We have a form that needs to be notarized before we can proceed with the FET. Last weekend, we went to the bank to take care of it.

The notary at the bank took quite a while to puzzle through the form, which is titled very clearly at the top, “Frozen Embryo Transfer Consent” and is full of things pertaining to my uterus. Generally speaking, I’m not bashful (have y’all noticed this yet?) but I didn’t want to get any guff from the bank notary over a two-page consent form.

“Are there any questions I can answer for you about the form?” I asked.

“I was just confused,” she said. “I was trying to say if it says which one of you is the patient and which one of you is the partner.”

“Well…” I said.

It took her a moment. “Oh.”

Lest you all think I’m a complete jerk, she was actually quite nice and very competent after that. No hard feelings. I’m also grateful I didn’t have to give a quick run-through of the technologically assisted birds-and-bees game in the credit union on a Saturday at 11 a.m.

Tell me these kinds of things happen to other people. I’m beginning to wonder if maybe the fertility gods are prolonging my stay in Crap-Land because I fill some special cosmic purpose as a magnet for weird situations like this.