The Sword in my Husbands Stone

Well, it seems like just yesterday I was challenging my way through ten days of one on one scissor time with my husband. While it wasn’t exactly a triumph, I did come face to face with his rape kit 5 outta the ten days. For some people, this may seem like a lost battle, but considering my life long struggle with commitment, I think it was an overall success. Making my way through the course of the ten days, I felt a strange connection to Lance Armstrong – like I knew what I was doing couldn’t last, the momentum would ultimately die down and I’d be caught dick handed. Well, that brings me to today.

I think it’s time I let you know that hell decided to freeze over inside my uterus this summer by implanting a little baby Phelps. I’m assuming this was a result of left over challenge guilt. Upon news of this strange occurrence, I was somewhat, uuuuu, how shall I say……… perplexed. While my hips don’t lie, my body isn’t exactly a vessel that you’d want life housed in. For the longest time, I just thought my insides were in a perpetual state of darkness. Finding out that my body could possibly facilitate life was confusing. For the first 2 days after hearing the news, I went through what I can only describe as phases of grief – confusion, panic, anger, sorrow, fright and then ultimately peace (I think one through three of these stages were directly influenced by the abrupt sobriety that my body found itself facing). Once I peeled myself out from under the covers, emptied out my bed pan and turned off the 90210 marathon from WE tv I came to a state of acceptance what ultimately turned into a strange feeling of dare I say – jittery excitement? I mean, prostitutes and refugees have kids every day – why can’t I? I knew I’d have a whole new challenge ahead of me and a sober one at that, but I was preparing for battle. I realized my prep time was only 9 months compared to the 18 year war that I’d ultimately face, but I came to terms with it. Mommy would be my new schtick.  

Well, fast forward a few weeks and it turned out that I didn’t have a Phelps – it was actually a Lochte who got confused about where to go and implanted itself outside of the utero-studio apartment and in the hall ways of my tubes. Apparently, this is somewhat common and not at all related to lifestyle behaviors – at least that’s what they told me, I’m choosing to accept that explanation.

As a result of this confused swimmer, I’ve been in a state of mommy limbo for the last few weeks. Semi pregnant but not really pregnant, I’m starting to think I may be perma pregnant, like I’m going to have a 5,000 month old baby inside me when I’m 50. For all of my doctor friends and readers, you may know this to be an ectopic pregnancy. Oh wait, I don’t know any doctors – well except that one guy I dated for like four seconds until my friends attempt at convincing me he had a poop sack attached to his abdomin (this conclusion was brought about by the fact that he refused to take his shirt off or allow any hand on chest action) which ultimately ended the relationship, well it was either that or the fact that he wouldn’t ever turn on the radio when we were in the car together, nor would he make small talk. I correlated our car rides to a future sex life and was not impressed with what the I envisioned. Not to mention he was an extreme Cathy. Since I don’t even take my hygiene to the extreme, I’m certainly not equipped to deal Dr. Pope. Back to the issue at hand, long story short, my body is in the process of hitting the flusher and it’s ultimately ended in an early term miss.

Among the colorful array of side effects, I’m finding myself for the first time in my life scared of my husband’s penis. I mean, yes, I’ve been annoyed, grossed out, irritated with his penis before, but never scared.

Every time it gets near me all I can think about is the power that it holds – like it’s the sword in the stone and unlocking its power can create people. UM – that’s not exactly something you wanna play around with, ya know what I’m sayin. I envision it lighting up inside of me and speaking in tongue (pun intended) inside of me creating space ships and planets.


So on this day, I find myself facing a new challenge.
I can either throw my vagina a retirement party – which I’ve definitely considered. I could dress in pink and drink blush wine and reminisce about the good ole days when I was slingin hos and droppin dollars.


I can shave the monstrosity that I’ve let grow into my thighs and up my belly like a bougainvillea plant, push up my hormone enriched ex-MITs (ex-mommy tits) and invite Merlin’s powers back inside my vessel of terror.

I’m not going to make up my mind today. I’m thinking too clearly and prefer to make big decisions over a glass of red and a popsicle. Ill keep you posted.



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