On Saturday I had the pleasure of an early morning wanding and bloodletting at the far-away-weekend-fertility-bunker. Since we were en route to a wedding in New York, it was
kind of like a road trip a real
pain in the neck. It was only day 9 of my cycle but thankfully – despite an
only modestly busy pelvis that had me all kinds of worried – there were four
follicles to be found. But they weren’t mature and my estradiol was still only
around 300. Ovulation would have to wait until another day.
<Dramatic Pause.> And that day, is today. Yesterday I went in for a second round of early morning wand+blood. And because I need more excitement in my life, I was subjected to perhaps the most painful transvaginal ultrasound
ever experienced by anyone in the
history of everdom that I have ever had.
The wand, suddenly a very blunt and inflexible instrument, was so far in it was
basically digging into my neck. Apparently two follicles were “hiding” behind
some other “organs “and the tech had to go “digging” for them up behind my
eyeballs. At a certain point – when my ultra dramatic wincing became too much
to bare – the tech finally stopped, muttering something about how she just can’t
stand to cause me pain, etc., and put a note in my file about my hide and seek
By lunchtime, I heard back from the nurse: three “beautiful!” mature follicles and my estradiol levels were up past 700. I was given my marching orders – Ovidrel shot on Tuesday evening, then sex until Friday – and sent on my smug little way.
So what’s in store for tonight? Well, in one more showing of romance is not dead!, C will have the pleasure of grabbing my
top roll of belly fat and jamming it full of Chinese hamster ovary. And
then we’ll have sex. Until Friday. Please, look away, I’m
 Which is totally fine because it’s not like we, oh, I don’t know, packed a cooler full of ice and Chinese hamster ovary and drove all over New York with it in the unlikely event that I would have to use it while away from home. No. We did not do that. Because we are not crazy people.
 I thought I had come up with yet another kind of badass name for a terrible metal band. But no. This is already (kind of) a thing. (Also, “Motherboar” basically just sends my free wheeling brain here.)
 Here’s the truth: transvaginal ultrasounds – in spite of their alarmingly graphic name – usually aren’t that painful. And while I realize the legitimate-rape-pro-mandatory-transvaginal-ultrasound-right-wing-goon-squad would have a field day with my saying so, I am nothing if not candid with you, dear interwebs. But my point is this, I’ve chosen my fate – cold plastic probe on the regular – and other women should be free to choose theirs.