Our Little Incident.*

Based on recent political events in this fine country of ours, I've decided to share a heartwarming, life-affirming story that will surely make my Mom so very glad that she and Terry had a "do-over" by producing another child 11 years later and not just the one. Mom, look! Steve's at Annapolis! Go Navy!

A while ago (or maybe it was today- who can say? I'm forgetful), I was in need of a special dessert treat that's super easy & fun for all your holiday parties called RU 486, or, Plan B.

By the way- thanks to whatever smartass frat-trash-cum-pharmacuetical-exec guy that thought up that catchy, kitschy little moniker because I surely appreciate your fey wit when I'm terrfied that there's a fucking fetal-alcohol syndrome infused infant brewing up my raw vaginal canal after a night of faulty prophylactics and poor choices. Keep it white at the Sig Ep reuniuon, "Todd". Bros before hos!

I digress.

I live in a very neighborhood-y neighborhood here in lovely Brooklyn. It's full of lots of Italian and Middle Eastern families that have been here for years and own all the street level businesses that are strewn up and down my block (this also means there are lots of artsy yuppies with ergonomic strollers and adorable expensive pure-bred lap dogs and genetically superior infants that speak French fluently at 3 years old that are shod in $100 gold Dankso clogs and also, me). I know all of the people whose businesses I frequent personally on a first name basis. I love that when I call the pet food store, Mohammed asks after Nigel and puts an extra mousie toy in the cat food deilvery bag,or that when I call the laundromat to have my laundry picked up for washing Sal asks how I've been. I adore that familiarity. However, it's also somewhat daunting at times. This is why recently I started buying my "grown-ass lady sex tramp" supplies at the ultra fab drugstore.com. I know, I'm a wuss and I give my female friends high-brow uppity talks all the time about not having hangups and taking charge of their sexuality. So I'm a hypocrite, yes. But I also like to pick my battles and in this case, I don't want to win the "HEY EVERYONE ON BROOKLYN'S UBER HIP SMITH STREET RITEAID LOCATION #276 I'M GETTING FUCKED TONIGHT! MAKE THAT TWO BOXES OF MAGNUMS FOR ME! AW, YEAH! SILKY SILKY NOW!" battle.

I have a form of epilepsy called partial seizure disorder, which means I've had maybe 2 major seizures ever, all when I was in the fifth level of hell also known as grad school, and none of that ilk since, give or take (not counting when I saw Ron Weasley in a tank top in the new Harry Potter movie- ay-o! Who let Ed McMahon in here and where are his trousers?). As such I had to take anti-seizure medication called Lamictal daily and developed a close realtionship with the entire aforementioned Rite-Aid pharmacy staff family. Close like, I know the names of one of the women's kids and also that one of them is a holy terror, and of course you all know he's my favorite to ask after.

Back to the lecture at hand, Snoop. First thing after the special sharing and caring episode that could potentially result in a squalling newborn, I called my ob-gyn and frantically explained the situation. He (yep, male gyno who also- no lie- happens to be an orthodox Jew- this is why I live in New York) was nice enough to let me know which places by me carried this controversially awesome little problem solver. HINT: Starts with Rite ends with Aid and is on "Brooklyn's Hippest Destination, trendy Smith Street!!!". Due to the time issue, I didn't have the option to go to the wonderful Planned Parenthood and beg their annonymous, non-neighborhood chum mercy so...I sucked it up and like a big girl who attempts responsibility when sober, headed out to RiteAid with my game face on.

I would like to now tell you how it feels to go to your down-home corner pharmacy to pick up Plan B. Your NEIGHBORHOOD pharmacy where they offer you Christmas cookies and wave at you when you pass on the street and they're on a smoke break. MAGICAL. Extra points if you show up with huge dark circles under your eyes, reeking of cigarette smoke because you've been trying to calm yourself down from the stress by smoking a shitload of Lucky Strikes. Why not go for the gusto and, when you're reaching in your bag to flash your insurance card, knock out not only a stray condom but a fucking Miller Hi-Life (The Champagne of Beers, really people) twist off cap right onto the counter? Watch the cashier with the son who frequently pulls his pants down at school assemblies look that cap as it skitters across the counter and rests by the cash register which is flanked by some blood pressure pamphlets. Watch closer and you can actually see that miniscule twitch when what she thinks of you changes and she makes the choice to never make small talk with you again, you drunk fucking whore. Take your bag of slut anitidote and beat it.

Now people, after that how can anyone not be pro-choice? Because seriously, who thinks Barber should have a kid? Show of hands? No? Didn't think so. Tell your senators to support RU 486, and make sure to write graphic sexual entries in a public internet forum so your Mom can cry about what a fuck off you are again. PEACE.

*I almost titled this entry "My Chemical Romance" but then I realized I don't get paid to write smarmy photo captions for TimeOut New York. YET.