Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Unprotected Sex & Fashion

Husband and I have started talking about having another baby. There. I said it. On the INTERNET for God and Oprah and everyone to read. (Question… are Oprah and God the same person? Similar uses of ridiculous power for good, I’ve noticed. And wouldn’t that just trip out the religious right- God is a black woman who lives with a man unmarried and gives money AWAY?)

But I digress. Talking about the baby. This is the part where my Mom would quote my father’s cousin, a Catholic priest named Father Pat. Father Pat was fond of saying “every baby brings its own loaf of bread.” It’s a lovely sentiment and I get the point- people should relax and have their families, God will provide, yada yada yada… I don’t discount the idea, although I think it’s a little overly simplistic. Chances are it was a well-meaning attempt to calm the fears of Catholic women with no birth control options and hence, little control over the number of babies they would have and the circumstances they would be born into.

At the moment, our kid would have to show up with a loaf of bread, some nursery furniture, a vanload of cash, and a nice Guatemalan nanny. And since I’m pretty sure those items wouldn’t be hidden in the box of elephant-sized sanitary pads the L&D ward gives you, we’re waiting.

But you know what I’ve noticed? (DAD STOP READING NOW!) When you’re over the age of 16 and gainfully employed, having unprotected sex when you know you could conceive is kind of a turn-on. Even if you plan to divert the troops, so to speak, it’s kind of hot knowing that you’re fertile and he’s there and y’know… STUFF is gonna happen! It’s kind of like the thrill of having sex in public and the potential for getting caught. Or so I’ve heard… ‘cause I haven’t done that… lately
Mom, you can let Dad come back to the computer now.

In other news, I had a lovely visit with an old Kick-Ass-Women’s-College friend last night. She was in town for work so we cruised over to Carraba’s for a glass of vino or six. She is one of my favorite women on earth because she’s accomplished and she’s funny and she’s smart and she’s a great friend and basically I think she poos ice cream. But I have to hate her just a little bit because she has more style in her well-manicured pinkie finger than I have in my entire body. She swings out of the hotel last night after several hours on the road looking all kinds of polished sassy in some Capri pants, one of those supercute cardigans that are so “in” right now, and heels. Oh, and of course, the perfect bag. She looked like something in Oprah magazine- you know the “after work” look that’s perfect for cocktails? Casual, but not overly so. Fun, but not too young. And here’s the thing… she’s like that ALL THE F***ING TIME! I swear she made some kind of deal with Satan and got a homing device that detects perfect accessories.

Now let’s compare… Her = Polished Professional Chic. Me? I rolled up in a big comfy men’s sweater and a pair of jeans that I actually made my husband sniff to be sure they were “clean enough” to wear out. My roots have grown out enough that I am dangerously close to finding out what my natural hair color would be. To my credit, I was carrying a very cute black tote… yeah, it went really swell with my BROWN BOOTS. My look was less polished professional chic and more butch homeless foreigner.

I had a really wonderful time- catching up, drinking. She told me about what we are referring to as the Crazy-Ass-Baptist-Wedding. (Apparently I’m not honoring Husband as the “spiritual head of household”… not that I’d know how to.) I regaled her with Girlfriend tales and how we came to the conclusion that vibrators are not items that should be hand-me-downs.

And through all this lovely happy wine-infused time together, she looked hip and fabulous as always. It’s so comforting to find some things never change.

But it’s a good thing she’s my friend. Otherwise, I’d have to beat her down with her perfect bag. Bitch. (Love you! hee hee!)

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