Now Mr. Doctor is on the ovary bandwagon once more and says the girls have all but quit doing their thing. As you know, ovaries control the baby eggs and a woman's ability to dance slutty for her husband.
That's why I haven't made a baby in close to 15 years and my attempts to woo Mr. Man look like I'm doing the pee-pee dance while trying to suck a popcorn kernel out of my front teeth.
Don't you go worrying about me though because Doc has a plan. A highly scientific plan. A plan so crazy medical, I'm not sure you can even wrap your mind around it.
He's making me spit. In a thingie. And then I'm supposed to slap a stamp on it and mail it to somebody in a lab who will then do God knows what with it.
What if they take out my DNA and make another me? My Daddy used to say it wouldn't take nothing for him to make another one just like me and he didn't even have my spit in a thingie.
Despite my misgivings I'm gonna try and do it because I always do what men in white coats tell me to do. That's why I wash the butcher's car every Thursday and why he could identify my boobs in a police line up.
Not that my boobs have ever been in a police line up but there's always tomorrow.
The only thing that really concerns me is the actual mechanics of the spitting. I'm not much of a spitter. The evidence of that can be found in the numerous pieces of chewed gum stuck to the driver's side of my car. When I was a kid and we'd have watermelon seed spitting contests on balmy southern evenings, I just swallowed mine.
I was more comfortable with the stigma and humiliation of a watermelon induced child pregnancy than with having a slobbery black seed stuck to my chin.
Stay tuned for important updates about my spit and my ovaries. If you're lucky, I'll take pictures. On second thought, I don't know that my digital camera is equipped for that kind of thing so we'll have to see how it goes.
Copyright © 2008 Sherri Bailey
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