Fallout.

So, I’m cruising through a stock photography site today, searching under the word “Security.” Along with the standard lock-n-key images is a picture of an 8-year-old girl loading a rifle. Ummmm, That doesn’t sound very secure at all, to me.

I attended a party thrown by my oldest friend this weekend. I mentioned casually to her a while ago that I really wanted to get together with her soon, since babies are on the horizon. At the party, she asked me what was going on with the whole “procreation” project. I told her that I was actually just getting off the pill. For the rest of the night, every single person there announced, and continued shouting that “These guys are totally making babies tonight!” More than a little awkward. And luckily, what with the amount I was drinking, decidedly untrue.

How untrue? Well, if I may be perfectly frank, I’m currently experiencing my first off-the-pill-period in over a decade. And it’s just as horrifying as I remember. Allow me to backtrack.
My older sister never really had issues. Sure some cramps, and she’s ALWAYS been queen of the overly dramatic and moody set. But, that was pretty much it. For me and my younger sister (who would probably be THRILLED to know I was talking about her menstruation to strangers) our “monthly bill” consists of 14 days of debilitating cramps, the kind that make you vomit from pain, a complete inability to stop crying/yelling, a lack of coordination or any concept of where the body begins and ends, and nonstop flood of funkiness. So, when I started having sex, I was all too happy to jump on the pill and enjoy 4 days a month of light cramping. Then when they figured out safe ways to only menstruate every few months, you can bet I was ALL over that.
I got on the pill at age 14 and never looked back. I didn’t get the nasty side effects, aside from maybe some weight gain (arguably due to not being anorexic anymore) and the fabulous side effect: better skin. I mean really, why would I ever get off the pill?
Oh yeah, to make babies with the cutest man alive. Who now gets to deal with my horrendous hormonal shifts? Oh, Xtian is a lucky, lucky man. Or something…

Being of Mormon upbringing does something to your psyche. No matter how long you’ve been out from under it, some things never leave you. For me: a need to stock food, a ridiculous screaming need to procreate (biological clock? Been hearing mine ticking loudly since I was 19), and the urge to make a casserole anytime anyone is having a hard time.
I’ve needed to make babies for as long as I can remember. As my other former coworker friend Jen says, “Coley wants a murder of children,” using the whole flock of geese, murder of crows verbiage. It’s because she’s funny like that. And frankly, my desire for more children than can comfortably sit in an extended van, is borderline suicidal anyway.
At any given time, I have enough food in my kitchen to feed no fewer than 30 people. Food I don’t even like, MUST be on hand. I don’t know what circumstances would arise that I, personally, would be responsible to feed the entire neighborhood. But whatever it is, I’m ready.
Mormons believe strongly in the curative powers of white trash food. Any dish that is baked at 375 degrees until gold and bubbly, contains: cream of mushroom soup, crumbled potato chips, sour cream, and/or cheddar cheese will take care of whatever ails you. And every time I hear of someone’s hard time, they’re sick, a relative died, new baby, their football team lost, little Johnnie’s first day of school sucked, whatever, I’m already in the kitchen attempting to pull together some white-trash mayonnaise infused dish to bring over the suffering party. And frankly, this should be stopped. People of non-Mormon upbringings don’t quite get it, and usually are rather disturbed when a vague acquaintance appears at their door with iffy looking food.

Alright, I have no excellent close for this thing, as per usual. So, instead, I will just end it.