I have been doing a lot of writing lately—stories, journals, illegibly scribbled notes on pieces of napkins and scraps that sometimes enter another dimension through pockets and purses and laundry piles. I've been stringing words together, just not too much here.
But I will repent of my mum ways. In good faith, I will this very moment pull out for your inspection, like a rabbit from a hat, my latest contribution to a private blog generally written for two exclusive readers: myself and Rob. I'll give you this little peek into the state of our union before it's even a day old. Then hopefully I'll find something more to share here very soon.
I let myself check the calendar today, crunched some growing numbers, and decided that I really must be pregnant again. And guess what—I was not terrified by the prospect of a number five. I was thrilled.
I prayed. I asked for help. I eagerly shot one of those fridge-chilly, messy, still-ahead-of-expiration-date progesterone bullets up thataway, carefully adhering to last year's prescription label's strict directive: "1 per vagina." I studied scriptures. I thought secret things. My hands trembled. I simultaneously read and listened to an old recording of Genesis 1, the creation story, cried with happiness, and pled with the Lord to Let there be light in my womb. I borrowed a great line from a real Biblical trooper: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" and gave a good Sarah-worthy bellylaugh. I felt that sure of the situation.
I hopped on your bike because mine has a flat and put your seat down a little too far and pedaled like a low rider down to the dollar store for a dollar test, then I laid down not one but seven dollars, splurging on a silly color riot: sparkles for my eyes, bright nail polish, false eyelashes that would make a drag queen envious. I smiled my face off at everyone and nearly kissed the cashier but she had a goth's manicure and didn't look interested.
I hurried next door to The Good Earth to pee, which seemed appropriate. On my way in I picked up a sample of agave nectar and drank it down, saving the cup for my golden specimen. (I really went deluxe this time, yes?) Freddy Mercury was singing, "Aw, you're my best friend," and I thought of you and agreed. Locked in the public potty, I washed out my agave cup and then filled it again with something I thought might prove even sweeter, but . . . when I carefully wielded the plastic eyedropper and put four drops of my own nectar to the test only one pink stripe appeared, not two. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so sure I wold see a positive reading. So. Sure.
Should I even be telling you this?
I think so. Because I know you would want to share this with me. Even if it makes you sad.
Because you are my best friend.
I had been planning to go to yoga class this afternoon, but now I all I want is you and a toasted coconut donut. Anyway, I'm leaking progesterone now, and it makes me uncomfortable.
You should feel very proud of me. I never said the d-word or any other regrettable word even once and don't think I will this time. But I shall here and now make a rude and Queenly noise to express my vast displeasure and provocation whilst simultaneously keeping my clenching fists occupied and affirming the great and constant blessing of my life (to wit, you). Feel free to join in.