At Your Cervix

Because we've decided that five is simply one too many weddings to finance before we're forty-five, Donna has had an intrauterine device entrenched in defense of her fertile-as-the-Tenessee-River-valley uterus for a couple of years. Crammed in her cervix just like God intended. Or wherever it is they jam those things.

Sorry, I haven't had a close look for myself lately to know the specifics. Also, I don't think cram and jam are the exact terms that reproductive medical professionals use for this sort of installation. It does send and receive SMS messages though, so that's cool. At least, I presume that it does based on what our insurance company paid for it. I mean, for nine-hundred bucks, it had better have an IP address and run some flavor of UNIX.

Being the high-tech, bionic fishing lure that it is, the IUD requires some kind of regular maintenance. Lube and oil change, probably. So Friday Donna took it in for its fifty-thousand mile maintenance and to have her airbags safety inspected.

Ever since the first time we had sex after the IUD was implanted, I've complained that I can feel it poking my wiener during the sacred act. So much so that I am often a bit reserved when it comes to... um... fully athletic thrusting. I asked her to ask Dr. Ticklefingers to have a look to make sure the bobber or sinker... or whatever wasn't hanging off of her lady bits into her V-J-J... or whatever.

After her appointment I got a phone call from Donna.

"Hey, Dr. T offers his compliments."

"Oh, Why? for having such a fabulous vagina at my beck and call?"

"No. He says he had a look at the IUD and that it's far enough in my cervix that it would take a pretty impressive tool to find it all the way up there."

"Pff... figures. I guess this is the cross I bear. The thick and lengthy cross I bear."

"Uh oh..."

"What?"

"You're going to blog about this, aren't you?"

"Umm... maybe."