Has dubiousMa got a treat for you today! We’ve managed to talk the one and only (at least the only one I know) The Naked Redhead into writing a post for our humble little blog. Red (we’re tight like that) is actually very similar to dubious except the bitch is skinnier and younger she has what appears to be natural red hair, no children and is white. We’re practically twins! And before you ask (and I know you were salivating wondering, Red’s blog has nothing to do with porn. If it’s porn you’re looking for shoot me an email you’ve come to the wrong place buddy!

The Naked Redhead writes about dating and relationships for, appropriately, thenakedredhead.com. She has been featured on super cool blogs, and had been wondering when the hell DubiousMa was going to ask her to write something. When she’s not spewing drivel about love, she practices a hobby in bat-showing, which is somewhat like cat-showing, but with leathery-winged harbingers of death. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, but wishes she didn’t.

Why My Uterus is Off Limits

I’ve never really had a desire to have children.

Well, no, strike that, there are times when I’m like, “Ohhhh, that baby is CUTE!” and I imagine myself living with this cute baby like he or she is some kind of accessory, like a kickin’ pair of heels or a nice purse. But then I realize that babies are not accessories, no matter what Hollywood tells us, and I’m like, “meh” to babies again.

So basically, my uterus is off limits. H to the N, sperm.

Also, I think it’s broken.

Here’s the thing, this one time when I was married (such a better opening line than, “This one time at band camp.”) I needed new birth control pills. Not that this should have mattered so much, since my marital sex life was practically non-existent (TRY ON the shoes before you buy them, if you get my drift). But again, my uterus needed protecting from tiny, pink cheeked invaders. I called up my grandfather, who still had a medical practice at the time, and said, “Hey, Gramps, I need s’more of them anti-baby pills” and Gramps was like, “A’ight” except we said all of this with no accents and I don’t think I actually talked to my grandfather, maybe one of his assistants, who I believe was Indian and she was like, “Learn to speak American.”

So, Gramps sent the pills over, a whole six months worth, which I was very grateful for. Six months of NO BABIES! Wooo! I did notice that the package was a different color than the last batch he sent, and the pills were also a different size, color and shape, but I just figured that he had changed my brand of pill. No problem for me; they accomplished the same end, right?

Or so I thought.

I started getting fatter almost immediately. Like, way fatter. So fat my fat jeans didn’t fit and my chin started to grow its own twin. I also started to cry a lot, which, if you know me at all, is kind of like saying, “The Pope decided today to convert to Mormonism and also to allow married, heterosexual couples to do it doggie style.” In other words, I don’t cry much.

My then-husband was like, “WTF” and I was like, “I know, right?” but we just kept plugging along, and I joined a gym and bought more tissues.

One day I was lying on my bed and for lack of something better to do, picked up my birth control pack and decided to read that little insert thingy that comes with it. Weird. I’d never read an insert thingy before. Funny, this insert thingy says something about these pills being intended for women over the age of forty-five. Whaaaat? Forty-five year old women are practically DEAD, so why would they need to prevent spawning…oh, dear, lord.

I’d been taking hormones. Lots and lots of lady hormones.

I called Gramps and I was all, “Yo, Gramps, why are you trying to ruin my life?” And he was like, “I think Indian lady don’t like your English.” Except what really happened was that someone had just grabbed the wrong packs of pills and sent me the wrong type. Honest mistake, I’m sure, made by some well-intentioned person who supposed—erroneously–that I would make a good mother.

The good news from the whole incident that despite the enormous amounts of estrogen flowing through my now rotund body, I didn’t get knocked up. I can’t decide if that means there’s something wrong with me, or if the gods were smiling on me, or if the ex and I simply did not have sex during those few months (entirely possible).

Either way, it was a close call, an incident I’ve done my best to forget and never repeat.

Kudos to all you moms out there, though, seriously. You’ve figured out that your children are not accessories AND YOU STILL LOVE THEM. Bonus! Maybe someday I’ll feel the same way too. Maybe if babies start sporting red soles and hand-stitching…hmmm.

Thanks Red! Love her. Be sure to go check out Thenakedredhead.com for your daily dose of TNR!

Tagged with: harbingers of death • naked redhead • uterus phobias

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This entry was posted on Friday, October 23rd, 2009 at 7:38 am and is filed under Guests with nothing else to do. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.