Thank you, Monkeybicycle for publishing my latest essay, Be my Posthumous Friend. How often do you get friend requests on Facebook and Twitter from dead people?
One of my favorite literary publications, Monkeybicycle has granted me the opportunity to write a new essay series about the surreal happenings in my oddly wonderful life.
Thank you, MB, I heart you so much!
Rescuers treat pure breed owners like it’s a crime to buy versus save. Hello — allergies, and fuck me for not wanting some neurotic, skittish, was tied to a tree for a month, canine that pees on you every time you pet him and shits on the floor when you make eye contact. “We don’t know how old she is, but she’s missing an eye and has cataracts in her good eye, the poor thing, she’s also deaf and she can’t bark because someone severed her vocal chords; isn’t that awful?” Just what I always wanted, the Helen Keller of Canines. It’s like rescuing the most impaled looking creature you can find has become a status symbol (what’s next – a black market for tethered and weathered canines?). Maybe some reproductive enthusiast will come up with a new breed, SNATS — Snakes breed with cats, or Alliots — Alligators breed with parrots; I ask you, IS there ANYTHING that could possibly top a flying, scaly loud mouth?!
Published at Six Sentences
I despise, loathe and abhor the creepy chick syndrome game, “What if your fictitious husband loses a limb, goes blind, goes deaf, develops an allergy to pussy or winds up in a wheelchair?” This is how I want to spend my evening, pondering acceptable handicaps my non-husband may or may not get?! It’s a no-win situation; in every game there’s always that one altruistic dame who dates handys for sport, making the rest of us look like Cunt of the Year recipients. Predictably, each bird’s list does a 180. As long as I don’t have to roll him out of his wheelchair and on top of me, I can sit on his face; if he’s flaccid and crippled from the waist down, he can finger bang me. As if that’s an upside.
Published at Six Sentences
I’m in my mid-late thirties.
Throughout my life, when asked if I wanted to have kids, my response was â€œI think so. I don’t know. Maybe. I’m still on the fence.
Though not much has changed, the latter has been, and still is, my default answer. Adoption has always been on the table as a choice, as has the idea of getting knocked up.
Being raised by a single mother, in my mind, if I want kids, I will have them with or without a man. I never plan to get married again. I had a starter marriage for 5-minutes, it didn’t take. Marriage and weddings make my gums itch, my knees weak and make me breakout in hives. I love and support my friends and family who want to get married and are into weddings. I happily attend, support, you know how you do.
I want to fall in love again. I want to be in a relationship and live with someone. I think love lasts as long as it’s meant to, and so do relationships. I’m happy to fall in and out of love many times, and have.
Today, I went to see my doctor (she is great, by the way). The nurse hocked me about my ovum. The conversation went something like this:
- Nurse (21-years-old): (Snidely/bordering shock), When was your last period. Wait, are you even menstruating?!
- Katie’s inner thought: Snatcharella, aren’t I little too young for you to be asking me if my ovum have broken out the crates for Shiva? Conversely, is that an appropriate question? I was at a doctor’s office, so, yeah. Right? I mean, right?
- Katie: I am still menstruating. I am not in menopause.
- Katie’s inner thought: Even if I was in menopause, why can’t I be fertile in other ways? Why is fertility tied to my worth? Why is a woman’s identity tied to her womb and lactating knockers instead of her mind? (PS: I know, way too deep for a fucking doctor’s appointment. There’s a point, stay with me.)
As I waited for the doctor, I was so deep inside my head; an earthquake wouldn’t have rattled me. And earthquakes scare the shit out of me. I’m the one screaming at the top of my lungs during tremors.
Before it wasn’t a sensitive topic; before, it wasn’t something I took issue with; before I was on the precipice of finding out whether or not I am fertile and if this disease has taken that option from me, among others.
On the third day of my period this month, I will know if I am fertile, womb wise, that is. So, yeah, it’s a sensitive issue. Who knew?!
Generally speaking, I like options. The idea of not having the option to procreate is suddenly an issue. I didn’t think it would be. Conversely, never once have I felt that I wasn’t pregnant with possibilities. My worth has never been wrapped up in marriage and children. I define my worth. I am fertile with ideas, fertile with hope and possibilities, overflowing in brain ovum, in fact.
Recently, while talking to a friend of 20-years about fertility, my fertility, she asked me if I regretted having an abortion when I did at 21. I thought what an odd question. How do you correlate the two? So, I asked. I was markedly stunned by her response being the liberal feminist that she is.
â€œKatie, if you didn’t have an abortion, you’d have a child. If you can’t have kids, maybe God is punishing you.
JAW. FLOOR. NAUSEAS.
Did you just step out of a 1950’s sitcom?! Who are you right now? Are you new?! Have we met?! I have never regretted my abortion or the privilege of having the choice, and I never will. Additionally, what’s with the God punishing me thing? On Yom Kippur after my abortion, I didn’t even mention it in prayer. We’re Jews. Since when have we practiced God guilt? When did you stop being a feminist and why didn’t I get the memo? Grow an untwisted set of ovaries, sister. Wait I’m not done. I was in college. I made the right choice. You supported me then. Why aren’t you lending the same support now?
Her response is irrelevant. Here’s what isn’t Yes. I’m scared. I don’t know how I’ll react if I am infertile. Shit, I don’t even know if I want kids. Still. I know I want the fucking option. What I am also certain of, is that my fertility has never been ensconced in the recesses of my womb or my disease addled, vintage ovum. If my lady eggs have broken out the crates, I’ll cross that shrouded mirror when the time comes.
- Nurse: Do you have kids?
- Katie: No. Do you?
- Nurse: No. I want them so badly. Do you want kids?
- Katie: I don’t know. I might not be able to have kids.
Image courtesy of Creativity of Mind