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Holy Embryos, Batman!

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A bit of history: About a month ago, a friend of mine decided that she was going to have her IUD un-installed. She thought she was “ready to start thinking about trying to come to a decision about” getting pregnant. She knew the consequences. We both knew the consequences, dammit—but that didn’t stop us from throwing caution to the wind and then watching it fly right back and smack us in the faces with the sound that I imagine liver makes when dropped from a great height and lands on the sidewalk! Though why we’d ever witness liver drop from any height, and therefore know what it sounds like, is beyond me. I guess it could happen. I mean, what if you worked in a slaughterhouse on the ground floor and cows were being slaughtered on the top floor and there was a rotunda of sorts … oh, but I digress! Anyway, we just didn’t think she’d get pregnant so damn fast. Nevertheless, this didn’t stop her from rushing right out and buying store brand pregnancy tests. In bulk. The next day.


We spent the next month joking about the whole thing …  I’d send her texts “Are you pregnant yet?” She’d reply “I don’t think so.” Strange phenomena took place during this time. Her and her husband were having all this sex … it was ridiculous, really. She’d text me “We just had sex.” and I’d text back “You did? Why?” And she’d sigh and be all, “I thought we had an objective here” and I’d be all “I know, it’s just too bad there’s not a more streamlined procedure …” I’d try to call her and she wouldn’t answer the house or cell phones and in this era, that’s just downright annoying. Then she’d text and I’d be all “Where were you?” and she’d be all “Sigh. We were having sex. What do you want me to do?” Which would prompt me to text “What? Again?”


More than a few sticks were peed on during this time. But as I’m sure we already knew, she wasn’t pregnant yet. I had to increase my cell phone plan to 5000 texts a month for some ungodly dollar amount as texts like “What if I’m pregnant?” and “Dude, what if you get pregnant?” became daily occurrences.


Then came the text at 7:30 a.m. “It’s day 31.” Flurry of texts, flurry of emails … “ It’s day 32.” I told her to give it until Sunday (this was Thursday, I think) so she went home and, naturally, peed on another stick. Then the phone call


Her: I took a test. It’s fucking positive. What. The. Fuck.


Me: What? Omigod … okay … let’s calm down … deep breaths … you need to do another test.


Her: Okay. Right. I don’t have one.


Me: Go to the store, get one, and bring it over here.


So she gets there, the test is done and we’re sure.


Her: Dude, how did this happen?


Me: Well! It was all the fucking sex that was going on over there! What were you thinking?


Her: I don’t think you should be yelling at me in my condition.


Me: Don’t think you’re getting out of helping me with the yard sale on Saturday.


Her: I can’t believe this. I can’t smoke. I can’t drink. What am I going to do all day Saturday during this fucking yard sale?


Me:  See? If you’d waited to do the test until Sunday, like I said, you’d be blissfully ignorant and we could be sitting there all day Saturday at the yard sale, smoking like a fiend together. You know … I’m not sure this is really gonna work out for me.

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