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Blackballed from the Secret Society of the Uterus

In the aftermath of yesterday’s events, Andra is feeling a bit out of sorts, so I am honoring her sacrifice by putting up one of her all-time favorite posts, this farce on The Secret Society of the Uterus. If there is one genre of theater that Andra loves to perform in more than any other, it is the good old British farce. As an actress she can certainly play any of these roles, and I have had the singular pleasure of hearing her sound them out in her very own voice. The post was part of a series: if the repartee strikes a chord, please follow the link to this post and read forward.

The Secret Society of the Uterus: A Farce

The Cast of Characters:
I can’t WAIT to have something in my Uterus!
Look what I have in my Uterus RIGHT NOW!
You’ll never believe what just popped out of my Uterus!
You’re all rank amateurs. Let me tell you what’s walking and talking outside my Uterus!
Dear God, is it a sick, twisted joke that you even gave me a Uterus?

—–Curtain Rises——

Thanks for meeting me here today, everybody. I thought it might be fun to have lunch with you all because, well, I have an announcement. I……

OHMYGOD, my ovulation reminder just went off, and I’m ovulating RIGHT NOW, and I know you were just going to tell us about, um – something – but I ordered dude-in-my-life to meet me in the parking lot so we could have sex in the car AS SOON AS I GOT THIS REMINDER!

You know, if you try it upside-down, you have a better chance of conception. That’s what I did when I got the babe that just popped out of my Uterus. I think I spent so much time upside-down I staunched the blood flow to my head for, like, a couple of months. It makes my eye twitch. All the time. There. It’s doing it again. My eyeball. Do you see it?

Um, no. I don’t see anything………

What I can’t believe is that some geek can’t invent a gadget that can live stream the action that’s going on in my Uterus as we speak. I mean, look at this ultrasound shot. That profile. Doesn’t she look just like me? Right there? That nose? It’s mine, isn’t it?

Um, it all looks sort of, um, murky and….

She? Why would you find out what you’re having? I waited until the delivery room with all five of mine, and I’m so glad I did.

I’M STILL OVULATING OVER HERE!

Upside-down. It’s the only way I’m going to do it when I’m cleared to get busy. Hey, didn’t you just say something about having sex in a car in the parking lot? Which car?

Ow, the kid just kicked me in the bladder. Off to the bathroom. Again. The travails of those of us who have Something in our Uterus………

Thank God she’s gone. I mean, it’s only her first one. Wait ‘til the fifth. I can’t believe she is complaining about her need to pee. I’m not discounting your loss of blood to the head, Dear, but let ME tell you about my fourth pregnancy, the one where the kid almost ripped out my -

No, wait. I CANNOT hear about that right now. The trauma to my Uterus is all too recent. I almost died when they came in with that sharp -

I know exactly the thing you mean. When they put that on my -

Um, that sounds. Um, really bad. Um……great! Here’s our food! Let’s eat…..

I cannot believe how much water one body can make. Whew! So, really, why can’t some gadget guru build something that I can hook into my phone so that I can show everyone, everywhere, what’s going on in my Uterus? I bet I’d get thousands of hits a day on the internet. 

WAIT! Your live-streaming idea. I wonder if anyone would want to see the Actual Merging of Particles in my Uterus? I bet LOTS of people would like to see how THAT happens.

I’m sure they would. It’s called pornography.

THE CONCEPTION OF MY CHILD IS NOT PORNOGRAPHY!  YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND THE UTERUS! I’M LEAVING. RIGHT NOW! BECAUSE OHMYGOD I’M OVULATING!  (Storms off.)

Good riddance to her. She’ll never have five children if she keeps up the Drama Queen routine.

Potty break! (Exits)

Hey. Isn’t that her ovulation calculator there on the table? She might need that later. I think I’ll take it out to her.

I bet she’s not doing it upside-down…let’s go make sure! (They exit)

Um, so, about my announcement….

—-Curtain—-

Can I Send You Some Cootchie?

Whether you’re new around these Cootchie-fied parts or not, you might have noticed some *minor* alterations to the blog. Besides mixing up the writing, I’ve made a couple of changes to the layout. Please hang with me for a bit of technicality. You’ll get to cast a vote at the end. (And, we all know how much I value your votes. Readers voted for the blog’s current name – The Accidental Cootchie Mama.)

Down the right-hand side of the blog, I’ve reordered the boxes. The Kiss My Inbox Subscribe feature is now the first thing you should see, Dear Reader, right at the top of the page. To subscribe, point your mouse at “Kiss My Inbox” and enter your e.mail address, then click the button that reads “Sign me up!” If you haven’t subscribed, you need to do it now.

Let me tell you why.

Unless you’ve been visiting the planet Pluto over the past week, you’ve probably noticed that Facebook is making lots of changes to its platform, all in the name of enhancing things like “user experience” and “interaction.” What this probably means for you is one of two things: 1. You now avoid Facebook because you get a headache just looking at it; or 2. You spend time there but miss lots of things you used to see with regularity. In recent days, I’ve subscribed to many new blogs directly, blogs I used to read casually through links on Facebook, because I don’t want to miss posts I might like to read. I have a few more e-mails to deal with every day, but I’m not missing anything. Plus, I’m supporting people I’ve grown to like because of what they have to say. Regardless of what Facebook does in the future to further mystify the process of “user experience” and “interaction,” I’m plugged in to the things I care about outside the Facebook platform.

If you enjoy reading this blog or any other one out there, subscribing to it ensures that you see every post. You don’t have to open each e-mail, but  you can make your own reading decisions instead of having Facebook dictate whether or not you see things in the first place. Besides, you don’t want to miss chances to vote on important things, do you? And, speaking of voting……….

Me if I share your e-mail address with anyone. Ever.

In the upper-left hand corner of the blog, a new tab called “Featured Posts” offers some of my favorite entries of all time for new visitors who may want to get a feel for my writing. The scorching series I wrote a couple of weeks ago to explain why MTM and I don’t have kids is the only thing I’ve selected for the Featured Posts page. I think it’s some of the best writing I’ve ever done.

Once I start trying to choose additional posts, my brain freezes. It’s like being shown almost 600 pairs of shoes at one time and being asked to pick 10. IMPOSSIBLE for me.

Save me from myself, Dear Reader. What’s your favorite post I’ve ever written? Why did it stick with you? Even if you don’t remember the title, a few words about a meaningful post will get me cracking. And, in case you’re brand spanking new, here’s a short list of links to some other posts I like but don’t know if they are deserving of a feature. Maybe one of these will help even the newest reader cast a vote:

Please vote for your Featured Post by making a comment. To give you further incentive to vote, your name will be dropped in the pool for your very own Cootchie-fied post, similar to the ones I wrote last week for Anne Howe, Debbie Hennessy, Tori Nelson, Brett Myers and Angie Mizzell. (Make it hard for me, people. You five should vote, too, and force me to come up with ANOTHER story for you.)

Whether you click the Cootchie multiple times per day or grab it casually, I appreciate your reading this little blog.

I Had Children When I Was Two

This post is the last of a series. If the catchy title brought you here today, please follow the link to this post and read forward

Mommy says Don’t play in the corn field, Andra. She says she can’t see me in there. She likes seeing me. Not being able to see me is bad. I don’t like to be bad for Mommy.

But I like to hide. To run with no shoes and dig my feet in the dirt and move in and out of the tall stalkies and lie down between the rows. It’s soft and scoopey. It feels like my bed. My crib bed. Not my big-girl bed. It hurts to roll off my big-girl bed. When I lie on my back in the scoopey dirt, I can see through the stalkies all the way to heaven. I think I came from heaven. I can just barely remember it if I try real hard.

I feel wet on my face. Rain, rain, go away. Come a-gain a-no-ther day. Little Andra wants to play. I know if I sing it loud enough, God will hear me and make it stop raining. That’s what I’ll do on my way out of the stalkies………Rain, rain……….hm hmmhmmm……..hm hm-hmmm hm-hmmm-hmmmm hmm……Mommy? Are you there? The stalkies are bigger than me and they go on-and-on-and-on-and-on-and……..MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY! I’M LOST! I’m lost-and-dirty-and-wet-and-it’s muddy-and-I can’t see-anything-and-I’m tired-of-walking.

You don’t have to stay here, Andra. We can find the way out of the corn field.

Who ARE you? No little girls live around here. There’s only Robert across the road, but he’s a boy, and sometimes he’s mean. He taught me to pound my fork on the table and scream, “Where’s my supper?” but Mommy got mad when I did it for her.

I’m Ossie, and this is Palola.

Ooooooooh. You have funny names, too. I LIKE funny names. I have a funny name.

You named us.

I did not. 

Did to.

Did not.

Andra, you did. Don’t you remember? You dreamed up our names just now.

Huh? I’ve never-even-seen you before ever. You’re ugly with your pink hair, and Palola doesn’t even have any hair. You’re both uglies-uglies-uglies. Uglies and you talk funny. Like grown ups. Why do you talk like grown ups?

You decided all that. You made us. 

I DID NOT MAKE YOU! DID NOT DID NOT DID NOT!

Okay, your MIND made us. We’re imaginary.

You’re crazy is what you are! I’m telling my Mommy all about the crazy things you say!……..If I ever see my Mommy again. I think I’m going to be lost in the stalkies FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER.

We can find the way out of the corn field. I already told you that, Andra. Two years old, and already a drama queen.

Am not am not am NOT a drama queen!…………..What’s a drama queen?

It’s somebody with a hyperactive imagination who sometimes overreacts to things.

THAT’S NOT ME! TAKE IT BACK! IT SOUNDS BAD!

Andra, your imagination isn’t bad. It’s what you decide to do with it that can get you into trouble. But you made us. We’re your first creations, your first characters, your first children. By giving us a voice, you made us real.

So, I can make lots of you? As many of you as I want? For all time? Hm-hmmm-hmmmmm-hmm-hmmmm-hmm-hmm.

The rain stopped……there’s Mommy! I can’t wait to tell her that I’m going to make imaginary people real when I grow up. They will be the voices people need to hear, and I will give them life.

They will be my children.

All of them.

Every one.

Zen and the Art of Missing your Train

This doesn’t happen very often…Andra is out before me. Usually, she struggles to get to sleep, reading or writing late into the night. If there is one thing I am good at, it is falling asleep. If I am prone to do it, I can be in Dreamland before you can finish reading th

It seems to be a recurring theme, the leaving. Always running through waystations. All these grand halls sound the same, the staccato of heels echoing off impenetrable surfaces, the cacophonous murmer of unintelligible conversations. Is it that everyone is speaking in foreign tongues? The layering of voices overlap and interweave, the faceless sources unrecognizable yet familiar, like deja vu mind games. 

Moving through these scenes feels like a riding a mobius strip, a perpetual conveyor belt that threads through a labyrinth of concourses and atria. Up escalator becomes moving sidewalk becomes elevator then down escalator. Its like the space is folding upon itself, enveloping me in an origami of reflective terrazzo and glass.

Being caught in this prism multiplies everything I see and hear, making it all very disorienting. Is that my reflection? I look like I am a child again. Trick of the eye, I guess.

The only voices that I seem to understand are always announcing gates, arrivals, departures. And they are paging me. Have I missed my connection? What time is it? Where am I supposed to be? I’ve gotta hurry! It’d be much easier if I wasn’t going the opposite direction of everyone else.  M u s t   m o v e   f a s t e r .

MTM to Platform 4, MTM to Platform 4. Departure in two minutes”

Panic usually tastes of metal, like the fillings in my teeth, but in this place there is no such sensation. Only the echoing, the prisms, the kinetic frenzy. I keep catching my reflection out of the corner of my eye, but when I  turn to look I’m not there. I go around a corner and everyone is gone. It’s quiet. Another corner and suddenly I am back in the stream, but now everyone is going my way. The passage is narrowing and time is short as I try to fight my way to the front. Ahead is Platform 4; I can see it. The announcements continue but I’m not listening, focused on the glass door at the end of the passage.

“Last Call for Platform 4″

Just one more person to get ahead of, a little boy. I squeeze by just as I reach the door. I catch my reflection in the glass as I pass through it; where is the little boy?

The door slams shut. One seat is open. As the vessel lurches forward I slide in next to the girl by the window. “Hello” I say. “Hi” she says. It was a nice moment.

Dear Match.com

Welcome to Match.com! Please complete your profile information below so that we can introduce you to the Man of Your Dreams!

*Sigh*

Name:
Andra Watkins

Code Name:
CPA Lady (I know. Not sexy. Possibly male repellent.)

Address:
525 Hidden Boulevard, Mount Pleasant, South Carolina 29464 (1)

Email:
andracpa@aol.com (2)

Picture:
Uh-uh. No way. This town is too small for a photo. I am mortified that I am on this Site of the Desperate to Date in the first place. I’ve already identified about fifty people I know from their photos, which means they will know me, which further underscores my state of mortification.

Reason You’re Here:
I just got dumped after an almost four year relationship that I thought would culminate in marriage, babies and unending bliss. (Don’t print that.) I’m 32 but keep getting asked out by college students. While that’s flattering, because they’re college students (did I mention I’m 32?), going out with one of them didn’t work so well for me. We didn’t have that much to talk about, and I wasn’t into the beer bong. My other attempts at dating age-appropriate men were failures (guy who dropped out of seminary because he liked sex with men, because, really, I’m NOT a secret man; guy who insisted that we had to stop at his place because he ‘forgot something,’ only to come out in his underwear and insist we stay there – EWWWWW; and guy who was Swiss-Italian – exotic, THE ACCENT – but, at nine years younger than me and only here a year, not in the market for anything serious. It was fun, though.) I guess you’re going to make me admit I’m seeking something serious. With a man. Who likes women.

Age:
I already told you I am 32 and single. Must you keep making me repeat it?

Weight:
Seriously? Not overweight. How’s that?

Height:
5′ 7″

Education:
What does this question mean, exactly?
I went to college. I graduated. I have letters behind my name. None of this seems to impress men.

Religion:
Good grief.
I am Baptist. I respect just about any viewpoint, because arguing over faith issues is a waste of time. Nobody can prove what they believe is correct, because it is a faith issue, so I prefer to be respectful of different points of view. Does anyone on Earth see things that way anymore? Maybe just one guy? Who’s single and likes women? Answering this question is making my head hurt.

Children:
I have to decide how I feel about that right now? Okay. Let me back up. Perhaps, you’re asking whether I have any. NO. If I’m supposed to reveal whether I am a suitable mother for a potential mate’s babies, how am I supposed to know? I’ll just say that I think, for me, parenthood is a decision that should come from a void, a yearning to know a person that only I can create with someone I love and respect. I don’t feel that yearning to know this non-existent person today, but maybe I will someday. It’s hard to think about all that when I can’t even find an age-appropriate guy who’s gainfully employed, not abusive or controlling or a jerk, who likes women. Can we move on?

Profession:
Well, this one ought to make men FLOCK to my profile. I’m a CPA who runs a law firm. I tell lawyers what to do, every day, all day long. Translated: I am a ball-buster. According to the attorneys. They only put up with me because they make more money when they do what I tell them to do. (Do we really have to include this part? Can I just say I have a job? No? *Sigh*)

Interests:
I like theater, reading, travel, shoes, playing piano, singing, acting, writing in my journal, hanging out with my friends and taking baths. And yes, I realize this will match me with gay men, so let me also say – emphatically – that I like to have sex with men who like to have sex with women. Just in case your algorithms get confused.

Match.com is tabulating your information………………..We can’t WAIT to reveal your perfect Match!…………………

And, here he is, your PERFECT LOVE CONNECTION……………………

SERIOUSLY? This is my perfect match? The guy who came out in his underwear on a date with me?

$%^&*#$%@#^&%$#@#%&%$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

DELETE ACCOUNT.

(1) I no longer live at this address. Please do not put the people who now live there on junk mail lists and waste trees, paper and fossil fuel.
(2) Account no longer exists.

This post is part of a series. If the catchy title brought you here today, please follow the link to this post and read forward. And, stick around. There’s more to come.

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