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“If they find an olive on a toothpick in there you are going to have some explaining to do.”

Issue Date: Tuesday, Apr. 10, 2007

So, the updates and follow up appointments with both the OBGYN and the Urologist were yesterday. Both of them pushing for Mister to have his boys broken into and ransacked. Me? Not so much. I like his balls, a lot.

I have read up on the subject of vasectomy and the term “epidydimal (or vans) blow out” was sort of off putting. Why would I want him to go through that? Why would I want to deal with an Urologist who says, “Get that boy in here to have a vasectomy!”? Like the Urology guy was all excited about getting his hands on my husband’s testicles. Also, “boy”? BOY!? My husband is 40 years old. And I sir, will be 35 in May. Don’t you think we are old enough to make these decisions for ourselves?

This whole situational drama was first started to have one thing be the outcome. One thing. Okay two things. Thing the first? Operation Susan the Barrenness. Thing the second? No peeing when I sneeze.

I am not peeing when I sneeze, vomit, laugh or anything else that would normally cause a squinkle of pee to come out of my urethra during my “stress incontinence”. Yes, that is what it is called. So when I was joking about being incontinent at 34? I SO was not kidding.

Stress Incontinence? Gone. Kudos for you Dear Urologist. Oh, and yes, of course I will take this mound of literature on the no scalpel vasectomy that you have thrust into my arms as I walk out the door. Your role in this play has now been dropped so you have no say in what we do with my husband’s balls, or my uterus. Goodbye.


OBGYN: Why don’t you get your husband to get a vasectomy?
self: Well, kind sir, the whole deal behind these decisions was ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ and my husbands gonads? Work just fine thank you. And as you saw from the carnage that is my internal topography, you know that my shit is jacked up. Correct? Right. Okay then, let’s figure out if the tubes are even open, and then we can go from there.
OBGYN: Are you still on your birth control?
self: No.
OBGYN: What about an IUD?
self: My body has had some form of birth control in it since I was 16. My body has been fooled into thinking that it was pregnant for eighteen years. Eighteen years. I am done with birth control pills, IUDs and anything else that will make my body think it is pregnant. It is bad.

Yes, I said, “It is bad.” And I felt good about it at the time. And then I was at WalMart standing in the frozen food isle picking out my latest vegetarian+fish meal selection. And I thought the conversations with both doctors over. I thought about how stupid I sounded, I thought of how emotionally driven I am to have the control over my body that I want. I thought of all of this while looking at frozen salmon cutlets and then I heard Joe Diffie’s A Night to Remember and I started crying.

Clearly I am crazy.


I wanted a certain outcome from the surgeries I was having. Two were successful and the ringer, the third, was not. I was grieving for going through so much for nothing. Well not nothing. Bear with me. I am on a total emotional rollercoaster with getting off the birth control and things not going how I want them to go.

For fucks sake. Joe Diffie in the frozen food section in a WalMart.


Anyway, so I told the OBGYN what I wanted. “Let’s find out if my tubes are even open and then we can go from there. He agreed, so today, in like 30 minutes I am going to have this, an HSG test done to find out if any of this other shit is even necessary.

Think good thoughts y’all. Think good thoughts like “Your uterus is barren and your tubes are closed.” Go ahead. I’ll be the one over there at the Medical Center with X-Rays being taken of what looks like a martini glass with hair. Jules said, “If they find an olive on a toothpick in there you are going to have some explaining to do.” Or something like that.

I’m off.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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