Saturday I’m packing my overnight bag, and I can’t find my Not Getting Pregnant pills. They’re in the same bag as a box of All-Bran and a bottle of moisturizer–the basics for a hot-n-horny night of sweet, sweet lovin’. My apartment has four rooms. The bag should be obvious.
Two hours later, I’m on the phone with a pharmacist, begging like a toddler in the toy section for a replacement pack. She says, “You LOST your PILLS? You know your health insurance probably won’t cover another pack.”
“It’s OK. I don’t mind paying the full price.”
“What if you find your other ones?”
“I’ll save them for next month.”
“Well, we don’t usually …”
“I will not sell them on the streets.”
“Yes, but we’re not supposed to …”
“I’m MOVING and I’m getting MARRIED and I CAN’T FIND ANYTHING. Those pills are in a bag with a huge box of cereal, and I CAN’T FIND THEM. They are not turning up. They are not just under the car seat. Please. Help. Me.”
“I’m putting in the computer that you’re in the store. They’ll be ready in 30 minutes.”
An hour later, I’m walking back into my apartment, new bag o’ pills in hand. I reach down to toss Henry the Wünderdog’s blanket into the laundry basket.
And there they are.
My dog has been sleeping on my pack of birth control pills for almost a week.
Way to guard Mommy’s virtue, Henry. Good dog.
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