Tag Archives: Catch-22

Hellz Yaz!

I’m pretty much done having my own kids.  Physically, I just don’t think I can do it again.  Although the thought of having more kids delights me. If I could snap my fingers and have a potty trained 3 year old delivered, I’d do it.  I’ve also tried to talk BD into us getting an Indian surrogate mother, or better yet adopting a few Liberian choir boys (all Oprah’s ideas) but he is not for it.  At all. Sure, these ideas do seem a little far-fetched, even for me, but I’d be lying if I haven’t fantasized about each for days on end. I’m not sure if it is because I might be able to get on Oprah if I did it or because they’re the best fucking ideas I’ve ever heard.  Probably the latter.

My deliveries were traumatic, and I’m not that psyched to get strapped down again while they cut me open while I’m still fucking conscious.  I honestly believe history will look back on this time and shake its head in disgust with the c-section rate at 46%.  I hate to admit it, but I have to side with Ricki Lake for once (please don’t tell Oprah I said that, or she will never leave Gayle) – but all of these medical interventions during the process of childbirth is going way overboard. Routinely cutting women open to deliver children is not okay. It really isn’t. It’s fucked up. But this post isn’t about that. Not really.

It’s about Oprah , I mean birth control.  Right now the point is to avoid giving birth again and I would be kind of surprised if I changed my mind about that.  But here is the rub – I’m stuck in a terrible Catch-22 of Epic Proportions. I’ve spent the last 15 years on birth control pills except for when I’ve been trying to have babies.  Until I was off the Pill, I had no idea I actually wanted to have sex. Really wanted it. I suppose this is because in nature, people are supposed to have the urge to procreate. But, at least for me, the Pill is like the ultimate sex kitten killer. And nobody likes killing kittens.  Especially the sex ones. And I had no idea that a side effect of the Pill is asexuality non-existent libido. I just thought I was tired or my vagina was extremely anti-social or something. But I didn’t realize that was just the Pill talking.  I think my vagina is an extrovert.

But here is where the Catch-22 happens: off the Pill I look like an oily teenager riddled with zits all over my chin.  I went out to lunch with my old PhD advisor the other day and — I swear this is true — when she saw me she screached, aghast, “What happened to your face!?” Uh, thanks. Good to see you again too. Yeah, so she lacks a certain tact, but I appreciate honesty. She told me I should go to the doctor immediately because something must be very wrong for me to have my chin boiling in huge puss-filled cysts. Sorry I have to use that verbiage, but I have to make it clear how disgusting my complexion gets.  Apparently that is me being off the Pill.  That is the trade-off. Libido or zits. Nobody wants to have sex with me when I remind them of Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles, but when I get that all cleared up on the Pill, I don’t want to have sex with anybody. Since I’m only allowed to have sex with one man, the world isn’t suffering, but we sure as hell are.  A conundrum, see?

So I relayed this information to my doctor recently. Her answer was Yaz. I was like, “Isn’t that the one for crazy people?” and she said, “Yeah, but it will clear up your skin. For God’s sake, you need it!” So I’ve been on it two weeks. Hmm.

Here are the pros:

  • relatively certain I won’t get knocked up because I don’t foresee sex happening ever again.
  • no new exploding painful zits on my chin.

Here are the cons:

  • relatively certain I am now completely asexual. ” This is bad, real bad. Michael Jackson.” – Kanye
  • relatively certain I have eaten several times today, but my body thinks I’m a lying SOB.
  • relatively certain I will gain 25 pounds by next week if I stay on this drug.
  • relatively certain I lost my mind at each of the 1745 slightest infractions by one of my dear, sweet, young insane children this last week. “Now I’m mad, real mad. Joe Jackson.” – Kanye

(Ooh. I’m excited!! Did you catch that? I just crossed the threshold of blogging where I describe all of my medical issues with prescription drugs in detail. YES!.  Now I just have to wait to be nominated for some type of blog award. I’m pretty sure I also have to be hella funnier and have more than 6 people read my blog too, but those are just technicalities. I have a prescription drug problem everybody – Put your hands up, ya’ll. Woot. Woot. Holla. Holla.)

So I will have to say “Hellz No!” instead of Hellz Yaz. But that puts me back at square one again. I have a bad feeling that zits and sex drive are linked to the surge in the same hormone.

Okay, dear Internet. It’s time to pull your weight and tell me which way to go on this – is it better to be un-pregnant, asexual and beautiful, or an un-pregnant whore with grotesque chin zits? And just to sweeten the pot, if you find a solution that allows me to be an un-pregnant beautiful sex kitten, I will send you the Oprah quote magnet featured here:

I have one of these on every magnetic surface in my home.  You can start your collection today, if you can solve my Conundrum of Epic Proportions.  I will also nominate you for a Genius Award, and who doesn’t want one of those?

Ah, crap. I have to go eat again.

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