April 22, 2013 § 40 Comments
Thanks, Ben and Mollie.
You caused this.
There it was, in my inbox this morning, your little baby, the God particle of cuteness, estrogenic kryptonite.
Smiling at me, waving his little hand.
The problem is, it wasn’t just me who saw him. My ovaries saw him, too.
“BABY CUTE BABY!” They shouted. “OH LOOK AT THE ADORABLE BABY!”
“Don’t even think about it,” I told them.
“BABY BABY BABY! Come on, let’s go out and find the nearest wiener!”
“No, we will not find the nearest wiener,” I told my ovaries firmly, and not just because I live in LA off Lincoln Blvd, and the nearest wiener would no doubt be high and stealing a car.
“But we can do it! We can have a baby! We’ve still got it!”
“No you don’t still got it. You look like two old Pomeranian testicles.”
“You’re wrong!” insisted Ovary #1, clearly the leader of the two. “Just give us a shot of adrenaline like the chick who overdosed in Pulp Fiction. That’ll bring us around!”
“No one’s bringing anyone around. Now just pretend you never saw that baby and let me get back to the career I’ve always put first.”
But it was too late. My ovaries went on a rampage, stealing a convertible and screeching away.
I turned on CNN and a grim-faced reporter was announcing: “Two ovaries of a certain age are on the loose in LA.”
“Ahhh,” I said to myself. “They’re not going to like that.”
I called my mother.
“My ovaries saw a picture of a cute baby and now they are on a rampage,” I told her.
“But what do they want?”
“To have a baby of their own.”
“I’ll send them guns and money,” she said.
“No, you are not going to send my ovaries guns and money.”
Half an hour later, another breaking news report flashed across the screen. My ovaries were barricaded in a sperm bank in Culver City, Mayhem Capital of the World.
I hurried over there to find a female police officer shouting through a megaphone for their surrender.
“Those are my ovaries in there,” I said.
“Well, your ovaries are both assholes. They’ve tangled up LA into a hopeless traffic jam and that wasn’t supposed to happen until 10 AM.”
“I’m terribly sorry. They saw this ridiculously cute baby and they lost their minds.”
I showed her the picture. She stared at it. Immediately two wet spots appeared in the fabric covering her nipples.
“OH MY GOD,” she said. “BABY CUTE BABY!”
She threw down her megaphone and police badge and ran down the street. In the distance I saw her tackle a young man on a bicycle and drag him into the bushes.
I picked up the megaphone.
“It me, ovaries,” I shouted. “Surrender peacefully. You’re embarrassing me and that’s saying a lot for someone from Texas.”
“We were just picking out the father on the database,” they called back.
“Such pretty eyes!” called the other.
“You don’t want a baby. They do other things besides look cute. They keep you up all night and scream and do things to diapers that cause PTSD in three out of ten new mothers.”
“Lies!” They shouted. “Modern babies don’t even go to the bathroom. We’ve seen them on the internet and all they do is gurgle and smile all day and wave their rattles around and sometimes make cameo appearances in precious interspecies videos. Their cute little toes are cool as grapes and their heads smell like powdered bacon!”
“You have been brainwashed, you two wrinkled idiots!” I screamed through the megaphone diplomatically. “Their heads do not smell like powdered bacon!”
“BABY CUTE BABY!”
Things were clearly spinning out of control. I had no choice. I took out my cell phone and made a call. “Sarah,” I said. “Text me a picture of your teenagers, will you?”
An hour later, I was driving back home with the two ovaries slumped disconsolately in the back.
The LA authorities had decided not to pursue the matter. “If we put every rampaging, cute-baby-addled ovary in jail, we’d be a nation of incarcerated ovaries,” said the Chief of Police. “Also, I agree with Lord Grantham from Downton Abbey that discussion of female reproduction is icky.”
The ovaries were sullen, silent as I turned down our street.
“That was a dirty trick,” one said. “Showing us the teenager picture, where they’re flipping off the camera and wearing DIE MOM t-shirts.”
“That was taken in church,” I said.
“Baby,” they said. “Babycutebaby…” but their voices were growing fainter, less certain.
“We still got it,” they mumbled sleepily as I helped them into bed.
“Of course, ovaries,” I said, looking at them fondly, these two hapless old renegades forever hot-wired by pudgy fists and dimples.
“You still got it.”