Are you kidding? You’re going to a graduation AND a wedding this weekend. There are a million and one things to be done before you leave. Then you realize that the most important thing you have to do is get the goddamn dry ice. As you start the engine, you remember that you were supposed to Google dry ice providers last night and therefore have to go to the store that’s 15 minutes away from school, meaning you’ll get to eat cheez crackers or Combos and coke for lunch, since that’s about all they have at the beer and wine store. Oh, well, diet shmiet, you’ve got the dry ice!
You rush out from school as they are dismissing the first bus, hoping that no other staff members will see you and think, “Short timer! Blowing off work already. What a loser!” Hightailing it down to Georgetown, you pray to Asphalta, the goddess of parking for a space.
Scraping yet another chunk of your rainbow flag sticker off the rear bumper, you wedge the car in between a Lexus and a Ford F350 truck with construction equipment and debris all over it and rush into the RE’s office. You briefly consider a disguise, as your next insemination is strictly against doctor’s orders, but remain secure in the white lie you have carefully crafted in case anyone asks why you want your sperm if you’re prohibited from getting pregnant until September: “Cait wants to try this time.” (You just aren’t saying WHAT Cait wants to try.)
Luckily, the andrology lab tech has not left early, and greets you with two vials of ICI sperm, paperwork, and an enigmatic smile. You sign off, carefully place the vials in their ziplock bag and nestle the precious cargo amongst the dry ice. Before you depart, you do an OPK in the doctors’ office just to spite him.