“‘Miscarriage’ by the way, deserves to be ranked as one of the worst, most blame-inducing medical terms ever. To me, it immediately conjures up an implication that it was the woman’s fault, like she somehow ‘mishandled the carrying of this baby.’ F that so hard, right in its patriarchal nut-sack.”
I’m too old to be a Handmaid, but fingers crossed I get to be a Martha.
The bad news: I went home from work early yesterday thanks to overwhelming nausea, which may have been caused by any number of things, from medication to weather to stress, and it’s still lingering today.
The good news? A happy bonus of being a sexless spinster is that it’s damn sure not caused by pregnancy.
Discussing life with a very pregnant ladyfriend:
Her: “We still have 10 days to go. The baby seems content to stay there forever, so who knows. Someday, I won’t be pregnant. So they tell me. It’s weird. Everywhere I go I’m like, ‘I could go into labor RIGHT NOW and that would be acceptable. Like, the baby would be fine.’ Pregnancy is a total mindfuck (brought about by an actual fuck, I suppose, haha).”
Me: “That really IS a mindfuck, now that I think about it. ‘Cause eventually the kid just decides, ‘Aaand my work in this womb is done. Comin’ at ya, Ma! Wheeeeee!’ And then she swims down like Nemo, and that ‘Y’all Ready for This?‘ song plays like it’s a sports game.”
Her: “OMG, I wish ‘Y’all Ready for This’ would play whenever anyone went into labor. Vaginas should come equipped with that pre-recorded. Also could be useful during sex?”
Me: “I’m not sure how it would work, science-ly, but I would Kickstart the shit out of technology that would enable my vagina to welcome its visiting team with a jaunty tune. Vaginal Jock Jams. Yes. Shut up and take my money.”
Overheard in pre-meeting chatter at work, from two women who’ve only recently met:
Woman 1: “How old is your son?”
Woman 2: “14 months.”
Woman 1: “Aw! Are you gonna have more?”
Woman 2: “…Ehhhh, I don’t know about that…”
Woman 1: “Aw, you don’t want to try for the girl?”
Dear Lord, baby Jesus, please keep me from punching this woman in the throat.
People. This is not an acceptable topic of conversation, especially at work, where maybe we’re not all “Ya-Ya Sisterhood of the Golden Girls Traveling Caftans” wanting to discuss what’s going into or coming out of our vaginas next. Kindly extricate yourselves from other women’s uteruses. It’s, like, SUPER none of your business.
Daily Mail headline/lede via Google News:
“Chelsea Clinton shows off post-baby body at the Clinton Foundation Day of Action: Chelsea Clinton showed up ready to get her hands dirty at a Palm Springs volunteer event Sunday where the mom of just four months looked impressively slim and self-assured in a close-fitting t-shirt, skinny jeans and an unmistakable pair of cowboy boots.”
Ahem… Fuck you. Just because.
(I know, it’s Daily Mail, but…ugh.)
Woke up from a dream in which I was taking Dollar Store pregnancy tests. But they looked like tampon applicators, and had all different animal faces. Mine was a tiger, but there were also pandas and other vaginal menagerie. I was trying to figure out how to use them, because the instructions told me to *insert* them, but I’ve taken a pregnancy test before, so I know you’re supposed to pee on them.
Um… Happy Mother’s Day?
I wish I could remember which friends were with me in the bathroom. I’d love to give a special shout-out to whomever my subconscious thinks I’m close enough to that I’d let them see me take a pregnancy test.