Teach Me How to Sexy 2

“NEVER DO VOICES. Especially Borat.”  If I have one piece of advice that I wish to leave in my legacy it’s this quote.  I want it written on my tombstone.  I want to vandalize every bathroom stall with these words whose value weighs more than the 2 dollar bill.  I want it engraved on the soles of my shoes so that I may leave tracks of precaution wherever I walk.  I say this because of experience.

Everything was perfect; the mood was right, the stars were aligned, soft notes of Lou Rawls played in the background and pheromones were jumping out of our skin, yes?  Not quite. It wasn’t right because it’s me, PanicaJanica-Sexy in Training-Mood Killer at her finest hour. 

I said to myself, “Self, you’re going to get some tonight.  Your hair smells good and you’re wearing an irresistible pair of cotton hi-brief cut panties...deep breaths...1,2,3 BREAK!”  After a boosting pep talk to myself, I was on my high horse- but not just any high horse this horse was daring, dominating and a natural born citizen of Kazakhstan. 

“I would liiiiiike to make sexy tiiiiiime with yoooou.” I cackled into his ear.

While I waited for his reaction, I let out an out of tune nervous laugh and embraced a look of confused pain on my face.  Time seemed like it had stopped and choked, then spit out the moment to repeat itself in all of its horrific glory. 

“What?!” he said in a repulsive manner.

“I said: I would liiiiiike to make sexy tiiiiiime with yoooou.”  Time did repeat itself.  

The lights turned on like closing time at a club, the pheromones jumped out the window to avoid witnessing the mood’s painful death.  There was silence once again so I let out a high speed nervous laugh like a pubescent machine gun. 

“Why would you say that?” He asked in fear rather than curiosity.  With each explanation of my foreign behavior my voice got quieter as more uncertainty set in and by my last reason, I had begun baby talk.

 

“Shoobeedoo sexy time, I dunooooo.”

In an instant I killed the mood.  OF COURSE I WOULD.  I knew I had made a mistake, a big mistake.  I should have used the Shrek voice. 

 Is there any hope for my sex kitten or will it stay as a stray kitten trapped in a deep well of Macedonia to never be rescued???

10 cc of Epidural

The two most horrifying sights in life are rotting carcasses deteriorating from genocide and childbirth. 

Blue bodies covered in goop remained unnamed as it cries in pain.  My heart mourns for the humans suffering from bloodshed and the brutal beatings that a vagina goes through for a 6 pound 7 ounce human being to push its way to life.  Childbirth looks horrific.

I like my vagina.  I don’t want it robotically opening up to ten centimeters and release a baby body like a Pez Dispenser.  If a baby could escape that gaping hole, imagine what could go in it?! A portable stereo, a shoe box, a small collection of essays & short stories…this could be the cause of many infections! My insides would most likely be rearranged and out of alphabetical order due to the growing baby.  How will my food know where my stomach is? It’s like being in a new city without a Google Maps App. 

We have all drawn a cute smiley face on a balloon, then popped it, then looked at the remaining pieces, then saw the cute face we drew and said WTF?! It’s Benjamin Button.  The face is not cute anymore; it stretched and shriveled to an ugly, wrinkly textile.  That is what would happen to my belly.  I’ve unwillingly seen my mother’s stomach and after three kids it looks like a soggy brain.  Sarongs and cover ups FOR LIFE.

I've had encounters that I consider are genuine contractions- like that miserable night I suffered from afflicted Taco Bell.  Every ten seconds when the contractions arrived, I would squeeze the toilet paper roll and cry out to the Lord for deliverance.  I’ve seen women go through contractions on TLC’s A Baby Story, they screamed the Lord’s name in vain just as I had.  This lady featured on the show said “I am going to poop on the table.” Hold up, hold up, hold up…she said what? Poop on the table? That is not kosher.  I’ve always knew the “pushing” part of child birth could get a bit extreme and I did have some curiosity of what the chances a baby’s first bath would be in fecal matter.  That woman proved me right, thank you disgusting mother. 

Once the baby has been yanked out and the leash has been cut, the goopy, blue baby is placed on the mother’s chest.  OK, I’ll admit that part is precious.  I think I was crying during that segment of the TV show, but it was one of those uncertain cries- the kind where you smile at the same time because you are uncertain of why you are crying.  I could have been crying in fear of my vagina or my motherly instinct was showing emotion. 

Babies are cute and someday I can’t wait to have them (I only want cute babies, no negotiation.)  I guess the trauma and deformity that my body will go through is worth it to have the joys of baby puke smothering my face, right? Only if my baby is cute! Only.