Last dance.

From today until about, oh, Wednesday, I need everyone out there to think fertile thoughts and cosmically send them my way. These next few days are our last chance at conceiving a baby. No pressure, though.

Now, if you’re not feeling particularly sexy, may I suggest locking yourself in the handicap bathroom stall at work (come on, you know you use it when no one else is looking) with a pocket rocket or the latest issue of Juggs or something. This is no time for modesty, people. Like I said, it’s my last chance, and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to break out the crazy voodoo shit to make this happen.

untitledhusband has had to overcome his crippling fear of needles and blood to inject my backside with a fertility drug called Repronex (hormones that stimulate ovulation) every month. Sounds painful, but it’s hurt our pocketbook more than my rear end. Much of what I have read online says that if the injectibles haven’t worked after three months, they probably are not going to work. Month one I had a good-sized follicle, but for some reason, it did not fertilize. Second month, same thing. Some infertility bulletin boards suggest shooting room temperature egg whites up your cooch before intercourse — somehow, that makes the little swimmers survive longer. The first two months, I refrained from such stitch witchery. But at this point, I’d shove the entire chicken up there if it would result in a pregnancy.

If things don’t take this month, I won’t say that I won’t be frustrated and a little bit angry. Because I’m sure I will be. But I’m fully aware that there are many women out there who cannot have any children. For me to be all pissy because I can’t have a second, well, that’s not right. So all I ask for now is strength — strength to get me through whatever this month’s outcome will be. Strength to deal with the fact that life is rarely fair, and that undeserving assholes win the lottery, get promoted and more often than not, walk away with the free salad spinner at the Tupperware party.

All this makes me question who exactly is at the helm up there. untitledhusband believes it is no one. My scientific mind agrees with him, but my desperate heart so wants to believe that someone, somewhere is looking after me, making sure that I get a little somethin somethin for letting people into traffic and saying hi to the Wal-Mart door greeter. If no one is driving this car, well then, life is just a bunch of coincidences and consequences. Now is that a downer or what?

So in lieu of remaining confused and let down, I choose to give my doubts a rest and find some hope and faith. At least for a few more weeks. I desperately need to believe that god or whomever is not going to pass me by this time. So I am officially taking my sadness and my shrivelled old eggs and passing them off to god. But by doing so, I damn well hope that she’s going to book it to the end zone and do the funky chicken when she gets there, cause sista girl needs the Hail Mary right now.