My insulated pack containing the Gonal F and Ovidrel injections,
sent via FedEx – the world (and my cycle) on time.

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“Second Helpings,” by Megan McCafferty

“Second Helpings” opens with the summer before Jessica (Notso) Darling’s senior year of high school and continues through the school year. The book follows the format of its predecessor, giving us a recounted view of Jessica’s life through her journal.

Jessica, my favorite fictional cynic, still thinks she has the world figured out. Truth be told, what teenager doesn’t? Jessica, however, Knows The Facts and is continuously baffled when the world turns out to be somewhat of alternate reality, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worst. These truthful revelations help Jessica do a whole lot of growing in “Second Helpings.” She finds independence, a love life and learns more about her friends and family, including Gladdie, Jessica’s hilarious grandmother.

BLAH. This book review sucks, and I think it sucks so hard because I’m tiptoeing through particulars, trying not to mention a single detail that would spoil the book for ALL YOU LOSERS WHO HAVEN’T READ IT YET.

I say “losers” with serious, serious love.

Let me be straight with you. I loved “Second Helpings” more than “Sloppy Firsts,” and the series as a whole is one that pretty much blows my mind. I wouldn’t call it groundbreaking, high-brow literary classics in the making, but I connect with these books on such a personal level. There are times when I’m reading this and I SWEAR Megan McCafferty could have snatched a piece of my brain for Jessica. Her cynical sense of humor is just my style, and the time period in which the books are set so closely parallel my own at Jessica’s age.

Ah, crap. Look. If you love to laugh, if you can put your adult hat away and take a trip to TeenagerLand, you need to read these books. You. Yes, You.

“Suite Scarlett,” by Maureen Johnson

When people hear a book is labeled YA, most will automatically assume it’s poorly written brain candy meant to entertain a dumb pre-teen.

Most? You are mostly wrong.

Suite Scarlett may fall more under the YA fluff category, but it certainly isn’t dumb. It is, however, delicious brain candy.

Scarlett is a 15-year-old girl living in a New York City hotel. If you’re thinking of Eloise, you’re right. Sort of.

Scarlett’s family is down on their luck, and the hotel no longer employs a staff. The hotel is completely run by Scarlett and her parents, her older brother, Spencer, her older sister, Lola, and her younger sister, Marlene. (Quick note, Marlene is the name the mother of four good friends I’ve known for eons and the middle name of one of their daughters, a girl who has owned a piece of my heart for nearly five years – this is the only time aside from those two – that I’ve heard the name. I loved seeing it!)

The summer Scarlett turned 15, she was expecting to find a job to occupy her time, as her friends were all away for the summer. Plans change when the mysterious Amy Amberson checks into the room of which Scarlett is in charge.

Suddenly, Scarlett has a strange yet perfect job, and she shares affections with a gorgeous, older boy. What started out seeming like a boring summer turns into one of hilarity, fun and growth.

This book would be absolutely perfect for a beach- or pool-side read. Scarlett is sweet and funny, and I developed a wee crush on Spencer. It’s a fast, fun read, and Maureen Johnson (who I have a serious girl-crush on) brings the funny throughout. I’m looking forward to finding out what happens in “Scarlett Fever,” which was just recently released. Why? BECAUSE MAUREEN JOHNSON IS A DIRTY CLIFFHANGER-WRITER.

p.s. Amy Amberson? She was totally Jenna Maroney from “30 Rock” in my head. It was unavoidable.

“King of the Screwups,” by K.L. Going

Liam is a screwup. He doesn’t think past his nose, and his words and actions constantly get him in trouble or earn disapproval. The story is told from Liam’s point of view, and a good portion of the book is spent in Liam’s dreams or reflections of past screwups.

Liam’s problem is painfully obvious. He has a horrible self esteem – due in large part to an overly judgmental and verbally abusive father – and his number-one goal is to earn the admiration or approval of others rather than to succeed for himself. Constantly basing one’s actions on others’ reactions is guaranteeing failure, as one cannot control  – no matter what action one takes – the reaction of others. Because Liam is so focused elsewhere, he can’t focus on making sound decisions.

Honestly, I found the book frustrating. It was well written, but I have a thing with books: What I feel for the main character is what I feel for the book.

I wanted to both shake and slap Liam.

He is good-looking, talented, charming and smart, but he completely lacks when he focuses on doing something. He’s fine when he doesn’t try, so he is basically his own worst enemy.

I’m certainly not the perfect example of confidence, but the personality flaw that allows people (both fictional and actual) to only believe the worst they’re told about themselves – well, it’s frustrating.

WAKE UP!

Thankfully, Liam gets a wakeup call in the form of his uncle, a cross-dressing, gay glam rocker. Aunt Pete was my favorite part of the book, and every unsure person needs their own Aunt Pete to show them the error in their ways and the value of self acceptance and self confidence.

Up next: “1776,” by David McCullough

I’ve been asked several times how I’m doing since my Twittersplosion of despair and humor and my subsequent gushing blog entry about my husband on Friday.

Since I know (though I can’t fathom why) many of you care (and if you’re reading this and don’t care … um, you’re interesting), I felt obliged to dedicate a new entry to just that very question.

How am I doing?

I am fine and dandy, thanks for asking!

Go ahead and breathe that sigh of relief. I promise, I am fine.

Sure, I fell apart on BFN day (that’s a big fat negative to those happily ignorant to such lingo), but I strongly believe in keeping the negative energy in the negative cycle and focusing on positive energy for the next hoping-to-be-positive cycle.

For those of you giving me the side eye, I will admit to having a stumble or two in that quest. One of those such stumbles came Sunday, when my good friend was a big, fat jerk and made me cry.

(Laura, I’m totally joking. I love you, and I’m not at all upset that you made me cry.)

Laura asked a simple question: How long have you and Rob been trying *really hard*?

The answer? Four cycles. Four measly cycles. One BFP that ended in an early miscarriage and three BFNs.

Laura’s question made me cry because she asked when we were discussing possible next moves in my quest to conquer infertility. Basically, we’ve got this current cycle, then we are meeting with our RE to discuss where we go next, and I don’t know if that will mean we can continue our current attempts or our doctor will recommend IVF (which I’m not sure we can afford right now). The other two extreme options are birth control or adoption.

To be perfectly honest, Rob and I haven’t seriously discussed more aggressive measures to grow our family (or giving up). It just hasn’t felt appropriate yet, while we’re trying so hard to avoid that (even more) difficult decision.

But it hit me, looking at my friends’ faces, that we may be forced to make a Really Big Decision in the next couple months.

And we’ve only been trying to conceive four measly cycles.

I quit birth control with some suspicion that I’d have difficulty conceiving. I charted my cycles and learned before we even threw the TTC switch that I wasn’t ovulating. We decided to try for a baby a few months before it was physically possibly for that baby to be made. Because I don’t ovulate, there is no trying without medical intervention.

I’m not sure if I would have preferred some time of ignorant hope, relaxing and trying to conceive the old-fashioned way. I suspect that would have hurt just the same. I’ll never know that because I chose to educate and arm myself with all the ammunition I could carry, and, in doing so, I’ve considerably shortened the life span of our attempts at conceiving.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve gone down the wrong pipe and warped to a really scary Mario level. I’d like out now, thanks.

(I’m quite aware that miracles happen, and you never know when some unexplained thing can happen to a person’s body. If I drop down to 120 lbs., I might magically ovulate. If the stars align, I might ovulate. If I sacrifice a virgin nerd, I might ovulate. The thing is, I don’t know how to measure “If … might,” and I’m not about to put all my infertile eggs in that basket. Yet.)

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Happy birthday, Rob.

(this is a day late on here, but that’s because I was busy celebrating the day my husband was born and just couldn’t stop to post my Project 365 pic. You forgive me, right? For Rob?)

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I witnessed a wee stampede of deer about 20 feet in front of me on the greenway path. YIPES!

(For a bigger view with notes pointing out the deer, click the link to my Flickr photostream.)

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