More prune juice, please.

“Good God, why is Mommy shouting from the bathroom?”

For the second time in two months, my hemoglobin is down. The numbers aren’t quite as low as NBC’s ratings, but still, we’re concerned. My doctor says this is common among pre-menopausal women.

“You know what else is common?” I snapped, “required medication for women who first realize they are pre-menopausal.”

Low hemoglobin levels indicate an iron deficiency. Yet another way the good Lord sticks it to us vegetarians. Naturally Dr. Fink says if my numbers don’t improve, I might need to schedule an Iron IV.

Great. Should I pencil that in before or after the required volunteer time at school, thirty minutes on the treadmill, ordering takeout, deadlines at work, and weekly Brazilian wax?

I am a brunette, after all, with a waistline. Work with me.

For now, I must start taking iron supplements. We’re upping my usual 36mgs a day to a damn-near toxic level of 231mgs.

I could suck the lead out of a cast iron pipe (yes, I really could), gnaw on some juicy steaks, wash it down with a pint of Guinness and still not reach these numbers of mineral madness.

But doesn’t that sound like a fun date?

We’re hoping for higher hemoglobin numbers, but there’s no guarantee. If there are any words I hate to hear in a doctor’s office (besides “Congratulations, your birth control method failed!”), it’s “hoping” and “no guarantee.”

“Start taking the iron supplements and we’ll test you again in a month,” Dr. Fink said. “This might be exactly what you need.”

I was skeptical, but promised I would try.

“Besides,” he said, “it can’t hurt.”

…famous last words.