Greetings and Warning, KuKd Mommas and Inquisitive Guests: This is a Bad Mood, Profanity-Laden Post.
It started last weekend like this: "I should really start doing what other intelligent and responsible thirty-something-year-old-women do: figure out when I ovulate." Everyone and their grandmother seems to know when they ovulate. My friends all know when they ovulate. Some of them print out color-coded charts showing when they ovulate, laminate those charts and hang them on the wall and memorize them. Regardless of whether we ever decide to try for a baby again, I should probably know when I ovulate.
So, K buys a BBT thermometer from Target, and I throw away the instructions because I'm tired of little crumpled receipts and useless scraps of paper littering the kitching table and office desk. Something like a thermometer should be completely intuitive to use, shouldn't it? Press a button, stick in mouth, and beep.
Two days in a row: forget to put thermometer by my bed. And once you get out of bed, it's all over - temperature stats are worthless, as we all know, and you'll never find out when you ovulate. Ha ha!
Third day: put it by my bed, but forget to take temperature in the morning.
Fourth day, this morning, I remember. Try to take temp when K's alarm goes off at 6:45 - can't figure out how to work the dang thermometer. Press button, hear beep, put in mouth, never hear another beep. Eff around with it for a few minutes, pushing the button, holding it, sticking in mouth again, nothing. Frustrated, get up. Screw this; need coffee.
Same morning, coffee in hand, start a chart thingy on fertility friend dot com, which gives me an automatic password that's way too hard to remember, like fmeouf98efzzuei##k9e8fefe. Who the fuck develops these websites? Look at thermometer again and press button a bunch of times, see something that looks like a temperature but I'm not sure. Enter it anyway.
Rummage around for thermometer instructions (maybe I only THOUGHT I threw them away...) while K reads over his lesson plan as if nothing's awry. Irritated that he isn't as concerned as I am, I throw the thermometer against wall and say "fuck this." Get up, try to break it in half, knowing I'm acting irrational - we spent ten freakin' dollars on that thing!- but not caring. The thermometer won't break, so I toss it in garbage can and shove it way down there, underneath the dripping empty tomato cans and stinky styrofoam that the chicken from 2 days ago was packaged in.
Slam lid on garbage can and mumble, "I'm sick of being the only one who cares if I get pregnant. Fuck it, we're not going to have a baby, not now or ever." So the truth comes out, even to myself: THAT'S why I'm trying to chart my ovulation.
Kevin stands up and says, "What! I'm the one who bought the fucking thermometer. I'm going downstairs." Gathers all his stuff and stomps down into the basement, surely to escape this raging bitchy lunatic of a wife.
Thermometer suddenly starts beeping incessantly from deep within the garbage can. I kick garbage can hard with left foot, beeping stops. Tebow's staring at the garbage can, mostly interested in that gross 2-day-old chicken juice smell coming out.
Ahhhhhhhhggggggghhhh! F*ck ovulation charting.