Your mama don’t dance.

Thanks for your kind words about the HSG. And really? I’m glad that my post about this horrific thing was sort of funny. The funny is the only thing keeping me from taking to my bed and staying there for a very long time.

I didn’t even mention … the doctor? Was a tiny Asian man with chin-length hair. He was going for sort of a Johnny Depp thing. Except he was wearing these glasses. Not as protective eye wear, but as, like, a fashion statement.

It was like he needed a TV show, except that last Thursday, that TV show would have been called, “Let’s Torture Cha Cha and Her Ladyvagina.”

So, I’m still processing. It’s difficult for my not-so-inner overachiever to make peace with the fact that I don’t have to have a solid plan of action right this very damned second. It’s OK to take some time to think about whether I want to star in my own version of “Extreme Babymaking: Now With More Procedures and Hormones to Fuck You Up!” Or if I want to go all Angelina and adopt, like, 27 kids.

I had a realization today while performing 8 hours of copy / paste, copy / paste in my Cube of Despair at Mega Corporate Behemoth: If we adopt, it will cost, like, a gajillion dollars. So, I will have to keep working at Mega Corporate Behemoth.

I mentioned this at dinner to My Guy. His response? “Well, yeah, it is expensive. But working at Mega Corporate Behemoth isn’t the only way you could make money.”

As God / Allah / Oprah as my witness, right at that moment, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” came on the radio. I immediately began an oh-so seductive strip tease, pulling my tank top down while also still eating pasta salad.

It took My Guy a second to catch on. He laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess you could do that. But … this song is so overplayed at strip clubs. Why not some Loggins?”

So, yeah. My husband and I brainstormed for several minutes about how I could develop a niche strip club clientele by stripping exclusively to medleys of Kenny Loggins’ greatest hits. Highway to the danger zone, indeed!

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