In Which I Write About My Vagina

I have a sordid history with birth control. As if overruled by Nature’s Grand Scheme, my attempts to stick to a reliable anti-baby making plan have been sabotaged many a time. When it comes to familial planning technologies, my lady parts appear to be luddites.

You see, The Pill left me halfway between Kristin Wigg’s Lawrence Welk sketch and a pre-surgery Star Jones. And, as much as I love all things retro, my diaphragm committed horrible crimes against my Petula Clark. Thanks, rubber latex allergy!

So, in lieu of tossing out my shoes and strolling down to the unemployment office to collect for two, I’ve decided to procure an IUD. The Mirena kind. Because, as my dear friend Mona advised me, copper theft is on the rise in this depressed economy.

But just because the financial state of the world is sad doesn’t mean my uterus has to be!

Yesterday afternoon I had the pleasure of picking up the RX for my eminent Special Procedure at my neighborhood pharmacy. The one with the charming young pharmacist who loves to chat with me about my Crohn’s disease and is chock full of helpful naturopathic hints. That is to say that yesterday I had the pleasure of explaining my vaginal suppository to a boy. Offline. In public. I think we both made it out of the conversation scarred but intact.

Upon returning home I realized that the suppositories were boldy labeled “take with food” which sparked many debates as to whether or not it was in fact the correct medication or if my vagina has just been hungry all along and in need of a snack.

Nom, nom, nom?

Wish me luck.