Dont Mince Words

Angry Marna

Anyone who has known me for more than two weeks knows I bitch about my lady parts.  Usually it’s a nice dose of sexual inactivity complaints, but the majority of the debate is about my period and 37-year relationship with Procter & Gamble products.

In the ’70s, male gyn’s generally felt the solution to long periods was a hysterectomy.  Radical, it seems and yet after another 45-day period I felt it was the only modern-day solution.  Bid my blood bag adieu.  The $20-30/month saved on feminine products could be spent on alcohol.  I searched on Blue Cross for a doctor and decided to find the oldest, whitest guy possible.  Surely he’d authorize the surgery.

I assumed the position in the exam room and waited for him.  The old guy waltzed in, looked at my card and my complaint and 10 seconds later said, “You have a confused uterus.  You are 47 and your uterus isn’t producing the right levels of estrogen and testoserone so it doesn’t know if it should ovulate.”  I tried to counter that with humor while he was blowing out the cobwebs and fingering me.  “Well, living in Santa Barbara can confuse any uterus with the lack of viable, age-appropriate sexual partners,” I said.

A week later, biopsy results came back and I can’t blame any of this on cancer.  I just have a confused uterus which means I’m going on birth control for horomone control, not because my lady parts are actually seeing combat.  So, it looks like P&G and I will be best friends for a few more years.

When times are tough, you begin to evaluate all your expenses. When you aren’t getting laid, you review the cost of pedicures, waxing, razors, and other associated items. I decided to go off birth control since there wasn’t anything to control. Instead, I restarted my NetFlix membership.

It seemed like a better use of $20.

In the heat of passion, sometimes you don’t respond logicially to questions you’d normally respond to with a laugh or a “what the fuck.”

Now that a hand isn’t down my pants, I have time to think.

Since the 1960’s, the Pill has been a symbol of sexual freedom for women. Within a few percentage points, women could enjoy themselves without fear of unexpected motherhood. “Are you on the Pill?” became the easy way for a man to ask if he’d be making support payments in nine months. Last night I underwent a new line of questioning.

“Do you have your tubes tied?”

Let’s all say it in unison, shall we: WHAT THE FUCK? Tubal ligations are for wives that have met their quota and want to ensure they don’t have another baby with the husband they now hate. Tubal ligation is major surgery and is oftentimes performed on the way out from a caesarian.

I’m a single woman who has never had children. I’m not sure I ever want kids, but I’m not going to have major surgery to limit that option if the right man comes around (then again, I’m sure my health care doesn’t cover it anyway). I’ve used the Pill off and on for 20 years for period control, not birth control. My preferred method of birth control has been a condom or going home alone after the asshole discovery phase. That’s when I’m fit to be tied.