If you are a man, you might just want to stop reading here.
Big Dog was barking as though his dream had finally come true—an intruder dared to darken our door, or our property, or basically anywhere Big Dog could access. He snarled at the window pane with enthusiasm, as though he could already taste whatever it is that door darkening intruders taste like. I could vaguely make out the noise of human clamor coming from outside.
I opened the front door to the sound of a group of teenagers on the street, just jabbering away somewhere in the darkness. A boy with a heavy country accent and a very high volume was interacting with a giggling female that he was hoping to mate with in the near future. He sounded as though he was heating up, like his jokes were really impressing her, and he was eager to keep them coming. His voice carried to me from beyond the shrubbery at a fair distance:
“His dick was so fat—”
And at that I promptly closed the door.
I walked to the back and opened the door to feel the pleasant night air, and was met by the kooky squawks and guttural hoots of owls mating in the woods.
Spring Is Just A Bit Disgusting, Isn’t It?
I wasn’t in a very romantic mood. It had been a difficult day. The day began when certain factors dawned on me, and I began to worry that I was pregnant. We women do this sort of thing when everything doesn’t line up like it should on the calendar. We have this particular variety of oh no after we have had all the children we ever plan on growing inside of us, and the thought of another throws our lives into chaos.
Other hints began popping into my head, like how I had been excessively tired lately. And I had a headache. It started out mild—your typical hormone headache—and then it grew, and seemed to continue growing in size, ballooning, with the mounting pregnancy evidence.
Ordinarily I don’t take pain meds. I don’t take anything. I’ve given birth naturally twice, folks. I can handle a headache. But then the headache progressed into something really special—one of those nasty ones that may or may not be a migraine, but when it comes it brings its best friend: nausea. And nausea is where I draw the line.
So sometime around dusk I decided to carry myself, and hopefully no one else, to the grocery store to purchase some Tylenol. I had been deep in thought. I was trying to decide, if I was in fact pregnant, how I was going to explain to my husband that we were never having sex again. There were flashbacks to high school sex-ed classes wherein the instructor said the only 100 percent sure way to prevent teen pregnancy is abstinence. Clearly—if I was in fact pregnant despite being careful not to be—my ovaries were too enthusiastic and could never be trusted again…at least until menopause.
I walked into that store, and I swear people were staring at me. One by one, one department to the next, folks were looking my way. I had been painting, and wondered if I had smeared some across my face. My head was throbbing to the rhythm of my footsteps, and I did not care if there were obscenities painted across my cheeks. Then I wondered if there were visible angry squiggly lines sticking out of my temples like they do when a cartoon is in pain. And then it hit me.
My god, I thought with complete and utter disgust, I am glowing.
I snatched a box of Tylenol off the shelf and scowled at the pharmacy tech that was looking on.
But All Is Well That Ends Well
I took the Tylenol, and now I don’t have a headache. And I’m not pregnant. Yay! I almost wanted to track down some condoms and throw them out there to those teenagers in celebration. Instead, I’m eating a cake made of fresh picked spring strawberries. I’m just going to take a slice out on the porch and listen to some owls having an old-fashioned good time. I am going to toast them with a bite of strawberry cake.
Congratulations on making those babies, barred owls. And congratulation to me, for not.
