How I Know

The other day, while shopping in my new favourite store for catheter supplies, Catheter Man had a display of blood-filled needles by the register.  Intrigued, but not disgusted, I picked one up to discover it was a pen.  Because I'm in there every second day to ogle His Hotness pick up supplies for Joel, he told me to just help myself to a pen.  I took two so I could throw one of them in the playground behind my house.

Having this needle/pen in the house for the last few days has stirred up memories from three years ago, when we were gearing up for our first IVF run.  Needles, pills, tests, blood work, daily trips to Saskatoon, crazy-ass hormones...fun times, I tell you.  When I'm at the pharmacy and I catch a glimpse of the "Family Planning" section, it makes me wistful for those women who have it easier.  The ones who can chart their ovulation with their basal temperature or with those ovulation pee sticks and then just go get it on and hope to get pregnant.

If I didn't need a hospital to get pregnant, I know I wouldn't be one of those women who need to resort to thermometers or pee sticks to chart their ovulation because I know the instant it happens.  And just how do I know?

Because it's the instant Mike turns into a complete asshole.

It's true.  It's not as though Mike does or says anything differently.  He acts in the same way he always has, with his gentle, patient, loving manner.  But when I start to ovulate, it changes the way I look at him and suddenly he's a spineless, weak doofus who can't even open the fridge door properly.  I feel as though I have to teach him everything all over again - from how to load the dishwasher or properly park the van in the driveway.  I'm pretty sure I've even corrected him on how to scratch his own nuts.

The poor guy just can't win when I'm experiencing my "sensitive time".  It doesn't help the fact that I like to keep him on his toes by randomly yelling out, "You're doing it wrong!", even if I'm in the basement and can't see what he's doing.  I can just sense that the glass of milk is being poured incorrectly, so it justifies my crazy shouts from below.

And God help us if we have to go anywhere important together.  Like a Thanksgiving family supper where we have to be dressed nicely and show up on time.  I can honestly say that is the first time I have ever needed a cigarette half way through a meal.