Dearest P,
Since you mention broken down Vulvas (that is what you were talking about, right?), I must confess my own near-miss with the abyss. You see, dear P, while you are still going to parties, I find myself the victim of my own foolish dreams.
As you must know, or surely should, I've suffered for years from the recurrent but insoluble malady of migraines. Yes, yes, I've done it all: medication, massage and of course, the occasional male prostitue. But the pain persists. Recently discovered, courtesy of my Gyn that maybe, perhaps, I could benefit from the addition, during a particularly susceptible time of the month, of a particular hormone.
Same said health care provider suggested the most efficient delivery system was an IUD which comes built-in with an efficient monthly delivery system. WOW! A miracle and, just maybe, it will even work. Which could mean I am delivered from the agony of dimming the lights and taking to the bed (except that never lasts b/c someone always needs some goddamn thing).
Totally willing to try it except that hubby is pissed. Not just mad but major-league, what the hell are you thinking, I may have to kill my wife angry. All b/c, I suggested a couple of years ago, after producing his fourth cherub, btw, that maybe, just maybe, we would be well-served by his vasectomy. And god bless America, we have been. Haven't produced one other child that I know about since the famous snip snip procedure of whatever the hell year that was–he can certainly recall it. 'Course, at the time, I mentioned that NOT taking birth control pills might help my headaches and failed to make clear my primary motivation–fail-safe birth control for me and, oh yeah, the fact that no whore from Las Vegas would ever lay claim to child support.
So, anyway, back to the main thing, hubby wonders how it is at ALL possible that I might need a birth control device now. Tried to explain, at least twice, that it was all entirely necessary and probable. Naturally, he assumes I've taken a lover–cause the market for 40 something women mothers of four is, as you know, quite immense. Anyhoo, after much grumbling, hubby concedes that less pain for me means less pain in his ass and I get the damn device inserted.
Only, it doesn't go as planned. And, as a matter of fact, there is nearly as much pain as when I birthed last cherub in your presence. And you do know how I scream, dear P. Let's just say my doctor has suggested I could, perhaps, move along to another practice and she would not be entirely disappointed. But, setting her needs aside, hubby apparently had some too. After explaining my difficulties that day, I took to our bed for some much needed time away from all my people. Not taking into account, of course, that hubby might come sniffing around for, well, sex with the wife who of course has the boyfriend b/c she has an IUD. Talk about markin' your territory. Such a distinctly male practice.
In any case, as you can imagine, it all ended rather badly and we have reached what I shall now call the "impasse." The colloquial term, I think would be, "you ain't passin' here no more until you get a clue."
Would love to linger but have phone calls to return and homage to pay to those men who might actually leave me alone. Occasionally. And, yes, of course, I will hook the hitch to our SUV and drag your sorry- ass Volvo home. If only you promise to care for mine, should it come to that and I think, inevitably, it will.
C.
