A Call to Action

Some people yearn for world peace. Others, an end to gang violence.

I share their sentiment of wanting to end senseless tragedy.

Therefore, I long for the day when I can buy the same brand of pantiliner, in the same formulation, with the same packaging, on two consecutive drugstore trips.

"But, Arabella," you ask. "You're pregnant! You aren't getting your period now. Why do you need pantiliners?"

Good question, my friend. Good. Question.

When the nurse called to confirm that my blood pregnancy test had been positive, she told me, "Come on in tomorrow, and we'll give you some prescriptions, and some lessons."

No problem!, I thought. I can handle some more prenatal vitamins. Maybe they'll even be brightly-colored, fruit-flavored, and come in cute little baby shapes. A bonnet. A pacifier. A frickin' teddy bear. As for the "lessons," what's she going to say? "Don't smoke?" "Don't drink?" Piece of cake.

Ty and I arrived nice and early, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

And then the nurse pulled out the enormous syringe.

"This is how you do it," she explained. "You pinch the belly fat, hard, and then jam it in." (Ok, she didn't say it quite like that, but the effect was the same.)

Every morning.

"Are there any side effects?" I asked, tearfully. I was beginning to get the point. In fact, I would be getting the point very shortly. And daily.

"Yes."

Of course there were. The nasty bruising I showed you last Friday. Scrumptious. Oh, and the liquid in the syringe causes pain at the injection site.

"And, also, these are progesterone suppositories. You use them twice a day."

I temporarily forgot about the enormous needles.

"They're vaginal suppositories?!"

"Yes. Twice a day."

There is nothing quite like speaking with an important client as you feel a rush of oil trickle out of your cooter and into your underwear, protected by a woefully inadequate pantiliner, formerly wonderful and now newly redesigned to feel more cottony or some shit, that has disengaged from your panties due to moisture (WTF??? Like moisture's unexpected in the life of a pantiliner???), and is slowly working its way into your asscrack. And then you look down, and a ring of wetness is visible on your pants. As if you peed yourself.

Ladies and gentlement, this is why I think it should be perfectly acceptable to cry in the workplace. In fact, now that we're all working our asses off, I think this should be the real focus of the feminist movement.