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I’ve been places, people.

I’ve seen things.

24 hours ago…I could not describe to you the inside of the room someone would need to go into to produce a sample to test to see if their vasectomy worked or not.

Now I can.

I didn’t start out there.  I started out in the car.  With three kids.  Eating donuts and waiting for daddy to come out.

But, he was taking forever.  The natives were restless.

So we went inside.

All of us.

And, after I out-mean faced the lady at the desk (yeah lady, I do have all three kids with me, here, in the hallway of jack-off rooms, I’ve had a morning, get off my shit) she gave me his room number, and we crept down to Collection Room B.

It was quiet.  I don’t know what I expected.  Moans maybe?  Lots of shifting around?


tap. tap. tap.

Me: Hunny, listen, are you done yet because we still have to go to the party store?


Me: Right, no rush, but the boys are getting super restless.  Oh, and we went through Tim Horton’s and got donuts, we saved you some, they are in the car.   I had a bagel, though.  I think the cream cheese was bad, it smelled like vagina. *baby giggle, baby giggle* Oh listen hun, the baby is saying hi!  Hi papa. Hi daddy.  Hurry up papa, mama’s got a super busy day planned today, and she has to go to the party store to find some Jesus-y stuff for the Baptism.

Me: She is just adorable.  I could eat her up.  Yeah, so anyways, as soon as we are done here, I have to zoom over to order the cake and get some decorations.  Do you think a crucifix pinata would be weird?  I mean, I think the boys would have a good time with it, but is it tacky to beat Jesus on a Cross with an old broom stick handle?   I feel super awkward about it.


New Voice: Brittany? (Coming from the room behind me.  The room that, oh, I AM NOT STANDING IN FRONT OF AND WHISPERING INTO)

Am now figuratively peeing my pants.

So, I grab the kids and run into Collection Room D (D! FUCKING D!) and shut the door.

Annnnnddddddddd, I’m crying.

I just spent 5 minutes whispering into the door of a complete stranger about beating the son of God with a stick.  A stranger who was, um, that’s right…beating off into a cup!?

Oh hi creepy jerking off guy, let me help turn you on with Jesus talk and baby giggles, because, oh yeah, I’m a fucking lunatic!

So, there I am, death gripping the baby, my heart is racing, and thank God my husband has his pants on, because explaining to two young boys why daddy can touch his junk in public, but they can’t, is not on my shit to do today list.

Traumatizing everyone within a 50 foot radius of me, though?  Is.

So, my husband and I decided to make this a homework project, gathered our kids and the 9 billion hot wheels they managed to strew about (NOBODY TOUCH ANYTHING OMG THERE IS SEMEN EVERYWHERE), and we went back to the car for donuts, chocolate milk, and gobs of Purel.

And, because you are dying to know, my husband wouldn’t let me buy the Jesus pinata.  He said it’s a taste issue, and also, God hates pinatas.

Which is ridiculous.

Everybody likes Now & Laters.

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