Hell hath no fury like a woman hopped up on hormones.
Don’t let my placid smile and outwardly calm demeanor fool you. Internally, for the past few days, I’ve been a raging she-devil.
Blame it on the infertility meds.
I silently cursed every bike riding hippie stupid enough to pedal down busy streets during a heat wave.
I mentally let loose language bluer than the Danube at slow Sunday drivers and taxis.
I threatened the kiddie music cd…something about punching stupid hippie musicians who take 12 minutes just to sing one damn song. (I dunno why my hormonal ire is trained on hippies).
I told my dog he better hold it when he whimpered for a potty break during a car ride on the highway.
Oh. The. Shame.
And when my hubby asked “what’s wrong with you”, I launched into him.
“You know what the hell is wrong with me!”
“Well how long is this going to last?”
“A month! So deal with it buddy!”
He made himself scarce for the rest of the night and returned later with dessert.
Part of the issue is that I’m on a super high dose of meds this time around. Every time I inject a batch all of that wacky juice plays hacky sack with my hormones.
The nurse called after my visit this morning and told me to up the dose.
Watch out hippie bike riders. I feel a heat wave coming on…