Friday, November 26, 2010

Piss and Vinegar Tom

At MacGyver's family gatherings, there is a woman I avoid. She is MacGyver's dad's brother's wife's mother. This woman only sees me on Christmas Eve and the occasional Thanksgiving, she's not related to me, and I'm fairly sure she doesn't even know my name. However, she always demands to know when I'm going to make some babies.

Here's the thing: my biological clock is broken. I love my nieces and nephews and my friends' kids, but I have no desire to spawn my own. The ticking of MacGyver's biological clock is nearly deafening. It's a sad point of contention, and if anything ends our relationship, it's this.

So. Every time this woman asks me about subletting my womb, it is a pointed stick to my heart. No, Lady, I am not pregnant. I may never be pregnant. And there's a chance the love of my life may someday leave me because of it.

To amuse myself, while I avoid her I think of things I would like to say, but am too polite to say out loud.

She asks, "When are you going to have babies?" and I mentally reply:
-"No hablo ingl├ęs."
-"When I run out of 2-for-1 abortion coupons."
-"When I run out of wire coat hangers."
-"I'm barren, and your question deadens my soul."
-"Shut the fuck up."
-"When sleep and money lose their appeal."
-"When the novelty of aborting them wears off."
-"When I'm too drunk to remember the condom."
-"When the black market price of blue-eyed infants plummets."
-No words. Just a swift punch to the throat.

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