snowed

The best thing about being a teacher in New England is not the proximity to so many great institutions of higher learning where you may build your content knowledge and wear tweed. Nor is it the apple picking field trip, the general lack of environmental disasters, the ability to spew left wing rhetoric at your students without a single complaint.... no no. It is your governor on the radio, a full evening ahead of you, telling you to sit back, have a glass of wine, and just forget about going to work tomorrow.

The bliss ends there.

I hate to break this to all of you who are currently enjoying your reproductive rights, but the Bush administration has dealt a final blow to gender equality, human rights, etc. He hates that stuff!

I got this in the mail from my buddy Cecile Richards:

Minutes ago, President Bush's rule limiting the rights of patients to receive complete and accurate reproductive health information when they visit a federally funded health care provider was made official. And, unfortunately, it will take a great deal of work to reverse it — starting today. Please help.

We knew this was coming, of course. With your help, we've been fighting it for months. The rule is clearly a parting gift from Bush to the anti-choice fringe that supported him all these years.

Now, anti-choice medical staff can withhold information about abortion, birth control, and sex education from their patients. Facilities that receive family planning funding, like Planned Parenthood, will have to certify that they will not refuse to hire nurses and other providers who object to abortion and even certain types of birth control. For example, a doctor who opposes pre-marital sex could refuse to provide a prescription or even information about emergency contraception to an unmarried woman.

This is the most frightening thing I've heard in a long time. As if unwanted pregnancies weren't enough of a problem, it's going to get a hell of a lot harder for women to prevent them. Nay, it's going to get a hell of a lot harder to even get INFORMATION about BIRTH CONTROL. What?! Beyond that, this will disproportionately affect women with limited access to information (poor women, English language learners, you know, the vulnerable people who Bush loves to shit on.)

I debate this issue with my students all the time. Many of these girls have been, as it were, totally snowed. They learned to believe, at some point very early in their lives, that getting pregnant is a sacred gift from god and...well I'll put this in their words:

"If you open your legs, you have to pay the price."

Three things:

1. How sad to be the child whose entire life is payment for something the mother eternally regrets.

2. How much sadder to be the girl who has been so beaten down by society that she actually believes not only that she is powerless, but that she should be.

3. Okay, so you believe "life is sacred" - but should you really advocate for those beliefs to be legislated? Because the people who are stirring this pot you're in don't give a flying poop about life being sacred (or at least not military prisoners or Iraqi citizens or death row inmates...those lives aren't sacred). They want to keep power in the hands of men, and taking decision making power out of the hands of women is the quickest way to do that. The life is sacred thing is just a convenient slogan these power mongers capitalize on to advance their anti-woman, anti-parenting, anti-medical ethics, anti-American agenda.

What a great trick you've pulled, you murdering sexist bigot war criminal. I wish that shoe hit you right in the fucking smirk.

Baby Bling

I read an article a while back about wealthy suburban couples competing with their wealthy suburban friends through a new wildly popular status symbol. Not huge cars, not elaborate vacations. Babies. Lots and lots of babies. Apparently (and one need not look further than the latest Pitt-Jolie headline in the checkout line mags) babies are the new bling.

Needless to say, this is distressing on several levels. Firstly, even to a heartless wench like me, using children to prove to one's friends (or the media) that one is a superstar with immense wealth seems an unjust use of children. Secondly, and more distressing, it's hard not to think of the wee little planet on which we pile all these grubby little water drinking plastic dependent cherubs. Do we really want to make it "cool" to have gigantic families?

I can say this: it's cool in school. There hasn't been a single month, in the entire time that I have been teaching, that hasn't brought news of at least one more pregnant student. Many of them have children already. And the news is always greeted with "awwws" from the other students, who rush over to the latest big belly and rub it, give the mom to be lots of attention, and totally freak me the fuck out.

How do we compete with cool?!

Our school has counselors on staff, and we all sit down once a week to chat about the students' states of mind, hash out strategies to deal with difficult situations, and, inevitably, lament the list of newly pregnant teenagers.

These girls, for all their lives, have been under mountains of shit beyond my ability to imagine. Abuse, homelessness, crumbling, segregated, violent schools, gang violence, hunger, lack of health care...not exactly the recipe for self-love and self-respect. So when they get the chance to be loved and needed, they take it. When they get the chance to be in control of something, they take it. And in so doing, they become part of a rapidly expanding group of their peers, and are accepted. This is just as damaging to young girls' futures as gangs are to boys' - and both behaviors are unfortunate responses to the same set of shitty realities.

I recognize that the lack of mandated, funded, comprehensive sex education in public schools is partly at fault for the rising number of teen parents. But this isn't just a sex education crisis. It's a self-esteem crisis. Hopelessness crisis.

I assure you, the last possible thing we need is for this to become cooler than it already is.

...I've sat here staring at a blinking cursor for quite a while now. I have no answers. I have no clue what to do. I'm throwing my hands up in the air, in the middle of a crisis, and saying: "What. The. Fuck."

Crap! Is it August?!

Besides being a reminder that I’m one of the several hundred thousand Bostonians about to move on good ole September 1^st, the arrival of August is always moderately depressing. One begins to reevaluate one’s summer. There have been exactly zero trips to the beach, days off, picnics, one nasty tan line from a day of biking but otherwise still Scottishly pale… And of course every new month delivers the sinking, cold realization that I have criminally neglected my blog yet again.

I’ll go ahead and sum up all that I missed in…

Top Five Things I Totally Meant to Blog About Last Month

Or

My Summer Thus Far

#5 PROOF that my asshole coworker actually is an asshole

Oh most desired gift at last you’ve arrived. For the entirety of my employment I have known that this woman (referred to in previous blogs as Jabba the Hut) is an asshole. Like the worst kind of asshole, she manages somehow to evade what should be a companywide intervention based on the universal consensus that she is so egregiously awful that it is a violation of state safety regulations to force other employees to work anywhere near her. Rather, she manages to win the favor of certain administrators who, uh, clearly find their asses and elbows indistinguishable from one another.

What she does is the following:

We’re in community meeting, a weekly gathering of all students and staff wherein all may make announcements to the entire school and student leadership may put various things to a vote and blah blah blah. At this particular meeting one student, who had not attended the graduation ceremony, was receiving an award that came with a small scholarship. She was sitting with her case manager (our school has counselors assigned to each student) and both ladies were jokingly grabbing the scholarship check back and forth from one another during the rest of the meeting. Jabba the Hut notices this playful act and bellows, to a roomful of people who HADN’T necessarily noticed what was going on, “Whoops! Hang on to that check, you gotta watch these Puerto Ricans every second!”

Pause. Digest.

Now, if a student had yelled some racially charged statement like that in the middle of a meeting, I would stop everything and process the statement with everyone. I am constantly doing the work of getting the students to reflect on their own racialized statements and beliefs so that, someday, we might be in a place where those kinds of statements aren’t even thought, let alone screamed at the top of one’s lungs.

But what was I to do when a staff member did it?

Apparently I was to drop the dry erase marker I had in my hand, and say, “I can’t believe you just said that.”

Everyone tittered awkwardly and things moved right along. How the hell are we going to get the kids to start reevaluating their beliefs about race if the teachers make these kinds of statements?!

Silver lining: now everyone knows she’s an asshole.

#4 Culture Clash: Bikes v. Cars

I’ll admit right away that I used to loathe bikers. Those idiots weaving in and out of lanes wearing pants three sizes too small and flipping everyone off. But now having seen Boston drivers from behind the handle bars, I would flip everyone off too if I wasn’t so scared of riding without holding on… Car drivers’ sense of superiority and imagined entitlement to the entire road is at worst dangerous and at best really fucking irritating.

I had a run-in with just such a gas guzzling enemy of the planet mid-July while on a leisurely bike ride through Watertown. I don’t know how many of my several thousand dedicated readers are familiar with Watertown, but it’s a pretty mellow place with many residential areas. My boyfriend and I were taking a left off one residential street onto another, waiting in the middle of the road for oncoming cars to pass, just as a motor vehicle would have done. The car behind us begins laying on horn, yelling, “Get out of the road!”

This poor soul thought that only cars had the right to use the roads that all we taxpayers pay for. As I often do, I responded to potential conflict with grace and respect for another point of view…

OR

I screamed a string of obscenities in the direction of the speeding car as it headed toward a red light one hundred feet away. My better half responded the way a person as level headed as I never would, and chased after the car. The following interaction ensued:

My better half (MBH): Hey you really didn’t need to yell at us

Patty Petroleum (chewing French fries): Get out of the road

MBH: You get out of the road; I have just as much right to be on it as you do

PP: You have the sidewalk

MBH: Sidewalks indicate their purpose in their name and bikes aren’t allowed on the sidewalks anyway

PP: Whatever

MBH: So it’s okay for you to scream at people, but it’s not okay for me to-

Light turns green. Petroleum Patty wields her enormous arm to form a familiar gesture with its sausage fingers and yells the following brilliant statement out the window:

PP: GET A CAR!!!!!

Well we hadn’t thought of that! Thanks, Patty Petroleum! I mean, it’s really hard to eat all my meals out of a Styrofoam box while riding my bike! I could just GET A CAR! It’s been such a drag being able to park right next to my destination rather than patronize my friendly neighborhood garage three blocks away! I should buy a CAR! I really hate fitting into the same jeans I’ve worn since my early twenties, I need to gain weight so I can rationalize buying new clothes. I’ll get a CAR!

….of course, I do own a car. But I’m nice about it. Eat me, Petroleum Patty!!!

#3 JUST IN CASE YOU STILL DON’T THINK MY COWORKER IS AN ASSHOLE

Oh boy is this one priceless. We are in a staff meeting, headed by our boss who is African American. Jabba the Hut is taking the notes, and says…

“How do you spell your name again?”

Our boss, who has worked with us for three months now, replies.

Jabba says, “Oh that must be one of those made up black names.”

… … …

I’m just going to leave that hanging…but trust that it did not make it into the meeting minutes.

#2 Dante’s Sixth Circle of Hell

Otherwise known as the Boston Children’s Museum. A cesspool of diapers, whining, snotty sleeves, untied shoelaces, frantic parents, disobedient little persons darting around with no regard for passers by. When I face my ultimate comeuppance, it will be there I am sent.

During summer school we take the students on field trips every Friday. Since most of our students have children themselves, we take one trip on which students may bring their families. The amount of hatred I harbor for this annual event cannot be properly expressed in words. See, a group of teenagers gathered together, regardless of whether they are playing the role of parent or student, behaves like a group of teenagers. So when you combine a group of teenagers with a group of sub-3 year olds plus cell phones plus all the social pressures and conflicts and norms of school you get:

“Oh hell no she won’t. I am not playin’ with that ho- ”

“Don’t say ho in front of my kid.”

“Why hasn’t he met his momma?”

“Bitch I am not PLAYING with you.”

“Baby get out of the ROAD get out of the fucking road get the fuck out of the road.”

“Yo your baby is mad cute!”

“I’m at school. I don’t know a museum. I told you don’t be chirpin’ me at school….hello? Motherfucker I KNOW you didn’t hang up on me.”

“Hello? Did you just-”

“HellOOOO?”

“Where the bathrooms at?!”

“Where’d Miss Kelly go?”

Miss Kelly went straight to the museum shop, where she sat and read a book for the entire day.*

*Conscience alert: If I were a different blogger, I might have talked about observing my students in their roles as parents and how a palpable sense of community made the chaperons smile as the students encouraged their kids to play together. And I might have also mentioned the moments of unguarded, unselfconscious curiosity and wonder while they learned with their kids at various exhibits…but we can’t have that messing up my reputation.

#1 Unprotected Sex

Second only to the Children’s Museum as a reaffirmation of my decision to barricade these baby tubes with two coils of steel, this delightful endeavor is ill-advised for most of you poor saps but gee golly if it isn’t making fine and dandy my vacationless summer vacation. High five!

Post Game Wrap-Up

I would love to tell you all about my surgery, but thanks to my friend anesthesia, I don't have much to report.  I can assure you that I entered the hospital with a sense of somber reverence, deeply thoughtful about my decision...

And, of course, I spent the following two days off of work resting quietly, allowing my body to heal...I certainly didn't use it to play tennis or ride my bike or put a new composter in the back yard or walk around town in the sunshine.  I mean I just had SURGERY for heaven's sake.

My doctor came to talk to me in the recovery room, and he mentioned that I was his third sterilization of the day - perhaps more women are realizing the children path is one only SOME people should take...?  If you are considering it, let me ease any worries you may have: As it stands, the most difficult recovery period of my life was right after the 2004 election, and the most painful surgery I've yet to have involved three very wise teeth.  The most difficult part of the surgery was abstaining from food or drink all day, and of course dealing with the antiquated sexist breeder-brained world which, I hope, is changing.  

My Final Fertile Weekend

Ah, the final days of fertility. The condom collection is down to the dregs, resorting at this point to the rain-slicker-thick ones tossed to me from a pick up truck filled with transvestites at the gay pride parade. The mandated pre-op blood work is evidenced by a nasty bluish junkie mark near the unlucky vein. The Depo shot to cover the risky post-op you-still-might-get-pregnant period has made of me a bi-polar Dolly Parton in heat. Between the migraines, back aches, weight gain, ear aches, weird fucking shaking attacks, and general psychoticry, I am reminded of exactly why I hate birth control.

All the more reason to go party in NYC all weekend with one of my favorite childless couples in celebration of a huge kiss goodbye to all of the above. Thus, I give to you the Final Fertile Weekend Recap:

1. The Bus
You know the bus. It was what you took in college. I am not in college. When you take the bus and you aren't in college you basically take a little trip into loserland. But you also don't put a whole lotta extra carbon into the air, so this counteracts the loserness of the whole escapade. Also it's an excuse, at least for me, to count gummy bears as a meal.

The driver on the way down must have wanted some sensitive national security information from one of the passengers, because we were basically in a traveling guantanamo. This rattletrap ramshackle poor excuse for a bus sounded like a collection of New Year's Eve party favors every time we: turned, accelerated, braked....etc. This was "auditory torture." The constant fear that we were going to tumble into a collection of bolts and seats flung wildly all over the highway was not enough. Oh no. There was also the traditional "olfactory torture," guaranteed to shock and awe even the toughest conscience. And it wasn't just the bathroom (which was egregious) but the air in the bus seemed thick with a potpourri of industrial cleaning agents and urine. On top of these add "climate torture." Our tyrannical driver turned the temperature dial to "Tundra" and rejoiced in our collective shivering. Then, just when we were about to fall unconscious, he spun the dial entirely around, selecting "Ethiopia." I actually extracted clothing from my bag (tank tops, underwear, a tee shirt) and fashioned leg warmers for the Tundra setting, which I had to periodically remove when we entered the Dallol Depression, and so on. It was as if he was waiting for the entire bus to scream "Uncle!"

By the time I climbed out of Port Authority and hit 42nd Street I had Dysentery and PTSD.

2. Indulgence
Luckily, my friends knew to inject me with Sangria and Tapas. In a Hell's Kitchen restaurant by a name I've already forgotten, I devoured marinated artichokes and portobello and manchego and octopus and prosciutto and aioli covered potatoes with shameless abandon. Like any good evening in new york, it was three am before we even thought to check our watches.

The next day we walked through the world, as microcosmed by Queens. India, Mexico, Korea (and, later, a quick cab ride to Greece for dinner). It got hot, so we stopped for what ended up being an inordinate number of frozen margaritas and a soccer match. The bartenders were very pretty and very dumb.

The streets are covered with a layer of grit in New York, and no matter the flow of sanitation workers there are just too many packages and papers and discarded pieces of gum to keep up. If you are ever looking for a visual to back up your personal worries about overpopulation, go hang out in New York.

After our impressive midday margarita pit stop we required naps and then showers. By the time we finished dinner it was nine thirty. We stopped at a local bar for a night cap at ten, and ended up unlocking the fifteen bolts on the front door right around three am again. Whoops.

3. Back home
On the bus ride home (considerably less reminiscent of abu gharib) I had plenty of time to reflect, over gummy bears, on my last day of fertility. After leaving dirty, crowded New York, I'm first reminded of my genuine belief that we should be pumping contraceptives into the water before we send the human race to follow the dinosaurs, because I'd actually like my species to stick around despite how annoying I find most of its representatives. I think of the little girl on the E train, packed between other passengers, whose mother kept trying unsuccessfully to keep the child from grabbing everyone's hair and how decisively uncute I found this to be. Mostly, I think of my relationship. There are thousands of late-night groggy conversations where we crystal ball our way through a wedding, through new careers, through cities and languages we've yet to see or speak, through a future that we only half plan and have pictured and repictured, both with and without each other, since we first knew how to think. Distinctly and consistently absent are: babies and voting republican. If I change my mind on the former, send me to an adoption agency. If I change my mind on the latter, send me off a cliff. Either way, tomorrow, I'm sending myself off to surgery. Au revoir, condoms. Ciao, depo provera. Adios, fertility. It's been a long strange trip. I'm glad to get off that bus.

Dear Bobby Breeder

I feel compelled to deal with the comment left anonymously (read: huge pussy) on my last post. The text of the comment is:

So, I was vagging out on the couch reading your entry from my laptop. Congrats on your va j j day victory! Like, it's totally tubular! Nothing quite like increasing the cost of insurance for others by electing some expensive, thoroughly unnecessary elective surgery. Oh yeah, let's hope that you don't encounter any of the many complications (thus making our insurance more expensive): hot flashes, heavier periods, mood swings, depression, anxiety, insomnia, vaginal dryness, mental confusion, fatigue, bladder infections, bowel infections, hemmorage . . . you know, the basics. You should know that doctors have reasons for putting young women through the ringer when they request tubal tying. Many, whoops!, change their mind. Insurance won't be covering that change. And, of course, let's not forget about the joys of malpractice suits when things go wrong. The fact is that more men who decide to end the jizz biz remain comfortable with their decision than their female counterparts.

Again, congrats!

Bobby BreederMarketing Director, Trojan Corp.

Where oh where to begin. First, let's heave a sigh of dismay for the planet because these people are the ones who reproduce. Then let's ask...what the heck is "vagging out" exactly? Anyone?

Okay, let's break this down issue by issue.

Bobby Breeder's first issue: increasing the cost of insurance.

I find it hard to feel guilty about increasing the cost of insurance on this one. It would seem that Mr. Breeder's brilliant editorializing would be better directed at all of the people out there who, say, smoke during pregnancy and produce little hospital-residents-for-life. Or women who never want children but just remain on birth control their whole fertile lives, messing with their hormones in ways that might be more harmful than we currently realize, thus becoming at risk later in life and "medically expensive" (not to mention visiting the doctor over and over again to try new types that don't make them feel insane/get migraines/gain weight/etc etc etc and therefore driving up the cost of insurance, if one must look at it like that.)

Besides all that, it seems insane that we accept a system that pits patients against one another, debating the term "necessary" for medical procedures, when most developed countries don't make citizens pay for health care anyway. Again, I feel Mr. Breeder could redirect his ire for the better of us all in this instance.

Bobby Breeder's second issue: Complications

First off, thank you for your concern for my safety. I feel warm and fuzzy. The fact is, over 10 million women have had tubal ligations and most of them are just fine. The complication rate is about 1-3% - and that includes the gamut of complications from "being irritable" to ectopic pregnancy. And concerning the latter, that happens far less than 1 percent of the time. The chances of anesthesia issues are the same as when I had my wisdom teeth out, and I'm willing to accept that five of every ONE MILLION anesthesia procedures result in death. Really, Bobby Breeder, do you think odds like these should alter behavior? Because if you did, you would certainly never ride in a car, which is statistically like seven billion times more dangerous.

As per your worries about depression, anxiety, and insomnia I'm hoping this will cure those, not cause them.

Bobby Breeder's third issue: Defensive of Doctors

"Doctors have reasons for putting young women through the ringer..."

Yes, I agree. The primary reason is plain jane sexism. There are programs in nearly every state that offer vasectomies to men FOR FREE (that comes out of your tax dollars big guy). The man need only be 21 and have a valid ID. Women are "put through the ringer." If this isn't treating people differently based on gender, I don't know what is. Saying, "Women change their minds more" is a bunch of sexist bullshit. Examine, in your little brain, why women might be more likely to change their minds. Perhaps part of the reason women change their minds is the social pressure to have children, and the cultural assumption that a woman is incomplete without children. Perhaps it is a need to be loved unconditionally in a world that treats women like a different species (that does something to one's self esteem, see, and then the need for love comes after that.) Men remain comfortable because society is, by design, more comfortable for men. They are allowed to be comfortable in their decisions because they have designed society; it looks like a pretty sweet deal from here. I'm going to go ahead and give you the satisfaction of a "fuck you" on that one.

Bottom line, tubal ligation is a valid form of birth control, and the one that is the most effective. It is cost-effective over the course of a person's fertile years. Again, you're welcome for choosing not to produce another costly water drinking air breathing co2 emitting human in this already overpopulated world. Talk about increasing costs for others! Your idiotic arguments and egregious offences to the laws of grammar and spelling aside, Bobby Breeder, I appreciate the fan mail.

Fallopian Tubes: 1 Sexist Bastards: ZERO!!

Victory, she is mine!

In October 2004 I was standing in a crowded bar, having just watched Foulke throw that last pitch, ending 86 years of near-victory blue balls all over New England. Most of us, watching them win that series, just stood there for a second and stared at the TV and said, in our heads, "Um...what do we do?"

That's kind of how I felt when I encountered Dr. S., who popped his head into the examining room yesterday and, before introducing himself, said, "Hi I'm Dr. S--- and I don't have a problem with it."

Then he went on to say that he knew I had probably been through a lot of bullshit, and he had a strong allergy to bullshit, and would perform the surgery whenthefuckever I could get the day off work.

I just kind of sat there for a second. Wait...we won?!

Unfortunately, I didn't get to crowd-surf across Government Center afterwards, but it was still pretty sweet. I called my best friend, and my dad, and a few others, and we all kept saying, "Finally finally finally." No one thanked me for refusing to continue overpopulating the planet, but I'm sure they meant to. You're welcome.

So let the countdown begin! 61 days of fertility left, and liberation here I come. As Dr. S. put it, "You can say goodbye to messing with your hormones, and all the crap that comes with birth control. You can say goodbye to smelly, I-can't-feel-anything, mood-killing, expensive condoms."

I love this doctor! (That being said, this is the internet and I feel compelled to go ahead and put in a plug for condoms since STI's are just as horrible as babies.)


All of the resentment and frustration I have been feeling just melted away, and I was even nice to a child today without an onrush of nausea! I took my students to an Earth Day festival at MIT, and several of them brought their kids. I was photographed holding a 10 month old child, and I must say, I felt significantly less like dropping it and running in the other direction. There is something so liberating about this part of my identity being respected, and validated, and acted upon. I mean, I still think all you breeders are totally insane, and that my world view makes a whole lot more sense, but I think having this surgery might lessen the instances of me wanting to push strollers into traffic. (She says smiling sweetly.)

Look forward, vast readership, to a full surgery report and how to throw a fabulous "NO Baby Shower." Hooray!!!

Test Prep

I am doing the only test prep I know how to do - I am drilling and killing myself on what it is, exactly, I must say to the doctor this afternoon to convince him that my tubes need tying.

The relaxed jocular Kelly didn't work. You can't say, "Trust me, Doc, if you knew me well enough you'd stop me from reproducing at any cost." They just don't have a sense of humor about these things.

What I'm really preparing is my response to the inevitable request that I seek therapy. Will I get on the couch (do they still have couches?) to buy myself a shot at saving thousands on birth control? Is this conceding to the bullshit sexist assface jerks? Do I, perhaps, need therapy after all?

Times over the past month I have displayed signs of craziness:

1. Anger Management

I was riding my bike through harvard square yesterday at like 5:30pm. There was a wall of people thicker than that thing they are erecting in Iraq. I was up on the sidewalk because some stepchild of the big dig has slithered into cambridge and there are cones and ropes and boards and cops directing traffic all over creation. Not that I ever go fast, but I was going exceptionally slowly, barely moving. Some bespectacled dinosaur born wearing a cravat had just bought a copy of The Economist (ahem, take note: I was going slowly enough to see what magazine he bought) and had his little harvard head stuck in his magazine and was backing up without looking. So I yelled, "Heads Up!" He stopped, did not back into me, and was unharmed. I felt like this was the best possible outcome. I continued on, toward the end of the roped off section where another cop was telling cars what the green light means. The Economist runs up behind me and says, "Excuse me, little girl, but did you bother to consider that riding your bicycle during rush hour might not be the most intelligent thing to do?"

Pause.

Did he just call me "Little Girl?" !!!

Then he goes on to say that if I had blown a horn, he would've known what that meant. But "heads up" means nothing to him. (And it's my intelligence in question - who the fuck is confused about the phrase "heads up?")

So I reply, all sweetness and light, "My voice is free; a horn costs like twenty bucks."

And he says (this is priceless,) "You aren't willing to invest twenty dollars in my safety?"

And I say, "I would be willing to invest several hundred dollars to watch a Clydesdale have its way with you and then drop your old rich white ass in a port-a-potty so I could tip it over at the top of beacon hill and watch you, in a fantastically horrific shittumble, gasp for your last shitty shitty breath on this earth that feels sorry for ever creating you."

Okay I didn't say that. But the fact that I THOUGHT it might suggest to some that therapy is in order. ...And make that SEVERAL Clydesdales.

2. Eating Disorder

My house is dysfunctional in many ways. Particularly charming are our truly disgusting eating habits. I don't like to call people pigs...but, um, we're pigs. A common utterance is, "Oh, I'm not eating anything, you guys can eat but I just ate." The list of things consumed directly following that phrase, trekking into our mouths in direct opposition to the outgoing breath that carried the words, could fill a ream of paper. Just last night I was keeper of the "Oh I'm not eating" torch. I sat through almost the entire meal, sipping my wine, enjoying the company, having already eaten but glad to have a nice dinner conversation with my household.

This is how it starts. It's a normal meal. We have rice and vegetables and some leftover grape leaves heated up. Wine and a salad. Then...out comes the hummus. The feta cheese. The Irish cheddar. The grated Asiago. The pita chips. The wasabi peas. The eighty seven different sauces. The chocolate covered nuts. It ends up here:

The pot full of rice sits in the middle of the table and we dump everything we have yet to eat in the middle of it and go at that thing with our forks like savages. I can't resist! I am physically unable to sit at that table and not pick up a fork at this point. There is something way too wonderful about diving into a pot of food with friends and eating the shit out of it.

So, I had dinner twice...once consumed standing up...out of a trough. This might be reason enough to seek help.

3. Schizophrenia

My neighbors are conspiring against me. They descend upon me in choreographed swoops like a swarm of over privileged bats every other week or so. I live in the richest, whitest, most thoroughly annoying neighborhood in Cambridge and their trust fund sense tells them that I am not one of them. (Or it's the times I sit in my shorts, barefoot on the porch, drinking beer and talking too loudly. At least I'm allergic to it, which is my best chance to fit in.)

So the unifying principle of their conspiracy against me is that I don't belong, and then they divvy up the duties. They are the suing type, so I'll change the names. The responsibilities go like so:

Ellen Fitzgerald has spy duty. She is the decoy. Feigning neighborliness, she knocks on the door occasionally to inquire about seemingly innocent things. "Oh, is that your little car over there? How nice." "What are you all, friends or...?" "It's so nice to have ethnic people in the neighborhood you know we're terribly the same around here usually." (No fucking lie, she said that.) "I looooove low income people, I have a lot in common with my garbage man, more than I have in common with anybody from harvard, I'll tell you that!" (Again, direct quote.) "Make sure you button up that gate, we get the riff raff around here sometimes. Plus it looks nice closed, and, everyone likes to keep them closed." "Are you planning to stay only the semester or are you permanent neighbors?" "Any vacation plans?" Etc etc ad naus.

Doug Wastenhoff is "The Enforcer." His job is to make sure we don't bring anyone's property values down by violating any important neighborhood rules. Leaving snide ass notes about how one should properly park one's car figures prominently in his job description. If, after trash day, the trash container is not whisked immediately from the sidewalk, this unsightly mistake is addressed in one passive aggressive manner or another by the enforcer. In the event of snow, he is very important. The second that snow stops falling, he must run at high speeds to my door to reiterate the shoveling policy. A perk of his job is that his dog gets to shit in my yard when he thinks I'm not looking.

And, finally, the bitch with the dog. I don't know her name. But her job is to walk around and look like her cunt is made of diamonds, giving everyone dirty looks and leaving whiffs of Chanel no.5 in her wake. She makes people like me want to move somewhere else, and is therefore indispensable to the conspirators.

Let's review.

I need therapy for lots of reasons, but I'm pretty sure that only solidifies the fact that reproducing is just not a good idea in my case. No couch for me, not on account of my totally sane and reasonable baby-proofing desires anyway. The Clydesdale thing...maybe.

No, Actually, It Did Not Go Well

Welcome to the third and apparently nowhere near final entry regarding my quest for permanent baby-proofing. This promises to be the most frustrated entry yet, so bear with my ranting.

[to self: Deep breath. Settle into a calming, excessively wordy description, and go from there...]

The Women's Health Center is on the same floor, down the hall, from Dr. H's office. I approach it with great excitement, as I have waited two months for this appointment. (Actually, that is only the length of time between appointments. I first asked a doctor for tubal ligation at age 18, making my wait time just under ten years.) This visit to my gynecologist seems like a step toward the light at the end of a really, really long tunnel (if you are thinking that this is an intentional invocation of female anatomy you are correct, and I'm enjoying the hell out of it).

The Women's Health Center is a reproduction (pun totally intended) of the Medical Specialties Office. Same muted colors for the upholstery, television in the same corner, different magazines. I go through the check-in rigamaroll and sit. And wait. The television bestows upon we waiters the slings and arrows of televised small claims court. In this particular episode, a woman is suing her landlord for her security deposit and he is simultaneously suing her right back for damages. Plaintiffs and defendants both, they glare at each other beneath ill-combed mullets. This world provides daily reminders as to why reproducing humans is an act engaged in far too often.

My appointment time comes and goes. Cases are settled. The suers and the sued offer post-trial commentary beneath rolling credits. I wait and wait.

Finally, the receptionist comes around from behind the desk and calls me over. She points me down the back hallway, where a nurse is waving a clipboard. She tells the receptionist thank you, sending her back out front. The nurse explains to me, "I didn't want to go get you myself, because there's an angry lady out there who says she's waited too long and I wasn't gonna deal with that."

We go through the motions. Weight. Blood pressure. Doctor will be right with you.

She pops back in.

What was the last day of your last period.

I have no idea. We look at the calendar, thinking that will jog my memory. I literally have no idea. Do people keep track of this shit?

To get rid of her, I tell a complete lie. I say, "Ohhhh yeah. The sixteenth." She happily marks it down, thanks me, and leaves for real. I have lied to a nurse.

Two minutes later the doctor is in. She is a healthy sort, in her late forties I'd wager, and looks like she rides horses or something else that requires physical exertion and wealth. Tennis. No make up, no jewelry. Whether she remembers me or not, she acts as if she does. I mean, I do have a rather memorable...um...face.

"Hellloooo, good to see you again."

"Hi, it's good to see you."

"You look great."

"Thanks."

"So." Clipped, but not curt. "What can I do for you today?"

"Well I think Dr. H told you that I am requesting tubal ligation."

"He did. Tell me, Kelly, have you hooked yourself into some counseling yet?"

As you may remember, as a teacher I am the Apotheosis of Patience, and this is no different. I make no gestures to reveal how vile I find the idea that one must seek counseling before a simple medical procedure.

"No, I haven't."

"Frankly, even if you had, I'm just not comfortable performing this surgery on women under thirty. However, I do want you encourage you to get a therapist or psychiatrist or other mental health professional involved before you continue with this. I think anyone potentially performing the surgery would want you to have sorted that all out."

Stop time, Zack Morris style. You won't do it at all? And you knew what this appointment was about? Um, that might have been appropriate information to offer BEFORE the $25 copay, ass hole. Or BEFORE I took the day off of work. Or BEFORE I got my little child hating hopes up.

Dr. Gynopussy, as she will heretofore be known, senses that I am frustrated (might have had something to do with heavy sighing and eyeball movements...she's very perceptive) and says, "I'm sorry to make you come all the way over here. And I hope you don't feel like I'm abandoning you."

No, actually, I don't feel abandoned at all. Here is the list of things that I feel:

1. Fucking irritated

2. Patronized

3. Belittled

4. Judged

5. Did I mention fucking irritated??

So then she launches into this defensive speech about regret rates, and her oath to "do no harm" and blah blah freaking blah. I say, "Would it be easier for someone to get a vasectomy?"

She says she isn't sure, but that she would certainly be interested in knowing. Then she says, "Are you in a relationship with someone who does not want children?"

I first mention that one's relationship status shouldn't really have any bearing on medical decisions. I then tell her, in an attempt to escape what had just become an awkward moment, that dating someone who wanted kids would be like dating a Republican. Someone who wants children disagrees with me on something pretty darned fundamental to my identity, something that is non-negotiable. Then I go ahead and make it awkward again with this: "I find it incredibly frustrating to have the entire medical profession, not to mention 98% of everyone else I know, consistently calling that part of me into question, as if there is some part of me that is unknowable, or that I need to be protected from decisions I MIGHT make later."

So then she says, "I understand completely," and IN THE SAME BREATH, asks if my boyfriend would seek a vasectomy.

What?!

Despite whatever antiquated world-view Gynopussy is operating within, I thought she might see how I would find that offensive. Regardless of who I am dating, my reproductive decisions are my own.

Folded into her suggestion is the assumption that obtaining a vasectomy for a young unmarried male presents fewer obstacles than obtaining tubal ligation for a young unmarried female. If this is true, me and the nice folks at Cambridge Hospital are going to be in our own little courtroom drama. I left the office with her repeated urging to seek counseling echoing in my brain.

I make an appointment at the desk with another gynecologist in the building. He represents one of three more "shots" within Cambridge Hospital. I have to wait another month. I have to pay another fee.

On my walk to the car, my mouth excreted foul language unlike any I've ever spoken. I ran out of swears. Now, I come from a long line of laborers and drunks. Running out of swears is not a small thing, people.

Then I do what I always do when I am about to for serious freak out. Like any grown up who can make her own damn decisions, I call my dad. He says a number of unhelpful things like:

"Given the likelihood that your offspring will resemble me, it's kind of your duty to the world to have at least one."

and

"General anestesia sounds like just what you need right now, actually, I'm surprised she wouldn't give it to you."

and, his only serious comment:

"Well, all she's recommending is that you explore a really important decision with an impartial person before going through with it."

To which I say:

Do people who want to have children have to seek counseling?

Do people who are having trouble conceiving have to go see a psychiatrist before receiving fertility treatment?

Do people seeking fertility treatment get a speech about how the process of having kids is non-reversible?

NO! Why is the seriousness of choosing NOT to have children GREATER than choosing TO have children?

There. Aren't. Enough. Swears.

maternity bites (volume two)

Step one complete! It went a little something like this:

As a result of being weirdly uptight about punctuality and therefore consistently arriving at appointments at least forty-five minutes early, I am superb at killing time. My half hour in the waiting room is chock full of activity. First is the requisite contact-information-update marathon with the receptionist, which is always fun. Then: an iPod, a book, a journal, a camera (probably not a good idea to use that in this context), a phone, part of a newspaper, and a stack of mail that has been stuffed in my backpack for inspection going on three weeks now. If ever a person wanted to film a little clip about what it's like to have ADD, this would be the time and place. I read two pages, then open my journal. I write three things down, then find the paper. I open the paper but decide to go back to the book. I switch albums on the iPod and go back to the journal. Then I stop to bite my nails, which I only do the day after I cook because my hands smell like garlic, then I go back to the backpack for something new to look at. (You can trust that this adds up to me being very, very attractive.)

In the middle of my charmingly insane little routine, Cancer Lady makes an entrance. I am not being insensitive; she was superhero-ed out. Her bald head was covered by a neon pink bandana, and her sneakers were hot pink Reeboks reminiscent of a pair I had circa Paula Abdul. Hot pink spandexish pants were barely visible under her shiny fluorescent green floor length CAPE, on the back of which she had sewn (quite adeptly) giant fuzzy pink letters that spelled "Chemo Girl." Her shirt, which could only be seen for a split second when she unfurled her cape to take out her insurance card, said "Fuck Cancer."

She was totally upstaging me.

Now, at this point my brain does something that it does a lot, which is make me think funny things over which I have zero control. My iPod is playing the Decemberists, and my brain whispers to me, "Heh, Chemo Emo." And so I chuckle at my sick, sick little brain. And then The Worst Possible Thing happens, which is Cancer Lady's assumption that I am chuckling at her. Now, if Larry David created me (oh, would that it were) this would be super. But in real life making cancer patients feel bad is not funny.

...is it?

Anyway, I got saved by the nurse. This moment is always awkward, because she's waiting for me by the door and I have nine thousand things to pick up out of the three closest chairs over which I have draped my stuff. She's very nurse-ish, like a couch - well-worn, calming, cozy. She says her name and I immediately forget it. She puts me on the scale, and puts the weights where she thinks, approximately, they ought to go. This is my favorite part of the day.

Nay, the week.

She estimates that I weigh somewhere in the 110-115 range. Oh, sweet sweet sweet nurse, no longer the drudge and toil in my delight! I pray thee, thy news is good?

This poor woman was pushing the weight up pound by pound: 115. 116. 117. Finally I had to break it to her that the thing would need a good shove to the right before she was even close. And she said, "There's no way you're over one twenty, you're so tiny! You must be all muscle."

Let's just pause and enjoy the hell out of that for one second.

Two seconds....

Moving on.

She leaves me in the room to flex and feel my muscles in privacy until Dr. H gets in. When he finally knocks on the door I feel suddenly nervous. I feel like I have to sell him a car. He starts right in with an update, looking over my chart. A quick check in on all previous jottings down, inquiries, ailments, etc.

"How's the cough?" "Your foot all healed?" "Still teaching?"

Then I get the report back. "Ohhhhh kaaaayyyy, looks like, whoa! You've lost nine pounds since I last saw you. Everything okay?"

"You told me to lose ten pounds last time I saw you."

"Yeah, but no one ever actually DOES it. No troubles with eating disorders..."

"I have trouble acquiring them, yes."

He doesn't laugh at my jokes, which is a barely forgivable flaw. Otherwise, he's a super doctor.

We get to the end of our respective updates, and there is an awkward pause. He's just smiling all sweetness and serenity, head slightly cocked, looking as Willie Nelsonish as ever. And I get flustered. I'm not sure how to say...uh...

"I want to baby proof my body."

So I just say that.

His face doesn't change; I have no idea what he's going to say. I'm pretty sure all doctors train their faces to make the same calm, half-smiling super benevolent and understanding expression in every situation. It makes sense. Otherwise they would constantly struggle with what to do with their faces when they have to say stuff like, "You have six weeks to live." I know my face insists upon smiling a big toothy grin when I give bad news, which is why I never made it through med school.

He says, "And you've thought about this..."

I say, "Since I figured out that babies come from women and not birds."

He says, "Mmmhmm," and looks at the chart again. He points out that my gynecologist can perform the surgery herself, and asks if I liked her. I try to remember her. Is this how men feel? I really can't conjure up an image of this person who has seen me naked. I don't even remember her name. She gave me her card. Never called her.

Whatever, I'm sure she's nice. So I say, "Oh Doctor Baaaaaaandlebaum. Of course, yes, she's lovely."

He says, "Well, then your next step will be to meet with her, she'll want to spend a lot of time with you, talk it over, maybe several times, and decide if she will perform the surgery."

I must have glowered, because he jumped in with:

"I'm sure you feel like you are jumping through hoops, and I apologize."

I assert that, yes, I indeed do feel that I am jumping through hoops and that the whole process offends me more than a little bit.

He says, "Well, Kelly, you have had the pleasure of knowing you for twenty seven years. We only see you for a few hours each year. So we've got to make sure that we know the you that you know, so we can perform the surgery with confidence. We have to protect ourselves, too, you know."

God damn it, Dr. WillieNelsonlookalike, that is kind of a good point.

Back in the lobby, Cancer Lady had disappeared and several patients pace or watch Ellen Degeneres do a funny dance on the television. The receptionist takes the paper upon which Dr. H. had written "27 y/0 seeks tubal ligation - est. four consult pre-proc" and calls down to women's health. Her phone has one of those shoulder rests so that she can be on hold and type at the same time, which she does. She never moves her neck, and rolls her eyes up at me when I am supposed to answer a question.

Type type type.

"Hi, it's Linda in Specialties. Mmmhmm. I have a patient here who needs an appointment with Dr. Bandlebaum for a...a...tube? Tubal Ligahhhh...yeah."

Long. Pause. Type type type.

Eyes roll to me.

"You're sure?"

I say, "What?"

She says, blinking several times, "She wants to know if you're sure?"

I say, "Yes, I am sure."

Eyes roll back down.

"She says she's sure."

Eyes roll back to me.

"March 17th at 1 pm with the Family Planner and then at 1:45 with Dr. Bandlebaum."

"Works for me."

Eyes roll back to the computer.

Type type type.

The printer pushes out my appointment, and it is handed in my direction with a quick "have a nice day" directed at the computer screen. Ahead of me is: a two-month wait, the promise of at least four "consultation" visits for twenty five bucks a pop, and an awkward St. Patrick's Day reunion with the gynecologist with whom, it seems, I have already been intimate. One thing is certain: Nothing will make me more resolute in my decision to bring zero children into this world than a parade of drunk Catholics. Slainte.

A Series of Ten Second Plays

The federal government would really prefer we process our thoughts in the form of multiple choice tests. So here you go. I neglected to write about my baby-proofing appointment because:
a. It got way too personal for the internet
b. I forgot I had a blog last week
c. Cambridge Health Alliance is a mismanaged fuckclog and canceled my appointment
d.I saw the cutest baby ever in the Boston Common and decided I needed one too

I think we all know that on any multiple choice test you just choose "c" every time anyway. So, in lieu of a report on my visit with Dr. H, which has been rescheduled to an even less convenient time than last time, I offer the following short-attention-span-friendly glimpse into a lifelong refusal to procreate.

I.
Setting
1989. Old brick school house way the hell up a hill in Granville, Massachusetts
Cast
Stacy, sweet freckled nine year old blond girl
Kelly, 9 years

Stacy (braiding the hair of a doll): I’m going to name my daughter Jessica.
Kelly (removing the head of a doll): I don’t think I want a baby.
Stacy: I want lots of babies.



II.
Setting
1993. My grandmother’s kitchen. Most of the decorating involves antlers.
Cast
My grandmother, a devoutly religious republican
Kelly, 13 years

My grandmother: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Kelly: A journalist. I want to go all over the world and write stories about it.
My grandmother: Well my stars, that sounds interesting, but it could be dangerous and make it very hard to have a family.
Kelly: I don’t want a family.
My grandmother: Oh, you’ll change your mind.


III.
Setting
1994. Mrs. Haftman’s Class, Softball game
Cast
Mrs. Haftman, gym teacher/tyrannical overlord/deliverer of humiliation/the Adolf Hitler of Physical Education
Kelly, 14 years

Mrs. Haftman: Here she is, Hate my Guts Henderson. Wearin’ black. (Sighs heavily) Young lady, why are you sitting in the outfield making a bracelet out of clovers and dandelions?! Do you want to fail gym class?
Kelly: I don’t feel good…?
Mrs. Haftman: What are you going to do when you have kids and they want to learn how to play sports? You need to learn the rules!
Kelly: I’m not going to have any kids.
Mrs. Haftman: That's ridiculous, of course you will. Now get off your duff and catch something this inning.





IV.
Setting
1995. My mother’s kitchen table. There are piles of mail everywhere. Flies swarm around the dishes, which are piled in an impressive heap.
Cast
My mother, speaker to plants and animals, stymied by human beings
Kelly, age 15

My mother (staring at the dishes): Who’s going to do those?
Kelly: One of your other children.
My mother: I hope you are cursed with wise ass children.
Kelly: I’m not having any kids.
My mother: That’s what I said. Look what happened. You’ll end up juuuuuuuust like this. (Kelly shudders violently)


V.
Setting
1996. The Only Store In Granville.
Cast
Peg, former wife of the owner, permanent fixture behind the counter
Kelly, 16 years

Peg (to a customer): Oh, is she? A boy or a girl? (To Kelly, over her shoulder.) Kelly you hear that? Sue is pregnant.
Kelly (slicing forty pound blocks of cheese into perfect one-pound hunks): Whatever.
Peg: Whassa matter, you don’t like babies?
Kelly: Nope.
Peg: You’ll change your mind.


VI.
Setting
1997. Sandwich, Cape Cod – family vacation. A traveling circus of Hendersons, we are stuffed into a camper on wheels driven by my aunt’s latest husband. Stopped at a grocery store which is packed full of lobsters and white people.
Cast
My father, man of a thousand naps.
Supermarket lady, I remember her in a bonnet, though cannot be sure
Kelly, 17 years

My father (looking down at a pouting Kelly): Okay okay OKAY you can pierce your goddamned belly button. Just don’t get pregnant because not only would that thing get all scarred but also I would kill you.
Kelly: I promise I will never get pregnant.
My father: Right, not until you’re thirty six.
Kelly: No ever.
My father: Ever?
Kelly: EVER.
Supermarket lady (chuckling benevolently at the nutritional information on a box of Fruit Loops): She’ll change her mind.



VII.
Setting
2000. Emerson College, weirdos abound.
Cast
Unnamed former boyfriend, adorable but hopelessly traditional
Kelly, age 20



Unnamed former boyfriend: Sure I want kids, someday. I mean like, waaaaaay someday. But of course I do. You don't?
Kelly: Nope.
U.F.B.: Really?
Kelly: Really.
U.F.B.: Really really?
Kelly (sighing): Really really fucking really.
U.F.B.: But then who's going to pay for your nursing home?
Kelly: That's why you're having kids? To pay for a nursing home?
U.F.B.: No...but, I mean, it's something to consider.





VIII.
Setting
2003. Cambridge Public Schools, a classroom.
Cast
Nora, a sixth grader
Chorus (Twenty Five Other Sixth Graders)
Kelly, age 23



Nora: Miss K, do you have kids?
Kelly: Nope. Do you?
Nora (fit of giggles): Nooooo!!!
Kelly: Well good let's stick together.
Nora: But you're supposed to have kids by now!
Kelly: It'll never happen.
Nora (shouting): Miss K isn't having kids EVER!
Chorus (Twenty Five Other Sixth Graders): What?! Miss. K whyyyyy? Are you crazy? What, you hate us?


IX.
Setting
2006. The University of Louisville School of Dentistry, Louisville, Kentucky. The same terrible music that plays at the dentist plays in the halls.
Cast
Dr. Currens, dean of students, jokester, True Southerner
Dr. Gambrall, neo-con professor, golfer, payer of attention to stock market trends, True Southerner
Kelly, age 26



Dr. Currens: Whatdya think, Massachusetts, we gonna be able to marry you off to a nice young dentist?
Kelly: I don't know, Dr. Currens, all the people around here go to church and have babies.
Dr. Currens: Oh Christ, Henderson. I knew you were a god hating liberal. Now you're telling me you hate babies?
Dr. Gambrall: I don't know, Woody. Maybe it's best if liberals don't procreate.
Dr. Currens: Ah, she'll be voting Republican and carting around a pack of kids within ten years.
Kelly: Not going to happen.
Dr. Gambrall: You can always tell a Harvard man, but you can't tell him much.
Kelly: I'm a Harvard woman.
Dr. Currens (sighing as he leaves the office): Dear lord she is from Massachusetts, isn't she.


X.
Setting
2007. A bar in Cambridge, full of corduroy and expensive degrees.
Cast
Drunk lady 1, middle aged, owner of pearl necklaces
Drunk lady 2, middle aged, maker of manicure appointments
Kelly, age 27

Drunk lady 1: 'scuse me 'scuse me, are you readng in bar?
Drunk lady 2: leave 'er 'lone she's a student she's a...are you student?
Kelly (with saintly patience): No.
DL1: You are reading?! 's Friday.
Kelly: Mmmhmm.
DL2: She's smrt. Hey 'r you smrt?
Kelly: I'm feeling rather smart at this moment, yes.
(Oh how I wish I really said that...)
DL1: Whatev'r. Let 'er read then. Do whatchyou want now before...before KIDS!
DL2 initiates a toast.
DL2: Amen. Am'n. I'm say'n don't have 'em now. Have 'em-
DL1: I m'n I love my kids. I fuck'n LOVE my-
DL2: We know, Cheryll, we- hey, you don't have kids yet reader lady hey-
Kelly (saintly patience waning): No, no I don't.
DL1: How many you gonna have?
Kelly: Zero.
DL1 (SO LOUDLY): WHAT?! Ha! Thass what I said. Thass essackly what I said.
DL2 non verbally confirms DL1's claim.
DL1: Lissen. Lissen reader lady, you will meet a MAaaaaan. All of it (wild hand gesture) out the window.
DL2: Sh'll change 'er mind.
DL1: YEP! You keep...juss read the book, lady. You read yr book.

The End.

maternity bites

Due to a combination of funding trouble and what, as a former special ed teacher, I feel confident calling mild to moderate retardation on the part of administrators, my school has combined the history classes with science. Which means that I am a science teacher. Which means that the world is ending. This is not the point of this blog; I don't have the energy. The point is...well I'll get to it. First, as a science teacher (feel free to laugh) I am well aware of all species' biological predisposition for procreating. Fortunately, modern science has allowed we humans to opt out of this vile process.

Since as far back as I can remember, I have lacked those pesky "maternal instincts" that make girls want to dress wounds and talk in high pitched voices at small children. I do not understand how any rational human being could really, in his most honest space, believe that a puppy is less cute than a baby. But people love those things! Even when they are all purple and hideous, fresh squeezed out of a vagina. People say, "Awwww." Well not me damnit. Person after person, over the course of the past 18 years or so, has claimed this would change. But change it has not. Which brings me to the point. (There is one, I swear.) If you are a woman who does not want children people think you are weird. Babies? Normal. No babies? Abnormal. They are sure, beyond any doubt, that you will change your mind. They will show you pictures of their children and expect you to have this bubbling epiphany, "Oh! Yes, I cannot run fast enough toward gaining forty pounds, getting stitches in my vagina, eternally supporting one of those noisy, smelly expensive car seat fillers with cake on its face."

I have had it. I am baby proofing my body. Thus, this the first in a series of blogs about the arduous process of convincing a doctor to tie those baby tubes once and for all.

Step one. Make an appointment with your doctor.

I did this already. Dr. Himmelstein, year round wearer of Birkenstocks and wool socks, will see me on Thursday. (He looks like Willie Nelson, which personally I have found very comforting during sick visits.) Being that he is my physician, he is aware of how abhorrent I find the idea of pregnancy. He has also warned me that recommendations for surgery in women as young as me are rare. I am unsure what sort of process I will have to endure in order to "convince" him, but the thought of having to cajole a doctor into believing that I am able to make up my own mind makes me absolutely irate. Let's hope Dr. H. gives in nice and easy like, so we don't have any trouble.