This might be somewhat controversial, but as an amateur part-time scientist, it’s my job to, like, hypothesize and think about stuff that the average person may not think of because they’re too distracted by things like “debt ceilings” and “Google Plus.”

Every week my church sends out a newsletter, basically going over what was covered at Mass the previous Sunday, on the off chance you missed it because you were still in bed having sex dreams about Peter Dinklage.  It’s like the here’s what happened last week opening montage on Glee, but with lame religious clip art and no Journey.

I have no idea why I even open it, but I always do.  Maybe just to make sure nothing important is happening, like the yearly women’s retreat being sponsored by phentermine and Yellow Tail.

See, Rosary Alter Society, I have tons of good ideas, I have no idea why you won’t return my calls.

Yesterday, as I stood at the counter waiting for my toe nail polish to dry enough that I could put my underwear on, I glazed over the weekly bulletin, and saw that they had spent last Sunday discussing the reading about how God made women from a man’s rib.

In the interest of fairness, I’ve never actually listened to the specifics of this story, mainly due to the fact that I get sidetracked and spend the rest of Mass thinking about the McRib, but I have to say, I find this theory highly implausible.

I was in high school when the news was all, Marilyn Manson had some of his ribs removed so he could give himself blow jobs OMG, and at first I was like, well that’s just disgusting, but then I though about it and was like, dude, that is the best idea ever.

Ladies, if we had thought of this sooner, we would have probably moved up the women’s suffrage movement by at least 20 years and Hilary Clinton and Oprah would be co-presidents right now, we’d just have that much free time.

But then, I remembered the whole story about women being created from the rib of man, and I was like, well, there’s no fucking way that’s true.

Because, without the rib, men don’t need women.  In fact, if I had been Adam and God thought I was lonely so he took out my rib to make me a girlfriend, I’d be all, hang on, ok you know what, I’m gonna stop you right there, turns out I’m good.

But, based on the fact that women exist, and I’ve spent the last four days helping Andy to the bathroom and cutting up his food for him, I’m going to go all MythBusters on this and call it straight up debunked.

I mean, if I had to guess, I would assume women were made of whatever part of the body men used to have that told them that Top Gun was a horribly acted movie and letting us pop a zit on their back does not count as foreplay.

However, when Andy comes to me in needy and in pain, it’s one of the few times I get to feel superior and condescending.

Oh, your stomach hurts?  Try being in labor for twenty one hours without an epidural, then talk to me about cramping.

You cut the tip of your finger off with a utility knife, you say?  Remember that one time during childbirth when my vagina tore to my rectum and I let them sew me up without anesthesia so I could nurse your first born heir?  I do.

Trust me, this kind of mind play doesn’t work anywhere else.

I gave birth to three children without epidurals, and my cervix is so traumatized, every time it thunders, I dilate and pee my pants, plus my left boob is still slightly bigger than my right after two horrific bouts of back to back mastitis.

Ok ma’am, but you still have to pay for this McFlurry.

Andy has been completely incapacitated with pain for five days, from what appears to be continued complications from what he describes as his shoddy, back alley vasectomy.

My days have consisted of doctor appointments and prescription pick ups, all the while, one upping him the only way I know how, pitting my episiotomies against his vas deferens and side crushing lower abdominal pain.

And, as I sat on hold yesterday to schedule an appoint with yet another urologist to discuss test results,  I listened to Andy moan on the couch about how tired he was from being too uncomfortable to even sleep at night, and just as I was about to explain to him that trying to sleep at 38 weeks with a human being inside of you was no cake walk either, the receptionist picked up the line.

Dr. Richard Tapper’s office, how can I help you?

Excuse me?

Dr. Richard Tapper’s office, what can I do for you today?

Richard Tapper…the urologist?


I….um….need to make an appointment for my husband tomorrow…

We learned this morning that it’s entirely possible for a man named Dick Tapper to be a horrible urologist, which was about as disappointing as it was to find out my friend Kristen Bacon was a vegetarian, the name Phuc wasn’t pronounced the way I thought it was, and very little about Alanis Morisette’s song was ironic at all.

So, after lots of prodding, Andy has agreed to go back to the doctor who performed his original procedure to talk about exploratory surgery.

Babe, when you’re done making the kids nachos can you grab me a Pepsi and come rub my foot, it’s all prickly, I think it fell asleep while I was playing Xbox?

Perhaps while he’s under I can talk them into removing a rib or two.

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