Well, problem 1 takes care of problem 3: The OB/GYN can see me at 11:35, which means I can't have lunch with Dad.

Woo.

Teppy, sorry about the crappy day. I hope your doctor has an answer for you.

When I called Dad to cancel, he asked if I was pregnant (not for cancelling, but for going to the ladyparts doctor). I declined to explain how an IUD works, but assured him that would be impossible.

I gotta write down every single symptom, so I have the best chance of getting this figured out.

I hope you get it figured out between you and the doctor, Steph. And general day get betterness.

Rain and traffic. Is it just that people are being more cautious? My eight minut drive took almost thirty this morning. I should know to just leave earlier when it's raining, but it's like that knowledge about rain=slower goes right out of my brain until I turn onto the road where it is ALWAYS backed up in the rain. Maybe from years of taking subways.

Tep, in lieu of being able to do any damn thing about your ladyparts miseries, I offer possible, slight help with the Dadzilla problem. My dad showed strong 'zilla tendencies, and it helped a lot to pick some aspect of the wedding about which I gave not one tiny crap and tell him it was actually really important to me but I knew nothing about it, trusted him utterly and handed it over to him with my promise not to interfere at all. So then he had a project to fuss over all on his own without pestering me.

It may be tougher to find a project you can peel off for him when you're dealing with a smaller wedding, but there's got to be something. Drawing up maps and directions from every direction, with traffic and weather predictions, might keep him good and busy for a couple of weeks.

He did this with my brother's wedding too -- he kept telling me that he was "left out" and "not a part of the wedding," until I finally told my brother about it (because of course he wouldn't tell my brother). And then my brother asked Dad to give the first toast at the reception, and Dad had a project to noodle on.

I think he probably feels left out again, but he's not. I just need to give him his project. I should probably ask him to give a toast, so he can work on it.

(We asked Tim's dad last night to say grace before the meal -- most of my family is Catholic, so it won't strike them as odd -- and he said, "Oh, this isn't just an ordinary Tuesday-night frozen dinner grace. I'd better think about what to say!" So he has a job now. He's also doing a reading, and wants to do a Scripture reading, which is fine by us, so we asked him to give us suggestions. So really he has 2 jobs. Hopefully they are Jesus-y enough that he'll be okay with our heathen ceremony presided over by my brother the Magus.)

My attempt at being productive today is not going well. So far, while trying to do laundry I dropped half a container of oxyclean on the floor, realized that when I sent Mom down the laundry aisle last week to get the woolite, she bought a different version of it that I cannot use because one sniff of it freaked out my sinuses, and the laundry bag I use to help me carry the laundry back and forth is missing. The ducks are nibbling on my spoons. I'm hoping my attempt at exercise goes a little smoother.

*Shoos the ducks off sj's spoons. Get off, ducks!*

Stephy, giving your dad a job sounds like a good idea. (The Girl's dad refused to do anything, during the whole of the planning process, and then we got to the day and he was suddenly all "Do you need help cutting the cake?" So he's in our cake-cutting photos, demonstrating where he thinks is a wise place to cut it. Funniest thing ever.)

Morning/afternoon, all. I am drowning in paperwork. Back to university now-ish, in the sense of working again (I am no longer allowed a desk there, so I'm not physically back).

Was diagnosed with Aspgerger's this week. Still getting over the 'Took you 35 years??' grumpies. The diagnostic process took about six months (which I'm told is quite fast really), and the psychiatrist was the nicest MH specialist I have *ever* met. So that could have been worse.

The Asperger's diagnosis is going away in the US -- they're using autism spectrum disorder instead.

Weird ducks, leave the spoons alone.

And why do I feel as though many of us need scare-ducks? What would that even look like? And can I found a shop on Etsy to sell them?