I’m not even going to bother judging this whole Arnold Schwarzenegger secret lovechild “scandal.” It’s a little too late now. But I will look at it as a cautionary tale. When you are a married man, who thinks to have condoms in your back pocket when your wife probably has some hormone pumping patch or ring taking care of the situation? Your mistress isn’t on the pill because she says it makes her fat and besides, her natural cycle of ovulation fruitiness makes her more desirable than your spent old cranky wife. She may have a condom or two in her goodie drawer but you are not in her bed, you are in the back of the Escalade. So a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do: Pull out. But who remembers to do that? And so a baby is born some 9 months later and that is that. The 10 year secret is the sad part and the kid will have to live with that. I think you are only sick as your secrets and secrets cause cancer (Don’t worry, JHo, I will whisper the word “cancer” when I read this out to my therapy group).
Every once in a Haley’s Comet, a dude will ask me: “Do you have a condom?” To which I will reply: “No, do you have a tampon? Because I need one right now!” Nip that in the bud! Why should I provide the covering for a man’s junk? Do you know how much I have spent on my own birth control in my lifetime? Okay, not that much, I still fit into that diaphragm from high school (JOKES, please, I threw that out a long time ago #notreally). Still, I did my due diligence, taking the pill which made me a lunatic, then going off it that made me pregnant and fat. Lather, rinse, repeat. Now that I am a single lady, birth control is a dry spell. I am a LOCA (lady of a certain age) but don’t kid yourself, I could still have a rotten egg baby. Which is something I fear more than a hairy scrotum. I don’t need another mouth to feed from the strained outlet of a stained nursing bra. Yuck! Now my kids are the perfect age that they still need me to sign their report cards but they can make their own Ramen noodles.
Anyway, now that my mojo is back, I am rethinking my “Field of Dreams” strategy. If you build it he will come: If you’re packing, he will come quicker. So I decided to actually get some condoms to have on hand (just in case). So off to the drugstore I went. Oddly enough, my Shoppers Drugmart has them situated in between the canes and the non-prescription reading glasses. There a million kinds of condoms to choose from: Ribbed, thin, “large” (haha), fire and ice, flavoured, et cetera. Luckily, there was a young man also parusing the the shelves. So I struck up a conversation. He looked harmless enough.
Me: Do you have a favourite kind?
He: Wulllll, these kind here I usually get…(He grabs the back box with what looks like a gun that says “LARGE” on it)
Me: (pointing to a Tiffany Blue box with “Ladies Choice” on them) Really? But these have sensational lubricant on them. And they are thin!
He: Yeah, wull…my girlfriend likes those…Yeah, like, she says they’re the Cadillac of condoms..
Me: Well, why don’t you get them, then?
He: Cuz I’m a Ferrari!!! LOL!! (snort)
I’m fairly certain he didn’t actually have a girlfirend and if he did, she’d sooner have intimate relations with a tailpipe. And I did choose the Tiffany blue box of 12. I put 2 in purse, 2 in my glove compartment, and the rest in my goodie drawer. Because I am a lady.
art of modern living 
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