Sunday, February 7, 2010
We can name him Dill
You know, I’m pretty amazing for having the self-confidence to admit that my own husband turned me down. Not every woman can hear “no thanks” without being reduced to tears. Never mind the heckling from the stuffed lamb.
I rock (just apparently not the bed).
As I suspected, there was more to Chuck’s abstinence than mere fatigue and a desire to wash dishes. After a weekend of barraging him with “You think I’m fat!” and “Admit it! You’re boffing the bonbon again!” he came clean.
Turns out Chuck is scared. Why? Because I recently had a barbaric, tortuous device known as an IUD extracted from my innards.
In case you didn’t know, IUD stands for I Understand Dying...Pain. I’m sure there are hundreds of you with IUDs who don’t have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about. If the ParaGard or Mirena people asked you to be their spokesperson you’d jump at the chance. Me? Never!
For one year that damn thing has caused me stabbing, crippling pain—pain that ran down my legs and up my sides. Seriously, it brought tears to my eyes. The doctor assured me the IUD was in the right place. Again. And again. I paid copay after copay, just to hear “Everything looks good, Mrs. Mullet. Great to see your hooch again.”
Two weeks ago, I couldn’t take it anymore: I got the damn thing out.
It was a beautiful feeling. (I actually asked the doctor if I could take it home and set it on fire, but apparently they sterilize them and reuse them. I’m kidding. So kidding! They sell them to summer camps for crafts projects.)
Before I left, the doctor asked me what I was planning to use for birth control.
“I’m going to cough really hard after sex,” I said.
She looked me in the eye and said, “You realize that after you leave this office, you could get pregnant at any time. Any time.” She gave me a second to digest the weight of her words, but all I could picture was a giant penis walking down the street and accosting me at my car. Bam! Prego in the doctor’s parking lot. I felt as fertile as a dewy daisy…
Then, the smackdown.
“Of course, you’re 35 now,” she said. “You’re in a different category.”
“What category is that?”
“The mature category.”
“But I’m not mature. I was just picturing a cartoon penis impregnating me on the hood of my car.”
“Sorry sister, your eggs are pickled from booze and crusty with age.”
“So I’m fertile, but I’d probably birth a geriatric gherkin?
You see, Chuck? There’s nothing to be scared of. An old pickle won’t keep us up all night or cry for no reason. An old pickle won’t cost us $200,000 to send to college. We'll be the happiest family ever. In fact, if the pickle comes out ok, we could even try for a Pepperoncini.
I know, I know, I'm pushing it.
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