Stuck

A few weeks ago, I was having a conversation with some of my girlfriends about contraception. There were some married women, a lesbian, some single chicks and well, me. The lesbian didn’t really need to worry about getting knocked up anymore. She liked that idea. She even gloated a little. The married one said unfortunately her children seemed to be the best birth control. Child-interuptus I believe is the technical term. The single chicks, all in our forties, seemed to be complaining the most. If you add wine to a mommy night, this eventually happens.

None of the options are perfect. They all have their quirks and issues, kind of like the women I was hanging out with, but they need to be there. The contraception, I mean. Well, the women too cuz I really have fun with them.

I love my children. I love my two children. They are amazing and wonderful and even if I run out of energy for the phrase, “But why?” I wouldn’t trade them in for all of the Jimmy Choos in the whole wide world. With that said, I am happy with the two I’ve got. My sister has three boys (apparently we can only grow penises) and I like to say that is the reason I only have two. Plus we only have one bathroom and one computer so two is more than enough.

I am forty-three and it took me a long time to get my body back to this state. I mean, let’s face it, I will always need Spanx because two people lived in there, but having another child? I can’t really afford a tummy tuck, so no more kids. End of story.

But losing seventy pounds or so, I do look better than say, seventy pounds ago. Seriously, I just bought size twenty-eight Michael Kors jeans so on sale at Loehmans. Like, $150 jeans and I paid $13. I love Loehmans. I was brought up in Loehmans. I think everything I learned about women came from the Loehman’s dressing room.

Anyway…

So, last year I taught a “woman’s health” class to my Chick Power girl empowerment group at the high school where I teach. With permission slips in hand, the girls got to ask every question they ever wanted to ask. I allowed jokes and giggling and made it a fun atmosphere which at times made even me blush. But crap, these girls knew nothing! I mean NOTHING. In the three years I have worked with high school students, each year I have had a pregnant girl in one of my classes. Well, now they are all moms. Two were in ninth grade and one was in eighth. Yikes and a half. The only thing I can do as a teacher is point them toward websites and offer information that doesn’t directly involve my opinion. So, I boned up (Yes, pun intended) on my information about woman’s health and sex and stuff, made a Hello Kitty Power Point and jumped in. As we discussed contraception, I relayed facts and stats and then sort of gave my own opinion on a few:

The Condom: The world is an imperfect place and things break all of the time. Just like with your laptop, back it up. Wrap it in cellophane or it ain’t coming near you. (Yes, pun intended. Again.)

The patch: great for young girls, you don’t have to worry about being distracted by sparkly objects and forget to take the patch, cuz it’s stuck like glue on you. For me, no more hormones thanks. I have enough.

The pill: great, but you have to remember to actually take it. Remember, birth control does not work if it is left on the bathroom shelf. My teenage girls forget to write down their homework assignments, so…

The Diaphragm: Ah, the diaphragm. I loved my diaphragm. Although, again, it doesn’t work when it’s in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Dash is proof of that. Diaphragms are great. If you ever saw the play A Chorus Line, you know you can sing about them. My brother-in-law who is a Gynecologist likes that song and has been known to sing about it while golfing. You can put your trusty diaphragm in hours before, leave it in hours afterwards. Add a condom to it, and its damn near perfect.

So, why is it almost impossible to get one nowadays? My gyno had never even measured someone for it, and no, that does not involve a tape measure or a ruler. Hmmm…now that’s an image that just frightened my vagina.

Another thing that frightened my vagina was one time when I used my diaphragm and in the morning when I tried to get it out it was stuck. S-T-U-C-K. Oy to the vey was it stuck. I tried every position I knew to try and reach it. At one point I think I actually did a standing split on the wall. I tried several positions, both hands (no, not at once) for at least a half an hour. Nothing. I finally called my singing-gynecologist-brother-in-law for some advice. As any true professional would, he totally laughed at me and suggested all of the same positions I had just tried. Then he suggested if I hadn’t gotten it out on my own by that afternoon, I needed to see my doctor. Oh goody, I thought, I get to spend thirty-five dollars to have my doctor execute a professional diaphragm removal.

My doctor was giggling as she walked into the room. She was a friend of mine, so it wasn’t too unprofessional. I kept giggling too. It was just such an annoying yet humorous moment in my silly life. Seriously, I thought, who the hell gets their diaphragm stuck. What an idiot I must be. Although, it did take my doctor fifteen minutes to remove it. And she was a professional. I, on the other hand, am keeping my amateur status so that I may compete some day in the Vagina Olympics.

Perhaps I should just get spayed. Henry the cat is neutered and he seems happy enough. Of course he really likes to bite toes and I wonder if there is a connection. And I am really not a foot fetish kind of person. Boy toes are kinda stinky. More men need to get pedicures. If more men went in for pedicures, I might consider the whole foot fetish thing.

Hmm…was that too much information? No, I meant the foot fetish thing; not writing the word vagina several times in my blog.

By the way, I was reminded of the whole stuck diaphragm thing because I recently watched an episode of Sex in the City where Carrie got her’s stuck too. And even though Samantha had just had a manicure, she still helped Carrie out and…um…did lend a hand. (Yes, for the third time, pun intended)

The two friends I called just to discuss what was happening, told me right up front they were not going in after it. I just hope neither of them gets bitten on the ass by a rattle snake when they are near me…

Seriously.