Way #457 in which trying to get pregnant is going to be the death of me

I am typing this while periodically checking the tip of my left index finger, which won’t stop bleeding in the way that skin sliced by glass often does not. All because this morning I tried to take my temperature, a project that involves keeping in one’s mouth- not a digital thermometer, the type sensible people use because otherwise it really sucks to bite down on one of the glass ones, an unfortunately likely scenario if you:

a. are preoccupied, because the key to an accurate basal body temperature reading is taking your temperature before doing anything- getting up, talking, cognition, and so

b. might be therefore prone to forget that you also have small protruding orthodontic attachments, which then cause you to bite down and shatter the stupid thing in your mouth.

As far as a way to start the morning goes, I can’t recommend it. I was taking my temperature in the first place because this is my first month off birth control, which means that I am morally obligated not to consume my usual pharmacological pharmacopoeia in the second half of my cycle. A precaution no doubt pointless, but I don’t tempt fate. There’s this great line in the memoir by Christopher Buckley, referring to his sick father’s medication schedule, and says something to the effect of “enough to give Hunter S. Thompson pause.”

Although certainly not the type to elicit his post mortem envy, consisting as my intake does of:

-Claritin (the real stuff, with pseudoephadrine and not that silly phenylephrine (sp). Here “sp” refers to spelling, and not some sort of fancy time-release capsule. I need somebody to please explain to me how it would be cost effective for the methamphetamine makers to buy Claritin at nearly $16 a box, distill the pseudoephadrine down, and then sell the final product as street crack for what, five bucks? It doesn’t make sense. Even if methamphetamine dealers aren’t the savviest group. Honestly, fellow allergy sufferers, I could take this straight to Capital Hill.

-Wellbutrin SR, which I weaned myself off a month ago but is nevertheless a dearly missed friend, and last but not least

-Relpax. Relpax is the only thing, short of a medically induced coma and general anesthesia, that touches my migraines.

And therein lies the necessity of knowing exactly where things stand, ovulation wise.

My husband considers the ability to tolerate otherwise easily medicated medical conditions to be a barometer for personal character. I disagree. I don’t abuse drugs and because I have severe control issues that require me to be aware of everything all the time, I never have. But I have no problem taking them when indicated, which leads to weird juxtapositions like being perfectly happy to gulp down an entire endoscope, yet taking a Xanex or three for certain pelvic procedures. Which, in my mind, is perfectly acceptable. Certainly I suffer from vestigial psychic heebe geebes regarding these procedures, and that’s for me to work out with my therapist if I so chose, not to be gotten through with a brand new OB/GYN resident and the dreaded tomcat catheter.

But at the moment, I was more concerned about my mouthful of broken glass. Luckily, I knew exactly what I needed to evaluate the pieces of glass, but unluckily, we don’t have any of those black velvet covered jeweler’s flats lying around the house.

Several things happened at once. I opened the door, and the cat (who waits at the door, no doubt certain of the eventual inevitability of a day like today) darted into the bedroom, a place where her presence is strictly forbidden. The dog barked wildly in his crate, my husband slammed the door to his study, and I stubbed my toe on corner of the bathroom sink, causing me to speak one or two words that I normally do not.

In the end, after a careful forensic reconstruction of the thermometer (Germar, Mercury Free, printed on the back, the mercury free substance being in any case encapsulated in a separate container within the thermometer), it appeared that what was missing amounted to glass dust, probably lost in the bed or in the exclamations that followed after I stubbed my toe. I did confirm that the broken shards were glass and not, in fact, safety plastic, if there is such a thing. I figured this out by jabbing my index finger with one, an act that was, I have to admit, not too clever.

But in any case, I don’t really know of anyone who has actually died from eating glass. Come to think of it, the only instance of death by glass eating I am familiar with occurred in a V.C. Andrews book. Nayla, please take note. If I do die and you decide to capitalize on that with a ghost ridden Coordination and Fertility Impaired Flowers in the Audi, please take note: I am a fourth generation Daughter of the American Revolution and lots of bad karmic legacy stuff already happened to my family. Please, please don’t lock us in any attics.