I wish I could blame the monkeys.

So there I was on Friday, just minding my own business, when my insides deliquesced.

I was sure it was Ebola. I couldn't immediately recall any intimate encounters with a diseased macaque, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. (Monkeys and vodka don't mix, as I've learned to my sadness many a time.)

Imagine my relief when it turned out to be nothing more than my period, two days early, awesome in volume and velocity. Honestly, it was okay. I mean, I might have been losing two ounces of blood with every beat of my heart, but at least it wasn't seeping from my eyeballs.

I try to give thanks for the smallest of blessings.

It's not exactly a good magazine

Move over, jackass sisters-in-law. You've been unceremoniously demoted. Now there's someone infertile women despise more: Oprah Winfrey.

An article about the manifold dangers of fertility drugs appeared in the January issue of O magazine. Poorly researched, deeply sensationalistic, and irresponsibly alarmist, the article is exactly what you don't want your mother to read if you've jacked yourself up on gonadotropins. It's a worthless piece of frantic muckraking expressly intended to scare women, particularly women already made vulnerable by the stresses of infertility.

In that respect, it's unforgivable, and if Oprah Winfrey had a cock it would need a good old-fashioned slappin'. On Friday. In Italy.

But should we expect anything different?

Oprah's magazine has immense reach and she herself has enormous influence (and enormous diamond earrings, but that's not important right now). In the best of all possible worlds, she'd use those powers for unalloyed good instead of highly purified intramuscular evil. But her disapproval of ART has been well established. Just like any lesser immoderate loudmouth, she's using every outlet available to her to promote her position. O's not a medical journal or a news magazine. (Sleuth that I am, the cover photo tipped me off.) It's an inch-thick glossy devoted to perfume samples and so-called service journalism, which is as prone to slant as any other kind, and probably more so.

I think it's a crying damn shame that women will read that article and be frightened (and, on a more harrowing note, that our mothers will call us, scared out of their collective maternal gourd, begging us not to get accidentally impregnated by a rogue doctor). But what might be a greater shame is that many women will rely solely on the good offices of Barbara Seaman instead of, you know, talking to someone who actually knows his or her way around a Fallopian tube, or reading something more intellectually rigorous than a feel-good femmey stroke book you can buy at the checkout stand.

Aren't we smarter than that? I know we're smarter than that.

When O gets its first Pulitzer nomination, let me know. Until then, I want to believe that women can be trusted to make informed decisions about our own health care, to give no undue weight to incompetent "reporting" when it rears its misshapen head, and to turn to O for nothing more important the latest scoop on the astonishing, newsworthy metamorphosis of Madonna.

The February that will not suck

February is national black history month. It is also national bird-feeding month, national cherry month, national snack food month, and national humpback whale awareness month.

By coincidence, February also happens to be local "Fuck my ovaries" month.

This month will be a rest cycle for me. No drugs — not even Robitussin. (If I want that smooth, rich flavor, I'll settle for its close cousin, Southern Comfort.) No anxiety. No sex at ovulation, unless I actually feel like it — and, really, what are the odds?

No fertility procedures on my birthday, unlike the previous two years.

I'm in good shape at the moment. I'm not currently seething with hormones; I know what our next couple of steps are; and I'm not waiting for any particular clusterfuck to ensue.

Besides affording me a much-needed breather, this will give me ample time and energy to root for my friends. I wonder if I could get February named national giant foam pointy finger month, national paint-your-naked-torso-blue month, and national streak-across-the-field-at-halftime month. Because here I am on the sidelines, lustily cheering you on.

Friendly skies

Yesterday on an airplane I was seated next to a man who wanted to talk. Apparently he also wanted me to hurt him.

At first the conversation was innocuous, but then he started to rail about his ex-girlfriend. I conspicuously brandished my wedding ring.

And then he complained about being sent on a business trip to Florida, "where there's the highest concentration of AIDS in the country — I was afraid to get out of my car." I asked him whether getting out of his car really required the use of his penis, his anus, or his mouth, then instructed him, friendly-like, about the normal vectors of HIV transmission.

And then he told me about his ex-wife and why he divorced her: "She lost two babies, and it changed her. She just wasn't the same person I'd married after that."

Realizing there was simply no way, in our cramped coach-class row, for me to deliver the roundhouse cockslap he deserved, I stood up, gesticulated wildly at my seatmate, and bellowed, "There's a terrorist on the plane!" And enjoyed my ringside seat for the savage beating that ensued.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Do you ever feel like the infertility game is rigged?

Here's your chance to play like a real high roller. Dole out the cash, line up your dainty silver shoe, and join me in a spirited game of Infertilitopoly.

Like the classic board game that inspired it, completing a single round of Infertilitopoly takes forever. And like the classic, you'll end up paying an awful lot of money to people you don't even like. And like the classic, you'll seethe with the urge to commit mayhem against those who are lucky enough to win.

You'll shell out the big bucks every time you land on those desirable blue properties right next to "Go": CCRM and Cornell at this printing, but subject to change upon release of the new CDC stats. You'll grumble in annoyance when you happen to land on the cruddy brown spots — baby showers for your sister-in-law and your least favorite co-worker. And you'll yodel with joy when your opponents land on the pink areas if you're holding the cards for First Response, EPT, and Answer!

Step right up and roll the dice. Choose a chance card or call your doctor. Join me, won't you? But I get to be the iron.

(Note to Hasbro: Please do not sue. I am poor as an indigent churchmouse and not worth even the postage on the letter from your lawyers.)

Donor egg

At one time, the two seemed so desperate to incubate an egg together that they put a rock in their nest and sat on it, keeping it warm in the folds of their abdomens.

That clean, close shave

Today someone reached my site via this search term:

doctors recommendation for shaving vulva

I haven't asked or anything, but I'm pretty sure my doctor doesn't have a ready recommendation for vulva-shaving.

Breakfast: the most important meal of the day

After last month's ovulation fiasco, I was curious to see whether I'd ovulate on time. In unmedicated cycles you could set your watch by my ovaries — at the tone, the time will be half past rupture — but I don't know what my body does the month after an ovarian onslaught, so I've been monitoring my fertility signals closely.

Today is cycle day 14. Right around this time, most women produce a slippery tide of what's evocatively called egg white cervical mucus, copious, clear, and stretchy. I, alas, do not, or at least not noticeably. The only times I have were when my estrogen level was artificially inflated, and then I made enough to feed hundreds of hungry brunchers.

Not having this helpful lubricant at my disposal puts me at yet another fertility disadvantage. But I am not discouraged, for some preliminary research tells me that I could turn to a natural solution to make my cervix more hospitable to sperm.

I am disinclined to try this because it sounds like a gilt-edged invitation to a raging pelvic infection. I don't think there's any such thing as fertile-quality pus, so I'm thinking I'll give this a pass. But as long as I'm truly taking charge of my fertility, I've come up with a few other items I might profitably engulf:

• an astrolabe to improve navigation conditions;
• a heat source to create optimal incubation conditions; and
• perhaps even some nice furniture to make the place a little more homey.

Look, these ideas are no more far-fetched than the prospect of shoving breakfast up my coochie. Side of toast? Bacon? How many bowls would you have to eat to equal the fertility potential in one bowl of Total?

Give it to Mikey! He'll eat anything. He likes it! Hey, Mikey!

I knew February wouldn't suck

I'd asked my doctor to call to discuss what we'd do in March for my valedictory IUI, and call he did. It was a nice conversation, one of the few times we've spoken when I wasn't seething with hormones, anger, or disappointment.

He asked me how I am. I said I'm feeling great, and incredibly I meant it.

"Did you try this month?" he asked. "Nope!" I said brightly, thinking about how good this break has been for me. Although I've thought every day about what happens next, I've deeply appreciated the luxury of not having to do anything about it.

And I know what happens next; though it took some haggling, I'm happy with what we've decided:

• Aggressive monitoring. My clinic doesn't usually monitor P4 and LH, but I was insistent on this point — if I'm about to ovulate early, I want to know it so that we can at least try to salvage the cycle. "I'll write 'at patient's request,'" my doctor said. (Perhaps it was an unorthodox demand.) "Yeah, do that," I said pleasantly.

• Start stims at three amps, then back off to two. Last time I was on three amps the whole time, which might have moved things along too quickly.

And two months after my consultation at Cornell, we finally discussed it in some detail. He asked what we'd do if this IUI didn't pan out, and I told him we planned to try IVF there in May. I explained that at age 33 I didn't feel ready to give up on my own eggs without one more try. He'd do the same, he said, after giving the expected dire warnings about the lack of personal attention. ("I've had that," I said, "...and it hasn't worked," he finished.) In the end, he was warmly supportive of the idea (and nakedly curious about the cost, incidentally), and said they'd be happy to do some initial monitoring locally if I didn't want to spend the whole cycle in New York.

Here's the best part: "We normally charge $500 for that, but we'd waive the charge for you so that we can follow along and see how you respond to their protocol." Free treatment! I feel like I've won the goddamn lottery. I'm not sure I'll take advantage of it, but it's good to have the option, and nice to know that customer loyalty — no matter how ill-advised — entitles me to one tiny perq. After all, every $500 I'm not spending on monitoring I can spend on home diagnostics.

I like my chocolates bittersweet

Today is my birthday. (If you must sing, I prefer Björk to the Beatles — something about that scream gets me every time.)

Let's get this out of the way immediately before anyone starts cooing: There is nothing remotely romantic about having a birthday on Valentine's Day. Even if you buy into the hearts and flowers thing, which I do not, there are serious disadvantages. To wit:

1. If your husband wants to take you out to dinner that night, neither of you will remember that reservations must be made months in advance. The day before your birthday he will be frantically calling all over town to find some place, any place that has a deuce open — hope you like Denny's. You will be seated at 9 PM if you're lucky, just in time to watch other loving couples stare grimly into each other's eyes over death by chocolate. Your dessert will arrive as the janitors are stacking chairs and bumping your feet with a mop.

2. If you'd like to see friends that day, you will have to satisfy yourself with only those who are unhappily uncoupled. The others, you see, all have plans, probably involving dinner out at a decent hour, floral offerings, and imaginative pubic topiary. When it becomes clear that a Hallmark holiday is of more significance to them than the actual day of your birth, you will feel more annoyed than is strictly warranted.

3. If you expect double the presents from your sweetheart, congratulations! You have tapped into the motherlode of the purest crack in the Western Hemisphere. If you've bought gifts for your husband, you will wonder why the hell you're giving someone else gifts on your birthday.

I sound more bitter than I actually am. I learned these lessons years ago; I'm used to the inconvenience of sharing a birthday with a major commercial holiday and have developed a few useful coping strategies:

1. We don't go out on my birthday. The night before or the night after will suffice equally well. Okay, so there are no lovey couples to sneer at, but I don't have to feel underdressed in my usual uniform of jeans and a black shirt. (Bonus: utilitarian lingerie.)

2. I don't even try to see friends. In fact, I've safeguarded myself entirely from disappointment by not having any friends.

3. I buy myself presents, too. This year my hope addict wants something sparkly...something enchanting...I know! A fifth of Ketel One!

This birthday is significantly different from the last two. My last two birthdays were spent with my legs splayed wide, being romanced by a hard shaft of plastic. (In my current sexless state, that doesn't sound too bad.) I mean that I was at the clinic pursuing pregnancy.

On Valentine's Day 2002 I had an IUI. It was my first IUI under the supervision of an RE (as opposed to the ones done by my OB/GYN, who babbled a mile a minute, bobbled his head like it was too heavy for his neck, and slipped his feet out of his clogs and put them up on the table while we talked). I had two Clomid-induced follicles, a great sperm sample, and enthusiasm on my side.

I actually thought it would work.

The IUI was excruciating. Since it was my first one at this clinic, no one had yet discovered that my anatomy demands a catheter bent just so — "like a hockey stick." Afterward I clasped Paul's hand in my sweaty palms and said something naive about a pregnancy being the best birthday present a girl could hope for.

Laugh with me, won't you?

A year later, I was back in the same room, back on the same table, this time for my first ultrasound after starting stims for IVF #1. My follicles were growing apace, my E2 was increasing with appropriate decorum, and I saw, at that point, no reason the cycle should fail.

Again, I actually thought it would work.

This year I quailed at the thought of being back at the clinic. I am more relieved than I can tell you that I will not be celebrating my thirty-third birthday staring up at acoustical tiles, making a wish I'm no longer sure will be granted.