Wednesday, November 08, 2006

If I Said That I Still Wore Electric Youth Perfume, Is That Something You Would Be Interested In?

You've already ruined Christmas, Eckerd. You just had to stock the hair-removal products in the front window so when a wide-eyed child stops to point at the festive display featuring a giant singing Santa Claus, he'll also get an eyeful of me sniffing the various kinds of Nair and wondering how long the tropical papaya scent would last. Then as the child tugs at his mother’s hand and begs her to buy the Santa, I’ll realize it won’t matter since no one will be near my nether-regions until my gynecologist's appointment in 6 months and there's no way anyone could stay tropical that long. Eventually, I climb into Santa’s sleigh with a fistful of Toblerone and begin sobbing to the tune of “Up on the Housetop” as the terrified child recoils and buries his face in his mother's pant leg.

And no, that didn’t really happen. I was actually eating Dove Bars.

I had to visit Eckerd last night to pick up my birth control prescription even though by this point taking each pill has become a completely empty gesture, like giving to the United Way or saying “I love you.” I could save $15 a month by just nibbling one link from a candy necklace every morning without the daily reminders that I’m not having sex. Today is Wednesday. You call it "Hump Day". I call it "Not Since The Breakup But Thank You For the Painful Reminder You Asshole" Day.

But, like the commercial says, "Maybe She's Born With It Or Maybe She Caught It When She Spent That Semester Abroad". No, wait. The other commercial says "Image Is Everything", so I loudly announce to everyone waiting in line at the pharmacy (Motto: We'll Fill Your Order In 'REckerd' Time. We Also Got Our Degrees At Strayer. Is That a Problem?) that I’m refilling my birth control prescription. Because I'm shifting my weight impatiently and checking my watch, surely everyone thinks that I'll be downing the 'Wednesday' pill in the car before racing home to my boyfriend Hugh Laurie to spend the evening testing positions we read about in Cosmopolitan, positions with names like “Reverse Thruster” or “Abacus of Passion” or “Dirty, Dirty Seahorse” instead of spending the night playing Nintendo alone and wondering if I can fit an entire package of Lunchables in my mouth at once. Either that or they think I have to pee.

On the bright side, Ortho-Tri-Cyclen does give me a lovely, glowing complexion.

Confidential to My Mother: That’s the real reason I take it and has been since high school. I swear.

Confidential to Everyone Else: When your parents ask if you are sexually active do not respond, “No, I usually just lie there.” That'll wreck Aunt Nell's funeral with the quickness.

At least I haven’t gotten desperate enough to order one of the decorative birth control pill cases that are often advertised in trashy women’s magazines like Redbook or Southern Living. These cases are brightly colored with zebra stripes and neon polka dots so instead of dispensing your pills from a plain package you'll now look like you’re pulling them directly out of 80's icon Debbie Gibson.

At a previous job, I had a coworker we’ll call Jen Towers, because that’s her name. Every day at lunch Jen would pull Debbie Gibson out of her purse and make a huge production of taking the pill, chomping it like the Cookie Monster of Contraceptives. Tacky, yes, but also reassuring that she wasn't trying to reproduce. After her eventual termination (not for the pills but for skipping work because she said she had to deliver a litter of baby goats. Not. Kidding.) I inherited her file cabinet which was completely empty save for a pair of slingbacks, a plate memorializing Princess Diana, and several pages she’d torn from a bondage magazine.

Since we worked at an advertising agency, she was immediately rehired. And promoted.

Back to Eckerd...

While I was waiting, an ancient woman Rascal-ed her way to the counter to ask the pharmacist where the condoms were. The entire display was hanging on the wall right behind her but, understandably, she didn't realize it since the last time she bought a prophylactic they were made of papyrus. The pharmacist's response was "Right over there, in our Family Planning Department." Excuse me? Family Planning? That's like selling cans of Raid in the Hornet's Nest Planning Department.

And so it goes. This woman whose cataracts are older than my parents is buying Trojans and going back to Shady Pines to have osteoporosex (Oh yes, I'm also an etymologist. That would be the term for an elderly couple getting it on. And by "it", I mean "the nasty".) Oh well. I take solace in the fact that if someone jumped her bones, they'd crumble to dust. And then I laugh, check my watch, and finish my Dove Bar.

3 comments:

August said...

hey, a refugee from planetdan here! checking out your site & i'm in hysterics. you are too funny. i'm bookmarking your site. thanks for the laughs. and no i don't have my own blog. i would hate to have to keep it up(the blog that is, hehe). btw, i LOVE borat & sasha. ok, gots to go

ciao mein

Hot Librarian said...

Am I crying from post partum depression? Or because this post is so freakin funny? I'm pretty sure it's the second one.

Amy F. said...

Matt Verga put me on to your blog and I love IT!! This post especially, because I can definitely relate. I also love the confidentials, particularly those to the random men.

Keep up the good work, and if you are ever in the DC area for a show, I'll be sure to be there!