The Beautiful Kind

One time I pushed a 7 lb. baby out of my vagina.

Not only that, but I took the typical American route of childbirth and went to the hospital, got an epidural, laid on my back, had an episiotomy (a surgical incision in the perineum made to enlarge the vagina and assist childbirth), and had my baby vacuumed out of me. (One thing I didn’t experience was a C-section.) If all this sounds whack to you, I highly recommend you read Misconceptions by Naomi Wolf and watch The Business of Being Born.

This was absolutely one of the hardest things I have done in my life. I have no idea how women do this more than once. It is one of the only times I have literally seen stars and fainted. The doctor stitched me up down there ala Frankenpussy.

After they took the urinary catheter out and my epidural wore off, I went to the bathroom. You know how you can stop and start the flow of urine? To my horror, the pee fell out of me. I had no control over it whatsoever. I wept. They gave me warm compresses to put on my traumatized pussy and told me not to have sex for six weeks.

Breastfeeding pretty much killed my sex drive, but we did have sex a month or two after I gave birth. And guess what? It hurt. The episiotomy scar was raw and intense. I kept waiting for my sex drive to return and for it to stop hurting during sex. Several times I thought I was broken forever, and that I’d never enjoy sex again like I did before. Dark times, people.

It took a year, but I finally fully healed and reclaimed my body (I breastfed for a year). I do my Kegel exercises and even have a vaginal barbell. The whole point of this post is to let all you new moms and dads know that there IS a light at the end of the tunnel. I’m not sure if childbirth has something to do with it or if it’s just me sexually evolving, but I’m more orgasmic and love fucking more than ever.

Just don’t get me pregnant, OK?

I’ve always been jealous of those people with mates who will pop their back zits for them. It’s so chimp groomesque.

So I was surprised and pleased to discover that Belle is a zit popper. She’ll inspect my back and take care of picking my nits. I find it both creepy and soothing.

The other day she wasn’t around and I had a back zit so I shyly asked Beau to get it for me. HE DID! So now I have TWO back zit poppin’ partners. Wow.

Do you engage in this type of behavior? Beau said he had one girlfriend who was into it, but when he offered to do it with his next girlfriend, she was horrified.

PS: My daughter calls pimples “pimps.” Heh.

I’m a hospice volunteer, and one of my patients is an 80-yr-old woman who weighs 72 pounds and doesn’t like swear words (man o man if she knew about this blog !!) I visit with Clara (not her real name) weekly and read out loud to her since she is legally blind.

The other day I paid her a visit. The moment I saw her I could tell something was terribly wrong.

“What’s the matter, Clara?” I asked.

“Blondie is dying,” she said mournfully. Blondie (not her real name) was her guinea pig, and suddenly, also on hospice.

I checked on poor declining Blondie, and we talked about death and dying for a bit, and then I asked, “Would you like me to read to you? Take your mind off things a bit?”

She thought that was a good idea, and handed me a new collection of short stories. It was by Bentley Little. I thought they were going to be mystery stories, since that is the genre we had read before. Oh, but no. It was horror. Really fucked up horror.

The first story I read was about a family plagued by zombies and the only way to revoke the curse was for the sister to go deep into the woods and fuck her zombie brother and have his evil spawn baby so they could throw it on the ground and smash its head open. The next story I read was about a mother who crucified her 7-yr-old daughter and drank her blood. The last story I read was about this maniac father who was so obsessed with recycling that he made his children drink their own urine and fucked his daughter so his sperm wouldn’t go to waste.

Holy shit, I was so embarrassed to be reading this trash out loud to this frail little old lady with a dying guinea pig. Seriously, I was squirming in my seat, it was mortifying. It felt like a bad dream. I felt like I was reading her my blog. It certainly did take her mind off the present situation.

An hour after I left, Blondie died.

I tried climbing The Great Wall, but only got halfway up.

HOLY SHIT that is hardcore. I had no idea.
My mouth tasted like it does when I suck my man’s cock after he fucks me so hard I froth and BLEED.

Moral of the story: I am horribly out of shape.

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We saw a huge display of chips in cans in a Chinese supermarket and took a closer look. They had all kinds of weird flavors. We bought the cucumber, tomato and smoked braised pork flavor (all 100% vegetarian).

The pork flavor was so damn nasty I pitched it right away and brushed my teeth. It was like eating crunchy Alabama roadkill.

I really wanted to like the cucumber flavor but it tasted so chemically, kinda the way I imagine meth tasting.

And the tomato flavor - it was like a Pringles chip smeared with a skid mark of catsup powder. Gross.

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One night for dinner this is what was on the lazy susan in the middle of the table:

stomach
tongue
fish heads
rabbit

Mind you, we were part of an American tourist group, so they toned down the menu for our benefit. Let me tell you, I got pretty damn sick of bok choy.

A thing I missed in China:

toilet paper

A thing I didn’t miss in China:

bleach blond hair

That’s right, they’re gone for two weeks of unfettered access to each other while I have two weeks of… a house full of cats.

Normally, I’m not the jealous type. Most people probably experience having their partner go out of town without them. I am experiencing both of my partners going to the other side of the world.

They get to enjoy coupledom and I get to enjoy solitude. The house is kind of creepy with no one else here. It’s a good thing I have plenty of things to do to occupy my time. Here’s what I did the first two days of their vacation:

Day 1:
*dropped Beau and Beautiful off at the airport before the sun came up.
*Went to work my weekend job offering therapy for kids with autism.
*Spent 9 hours in the ER with a friend of mine who developed a sudden neurological disorder.

Day 2:
*Went to the first day of my internship and worked for 8 hours.
*Got a call from my mother, telling me she does not want to loan me her truck to pick up a king-sized bed, because she doesn’t approve of my current lifestyle choice.
*Helped a friend move a bunch of furniture for the rest of the night.

Thanks for keeping me company, guys.

-Belle

Now that The Belle is dating The Beau, who is a widower (he lost his wife of 12 years to cancer) I need to share with her the advantages of dating a widower:

1. It’s more glamorous than dating someone who is dime-a-dozen divorced.
2. You get to play the sympathy card. If a jealous ex snarls, “why are you thinking of moving in with him already?” or “what’s so great about him?” all you have to do is lower your voice and say, “His wife died. Very sad.” and that shuts ‘em up.
3. You get your pick of her stuff. It’s especially cool if she had quirky taste or the same shoe size.
4. It helps you not be so materialistic - when you see all her stuff lying around you think, “God what a waste! I’m going to give a bunch of my shit away now while I can!”
5. Your new mate is automatically sensitive, familiar with crying and hardship.
6. He is also already trained. He’ll let you decorate however you want and opens the doors for you and makes sure you don’t trip on the curb.
7. He has his priorities right - after dealing with cancer for a few years, he’s not uptight about a cell phone not working or someone scratching his car in the parking lot. He also is not interested in being the workaholic he once was.
8. He’s MORE than ready to explore his sexuality and get his freak on.
9. He appreciates the hell out of you and will never take you for granted.
10. If the wife had something like a brain tumor, she’s an easy act to follow. Since he spent years in a caregiver role, he’s positively delighted when you help him navigate in the car or remember to pack your swimsuit or can carry on an intelligent conversation.
11. You get the added value of dating him just four months after she died and shocking people.
12. You know that if you get sick, he’ll take care of you.
13. You get tons of backrubs, cuz he wishes he gave his wife more backrubs.

I hate whoever recommended this movie to me. You know who you are, you dirty dozen. I hate you.

Yes, it’s a good movie, but FUCK! What’s one word to describe it - intense? Too bad “completely fucked up” is three words.

I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen it yet (the creepiest sick violence EVER) but I do want to point out that the Bad Guy (really, “bad guy” isn’t the right phrase - “Heinous Guy”? “Evil Guy”?) in the movie reminded me of Beatle Bob.

Bad Guy in the movie:

Beatle Bob:

I can’t wait to see it again.

This article about sex gone wrong in Canada is maddenly coy:

A Quebec man may face criminal charges after a woman died while they were having sadomasochistic sex. The 39-year-old woman died Saturday night, police said.

She went into cardiac arrest while engaging in “out of the ordinary” sexual practices using “very particular” accessories, said police agent Martin Simard.

Police say they found torture devices in the homes, but would not give specifics.

Come ON, we want details! And, more importantly, we want to avoid a similar tragedy befalling one of our fellow kinkophiles. So what do you think they were using - an egg beater? Jumper cables? A toaster in the bathtub?

I saw a documentary a few months ago called Whole. It’s about people who have BIID - Body Integrity Identity Disorder. What is BIID? A person who has BIID is someone who is transabled.

From the website transabled.com:

In a nutshell, someone who is transabled “wants” to be disabled. But it is not so much a “want” as much as a “need.”

Our “desire” is more a reflection of the fact that our self-image is that of a paraplegic (or amputee, or blind, or any number of other disabilities) than that of an able bodied man or woman.

In Whole, pretty much all the people featured wanted one of their legs amputated. But with BIID, a person can yearn for paralysis, deafness, a certain disease such as multiple sclerosis. Most people with BIID hide it from their friends and family like a shameful secret, since most react negatively. Some are “wannabes” and pretend to have a disability, while others take measures to actually achieve the disability.

To me it’s comparable to being transgendered, feeling the need to become another gender. BIID is extreme body modification - going way beyond a tattoo or lip piercing. Just think - that person you see at the mall in a wheelchair - he or she may be able-bodied, but feels more comfortable getting around in a chair.

I told a friend of mine about the documentary, and she got really excited that I had seen it. She asked what I thought. I said, “Well sure I get it - I mean it’s strange to think of a person who doesn’t feel complete until they remove one of their legs, but hey. Of course, I don’t know anyone personally with BIID.”

“Yes you do,” she said.

It turns out a friend of ours has BIID.

His desire is to have his right leg paralyzed from the knee down. He planned on paralyzing it himself at home, and he let me watch him do it.

Here is what he needed in order to pull it off: a syringe, saline and Everclear. Injecting the Everclear straight could cause tissue death, so it needed to be diluted.

I watched as his mixed the alcohol with saline (do I need to tell you not to try this at home?) and filled up the syringe with the solution. He injected it into an area right below his knee.

“If he misses and hits a vein, he’ll just get a buzz!” my friend explained as we watched, eating chips and dip.

The first dose didn’t do anything, so he tried a second shot. This time his leg went numb, and gave him the effect he was after. His foot went floppy.

Happy, he stumbled out of the room to put on his leg brace. Five days later, and he reports that the leg is still without sensation. He’s hoping the treatment lasts at least six months (the nerves eventually repair themselves.) Oh, and he’s going to do the other leg, too.

I get so excited when something freaks me out, and I found a documentary that totally pulled this off. It’s called Guys & Dolls, and is about men who have relationships with doll women. They’re called “Real Dolls” and are billed as “the world’s finest love doll.”

Here is a link to the full documentary - I highly recommend it. You can order your own Real Doll here.

Here are the notes I took while watching it:

1. I’ll bet my guy wishes I had a removable tongue like these Real Dolls do.
2. Seems like a better deal than a mail order bride - you don’t have to deal with language barriers. Or feelings.
3. The men in this video seem to suffer from Peter Pan sydrome - they never grow up. They latch on to inanimate things since they can’t handle a real relationship. They live with their parents and collect model airplanes, never left home, preserve a dead mother’s room right down to making sure her watch is still keeping the correct time (”Psycho,” anyone?) Thank god these guys have real dolls - they can’t function in society. I’m glad they have found happiness somewhere.
4. A quote from the film: “She just lies there, but if you don’t mind that, then they’re good fun.” So is this like necrophilia, only instead of being with a dead person, you’re with a person who never was alive?
5. One guy basically says that his doll is his security blanket, that he goes out and sees attractive women and considers them unobtainable, but finds comfort in knowing that he has his doll waiting for him at home.
6. It reminds me of the book “The Collector” by John Fowles. Too bad that serial killer didn’t have a Real Doll!
7. One guy says his problem with humans is that the relationships are temporary, that he feels safer getting attached to objects. True, it’s much easier to control the things that surround you than people.
8. One guy says that the reason why he can’t be with real women is that he’s too ugly - bad skin and teeth, too skinny… um Stephen Hawking gets laid for chrissake. He even had an affair with his nurse.
9. One guy compares women to meat.
10. There is one huge advantage to having sex with a doll as one guy points out - no STDs or fear of pregnancy. And you never get lied to again. He said it’s like you’re your own God, you set the scene and don’t have to consider anyone else’s feelings or interests. Nice.
11. He suggested that before you criticize it, you should try it yourself, hanging out with and having sex with a doll. Sure, I’d try it.
12. So cool that we got to go into the doll factory and look around! The woman at the factory said that some men order pregnant real dolls, super hairy dolls, and one guy ordered an 80 year old looking doll. Man it would be way more fun to work in that factory than in say, the Build-A-Bear factory.
13. So why is this a male phenomena? Surely there are lonely immature women out there, too, right? NOTE: There is a documentary I’m still hunting down called “My Fake Baby” about women who adopt real-looking baby dolls.
14. Those dolls do have gorgeous bods, I’ll give them that!
15. One guy pretty much says that he’s a misunderstood superhero, that women just don’t appreciate his special ways.
16. I got a kick out of the guy clothes shopping for his doll - wow, they ARE life size Barbies!
17. I find it ironic that the guy who wants the more expensive wigs so that the hair looks more realistic because the “more realistic the girl is, the better the sex is” has the dolls with the fake porn star look - the hugest tits and tiniest waists.
18. Would I be with a guy who has one of these real dolls? Sure, as long as my needs were met. Would I be with a guy who had eight of these dolls stashed all over the house like one guy in the film did? Um no, that’s a little too John Wayne Gacy for me.
19. When a guy’s doll has to go away for a few weeks for repair, he says, “We will miss each other.” That is so sweet/cute - I like pretending my sock monkeys are real and that they have personalities. Only I don’t want to fuck them.
20. The doll repairmen mutters, “I’m running out of vaginas.” HAHAHAHA
21. I like how all the dolls have a hook in the back of their neck. The shots of the dolls being suspended, their feet dangling - very dead meat-like.
22. There should be a movie called “Mike and the Eight Dolls,” a remake of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” Except in this one the dwarves are whores.
23. So….HOW often do you clean these gals?
24. These guys were super brave and it was very good of them to open their lives up to us see we could spy on their lives. Fabulous.

The bottom line is that they are not hurting anyone, and they are as happy as they can be given their circumstances, and that’s good. But it still blows my mind - YESSSS!

It may shock some of you, but I prayed the other day. I had one more abortion aftercare sheet lying around from my abortion I wanted to send to some junk mail solicitor, and as I checked the mailbox, I prayed for a realllly good piece of junk mail. You know, something better than an insurance pitch or pre-approved credit card application.

My prayer was answered.

This what was in my box.

I sent them this:

* Be sure and check out the makeover my daughter gave Jesus on the Kiddo page of this blog.

Guess what?

I’m still pregnant!

Aw fuck I’m just messin’ with ya. I’m just half pregnant — sortof pregnant, if you will.

You know how I got an abortion last month? Well, I went in for my check up and I’m still testing positive on the pregnancy test. Sheesh, it’s been over a month now, you’d think the ol’ hormone well would’ve dried up by now.

I told my guy this and he said dryly, “So when is the due date?”

God I hope I don’t have half a baby in there. I have an ultrasound scheduled in a couple weeks. In the meantime, I’ll knit one baby bootie. Just in case.

OK here’s something to lighten the mood a bit. My friend showed me this trick that works well for parties and grade school functions.

Take a pen and draw on your finger, like so.

Stick finger in pants, like so.

Wait, no, more like this, use knuckle.

Ahhh, yes. Now that’s a tadger to be proud of.

Me: You finally got a butt plug up your ass!

Him: Yeah, and I didn’t whine as much about it as you did.

Me: You took it like a Desert Storm Trooper, honey.

Him: Then again, I have a bigger ass than you.

Me: No kidding, I heard you shit babies.

Him: Did I say that? No, I think it’s more like baby legs. My shits look like chubby little baby legs.

Me: Please stop right now.

I woke up on the morning of my scheduled abortion and my beau joked, “Today is your big day!”

Honestly, I was looking forward to it. I had felt like shit for the past month, barely able to function from the nausea and loss of energy, and was eager to get it over with. The clinic actually made me wait a couple weeks longer to get it done, so the egg sac would be big enough to locate. I was going in 8 weeks pregnant.

My man dropped me off and then went to play a few rounds of golf. Just kidding. We passed through security (no protesters again!) and they searched our bags. We sat in the waiting room. He graded papers. I knitted. There were more men there with their partners this time, but at least three of the dudes were sleeping. I heard several different languages being spoken.

I got called in to pay for the procedure ($240), then got sent out to wait again. It wasn’t long before they called me back in along with five other girls. They were all in their early 20’s; four were African-American, one was Eastern European. Herd-like we followed the nurse to a locker room where we all changed into hospital gowns and these awful paper bag slippers. Those slippers were the worst part of the experience.

We were given a Valium and Ibuprofen. Then we were told to go to a waiting room/holding pen, where FUCKING MONTEL WILLIAMS was on TV again, berating some 15 year old for smoking pot (2nd worst part of the experience).

The Eastern European girl was terrified. She mentally latched on to me and said in a tiny broken voice, “Are you scared?”

“No. I’ve been pregnant before and I’ve had a D&C, and this is not as big a deal as people make it out to be.” I was trying to reassure her; hopefully I didn’t trivialize her fear.

“Why you get abortion?” she asked me.

I shrugged. “It’s just not the right time for me. I haven’t been with my partner long enough and we want more time to get to know each other.”

She said, “I’ve never done this before. I don’t believe I am here.”

I felt so bad for her. She was like a little injured bird sitting there hunched over (3rd worst part of the experience). The other girls filed in and had a seat. None of them seemed particularly worried.

Then a chipper volunteer came in, a woman in her mid-4o’s. She introduced herself as Maggie and said, “I will be here to help each of you through it. Yes, it does hurt, but most girls walk out of here thinking it wasn’t as bad as they thought it was going to be. No matter what you’re feeling right now, it’s OK.” Oh good, we have an abortion buddy.

Eastern European bird girl started to cry, and Maggie went and sat next to her and held her hand. Fucking Montel Williams blabbed away in the background.

“Now tell me,” Maggie said, leaning forward earnestly, “What’s your name, and what are you going to do for birth control?”

Three of the African-American girls had the same first name, let’s say LaTonya. LaTonya1 one said she wanted to get her tubes ties. She had one kid and was 21. Um, good luck with that.

LaTonya2 wanted to get a Nuva Ring. “Good!” Maggie approved.

I piped up. “Doesn’t that cause blood clots or something?”

“Yeah, right!” Maggie pshawed.

“Well my friend went into the ER one time with a blood clot in her brain and she was using the Nuva Ring. She almost died.”

“Well the blood clot was caused by something else, not her birth control,” Maggie decided dismissively. (I have no doubt my friend will be commenting on this post.)

Brandy wanted to get an IDU. “An IUD?” Maggie offered.

I said, “What’s the difference between an IUD with hormones and without?”

Maggie said, “The one with hormones works better.”

I said, “But I heard that can cause spotting for months at a time and make you break out.”

“Where do you get your information?” she asked sneering a bit.

“I do a lot of research and that’s what my gynecologist told me,” I answered.

LaTonya3 said she wanted to get her tubes tied, too. She was 24 and had two kids. I told her she’d probably need to ask around to find a doctor who would do it, that I had a friend who was young and wanted a vasectomy and it took him seeing three doctors to find one who would snip him kidless at age 24.

Then it was my turn. I told Maggie I planned on using condoms and spermicide, that I had been on the pill for 15 years and went off it to take a break. “And now look where you are!” she exclaimed triumphantly. Um, good point.

“But I don’t think it’s healthy to ingest artificial hormones for years and years, it’s kind of unnatural.”

“Well do you know what they call women who use condoms and spermicide for birth control?” Maggie said, then gave a pregnant (HA!) pause before announcing smugly, “Mothers!”

I shot back, “But this way the man shares in the birth control and for that matter, why the hell can’t the man take a pill and deal with weight gain and break outs and mood swings?!”

Everyone laughed. Maggie declared, “Well that’s not going to happen. You should just go back on the pill.”

Poor terrified Eastern European bird woman didn’t even get a turn to say what she was going to use (I’m guessing she’ll never let a dick near her again and I found myself trying to imagine her having sex in the first place) because the nurse called her name. Maggie went with her.

This left the rest of us to chat among ourselves. LaTonya2 said she had been there the year before for an abortion, and that her sister just came last week and paid $1000 because she was 5 months along. We were all horrified by this, and one girl said, “That far along? You should just have it!”

“My sister be trippin’,” LaTonya2 explained.

Another girl said people were telling her to consider adoption. She sputtered in disbelief. “I ain’t carrying a baby nine months and then giving it away!”

Another told of how she came last week for her pre-appointment, but she had left her ID at home and had to go back and get it. The abortion protesters cheered and clapped, and she assured them, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

Next they called my name. YESSSSS. I didn’t want to wait around.

I went into the exam room and got up on the table. The nurse prepped the supplies, and I asked, “Is my doctor male or female?”

“Female,” she replied.

PHEW. I knew they had four or five doctors and one of them was some dude who had been doing it for 30 years, and while that’s all well and good, I just didn’t want some old guy doing my abortion.

The doctor came in and she was totally cool and young and pretty. Pill pusher Maggie came in and stood by my head and held my hand. They asked if I had any questions and I said, “Does it really take only two minutes?”

They said yep.

“Just tell me everything you’re doing.”

I assumed the position with my feet in the stirrups and the doctor put a speculum in my vagina to get access to my cervix. I don’t think the valium had really kicked in yet, but I knew they were going to inject a local anaesthetic into my cervix. (They offer an IV sedation for extra, but I didn’t want that.)

I offered to donate the material they gathered to science, but they told me there wasn’t enough there at this stage. It would just be discarded.

Sure enough, the whole thing took about two minutes. I felt my cervix being stabbed and/or a sharp pain about five times, and it did fucking hurt (4th worst part of the experience), but I had a death grip on Maggie’s hand. As soon as they injected my cervix I felt the medicine go straight to my head, whoosh, and I got a little zooty then. I mean I could feel things and ask questions, but some of the words came out wrong.

“Boy am I glad you’re here!” I gasped to Maggie, who looked down at me kindly. I couldn’t believe she took time out of her day to help women out like this. I felt grateful for her presence, even if she did seem more concerned about preventing future pregnancies than a woman’s health and well-being.

The doctor widened my cervix and inserted an - I kid you not - hand held turkey baster, and sucked out the unwanted contents of my uterus. No whirring machine, no scraping instruments. “The dentist is worse than this!” I said between winces, and “Hell I’ve had a baby, I can handle this!” I was a brave girl.

The doctor pulled away and said all chipper, “That’s it.”

“That’s it?!” I exclaimed. I did it.

Then I asked my bravest question yet. “Can I see what you sucked out of me?”

I had looked online beforehand and had seen all the gruesome bloody shots and mutilated body parts, but I wanted to see it for myself, with my own eyes. I was seriously dreading looking, but wanted to bear witness. I was expecting a pan full of blood, some stuff that looked like raw liver, and maybe a gross little alien bubbling in the gore croaking out, “Mama?”

“Sure!” the doctor said, and she came around the sheet draped over my legs and showed me the little plastic tupperware container that held the abortion. And do you know what it looked like? Half a cup of egg whites with some brown bits in it. It wasn’t even bloody.

“That’s it?!” I exclaimed in astonishment.

“That’s it!” She swirled it around so I could see better. I looked harder, expecting to see at least a leg or something.

“But where’s the fetus?!” This was blowing my mind.

“Right now it’s too small to see with the naked eye,” the doctor explained. “What you’re seeing is mostly the egg sac.”

“And this is what it normally looks like?”

“At 8 weeks, sure.”

“Well HELL! If THIS is what they put on those abortion signs, people would be thinking ‘omelette,’ not ‘baby killer‘!”

I thanked them for their help, put on my maxi-pad, and the nurse walked me to the recovery room. I was still stunned, but read my book. A couple other women were also in the recovery room in reclining chairs looking exhausted.

A nurse came by and offered me a heating pad, Sierra Mist and cookies. Nice!

I hung out in the spa for about 15 minutes, then went and got dressed and discarded those fucking awful paper bag slippers. They sent me home with a bag of antibiotics and three months worth of birth control pills. (I’m not supposed to put anything in my vagina for a week. OK, maybe THIS was the worst part of the experience.)

I came out to the waiting room and my guy looked up at me with concern. “Boy do I have a surprise to tell you,” I said in amazement. His eyes widened. He was getting a little wary of my “surprises.”

We were there for a total of two hours. I thought I’d be down for the count at least for the day, but I felt fine. Afterwards we had sushi and went shopping. My guy wanted to stop in at Sports Authority to look at exercise equipment, and I said, “I’m not really comfortable going into a sports store.”

His reply to that? “Well, I’m not really comfortable going to abortion clinics, so come on.”

Dunno if it was psychological, but I felt instantly better. That evening I got my taste for coffee and booze back. I finally started cleaning the house after neglecting it for days.

And hey, here is what one pro-life website has to say about the aftereffects abortion:

Abortion procedures vary according to the stage of pregnancy. Each procedure is painful for both the mother and her unborn baby. After an abortion, many women experience one or more of the following consequences, some of which may take several years to surface.

Physical:
- Excessive bleeding, may require blood transfusions.
- Perforated uterus or damage to other organs.
- Chronic and acute infections.
- Intense pain.
- Incomplete removal of baby or placenta.
- High fever, convulsions, shock, coma.
- Increase in miscarriages, ectopic (tubal) pregnancies, premature births, and stillbirths.
- Irregular pap smears; breast cancer.
- Infertility.
- Death.

I haven’t taken so much as an Advil, and I stopped bleeding the next day.

I want to hear from other women who have had abortions. What was it like for you? Did you look at what came out of you? Please post comments (you can use an alias) or email me at love [at] thebeautifulkind . com

Makes my abortion seem pretty trivial in comparison, doesn’t it?

Stay tuned for the exciting climax of Abortion Week tomorrow!

I will write

All.

About.

My.

Awesome.

Abortion.

The short of it: they’re fucking nuts.

Check out the Army of God site for proof.

I didn’t run into any at my pre-abortion appointment (I hear they gather at the clinics on Fridays and Saturdays during better weather, and I went on a Tuesday and it was gloomy and cold), but when I went with a friend 15 years ago, they were out in full force and completely freaky and disturbing. I wonder how effective they really are - how many pregnant women change their mind and have the baby instead, when confronted with gang bangers screaming bible verses.

A friend of mine shared this experience with me:

I recently accompanied an African-American friend of mine for her abortion. The anti-abortion activists, for some reason, believed I was the potential mother and she was the friend. Of course it was the little white girl who was pregnant, not the bodacious black one with child-bearing hips and a volcanic bootie shake.

She lost the knob to reposition her car seat and had to look for it while these possessed, white, wide-eyed freaks surrounded by their toddlers and preschoolers approached, serenading me with crackly voices. “Jesus loves your unborn son or daughter. Jesus will show you the way.”

Some twangy, out-of-tune stringed instrument, a banjo?, played a distorted Kumbaya tune, and the background to their concrete stage consisted of larger-than-adult-sized pictures depicting fetuses that never developed skin, had dislocated limbs, their bodies traumatized from their grand exit.

A woman with long, curly red hair, holding a baby who faced those grotesque signs yelled out at me. Their voices were disturbingly in unison, all about Jesus. I wanted to shout out “What’s Jesus doing for the mothers and babies dying in Africa of AIDS? What’s Jesus doing for the parents of babies in East St. Louis?” I didn’t. I pictured the burning crucifix in the movie Carrie. I pictured the psychopathic antagonist in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I saw the white coats of doctors who perform abortions stained with blood from bullets. “Jesus will show you the way!” the wide-eyed freaks shouted. “You will regret this the rest of your life!”

It doesn’t matter what the issue is. I never want to be on their side.