I know I take you for granted, despite your critical importance to my functioning. I mean, you’re no brain stem or anything, but I genuinely do appreciate all your hard work. I don’t say it often enough. But here’s the thing. I really need you to work with me this month. Our LH surge has GOT to come on Sunday. You see, while you might not have noticed, our husband is traveling, and won’t be home till Sunday evening. So if you send the surge early, we’ll miss our shot. And if you send it any later than Sunday, we’ll either be relying on the milkshake approach (thanks for that delicious imagery, Misfit), or be all fucked up by our international travel. I know, you think I should just let the sperm fall where they may, and not stress about this one cycle. But that’s because you’re just a FUCKING GLAND, not a desperate, miserable women who has been driven completely wild by cohabitating with an infant for several days.
Woah. Sorry about that, Pitty. I guess I’m a little on edge.
So like I was saying, hows about Sunday for that LH surge? It’s day twelve, which used to be our day quite reliably. And I know you’ve been to hell and back with all the general anesthesia and the crazy-ass hormones, so you might be feeling a bit…uncooperative. But let me put it to you this way. If you don’t comply, you’re increasing the chances that I’ll soon be forced to bring out some serious fucking hormonal guns. You’ll basically lose control of our reproductive processes. You don’t want that, do you?
I mean, forgive the scare tactics, but things are getting pretty bad around here.
What’s that you say? It doesn’t matter in the slightest when you trigger the surge because no amount of perfect timing will get me pregnant? To be honest, I agree with you, but if you get me all stressed that just means a shitload of adrenocorticotropic hormone production on your end. So let’s work together to serve both our best interests, m’kay?