all lolled about in their tiny little towels, getting washed and coiffed while I sat in recovery hoping they’d been working on some seriously good pick up lines to use on the eggs… who were waiting in the lab touching up their lippy and mascara.
When our scientist, Not-Stephen-Hawking, popped her head around to let us know they’d miscounted and there were actually 13 eggs, I think she expected joy… and seemed a little shocked that she didn’t get it from me. I mean, I should have been ecstatic because it meant we had more chance but it had the opposite effect on silly control freakish me. I was gutted… devastated that she’d ruined my perfectly ordered carton of eggs with, of all things, an unlucky number. Stupid scientist.
M tried to convince it wasn’t unlucky and that we should be thrilled with such a result, given last time we only got seven. “Lucky seven,” I pointed out! Rolling his eyes at my utter stupidity he suggested lunch at nice water front restaurant, knowing that nothing can distract me from daftness faster than food. So, still drugged to the eyeballs, we very sensibly went for a celebratory lunch where I very un-sensibly added a little champagne to my already toxic bloodstream. I don’t really remember the rest of the day. Oops.
Today, Not-Stephen-Hawking called to let us know that the fluffy coiffed sperm had indeed been practising their pick up lines and had rocked up to the Petri dish looking buff and driving little sperm Porsches. My eggs, superficial as they are, must have been impressed because eight fertilised. Yeehah… 13 hadn’t been unlucky after all.
Fluent as I am in icon speak, I ran the number by to my motley crew of icons and they were most pleased. Eight was just fine by them.
The Buddha’s squealed with delight and high fived each other. Buddhists follow the Noble Eightfold path and are encouraged to the observe eight Buddhist Precepts to cultivate compassion, generosity, contentment and mindfulness. There are eight lucky symbols’ – the parasol, the goldfish, the treasure vase, the lotus blossom, the banner of victory, the conch shell, the eternal knot and the eight-spoked wheel. It also didn’t hurt that the 8th was Buddha’s birthday.
My Chinese Buddha’s were particularly excited given that in Chinese culture eight is considered the luckiest number of them all and in secular Chinese folklore there are eight demigods known as the immortals that can give life or destroy evil.
Skinny Ganesha and Shiva, dancing lord and protector of our toilet – pointed out that in Hinduism eight is the number of wealth and abundance.
Even the Black Mary of Rocamadour, though piously dismissive of the other Icons claims, acknowledged that eight is a positive in Christianity, it being the number of sacred Beatitudes that form the core of Christian life.
As the Icons debated the pros and cons of their own personal agendas amongst themselves it also dawned on me that Hannukah is an eight day Jewish celebration and in Islam, it’s the number of Angels carrying the Holy Throne of Allah.
That had us covered wih all the majors.
As for the more obscure Icons… Freya shared some random thoughts on eight-legged horses in Norse Mythology, though she may have just been tripping on some kind of Nordic acid. While the Venus of Lespuge, not known for her skills of erudition, just jiggled her enormous tits.
Thinking outside of secular and mythological connotations, eight is the winning ball in a game of pool. And M, when he was younger, more foolish and a frequenter of pool halls, used to order hash by the ‘eighth’ so this would definitely be an auspicious sign to him, desperate as he is for me to have a successful pregnancy so he can once again imbibe in other cannabis bi-products.
Hmm, what else? Octopi have eight tentacles, which are delicious when marinated and BBQ’d and Octomum, who is clearly the most fertile being of all, delivered eight babies.
At this point I am clearly grasping at straws – so should stop my obsessing before I am declared mentally unfit and given a ‘section 8’.