Year of the babies, indeed.

No, I'm not pregnant.

STOP ASKING.

It annoys me. I don't know why. Maybe because people don't really ask. They look at you as if they know and what follows is usually a loud outburst of maternal enthusiasm, after which some crowd control is usually necessary to prevent the wildfire of rumors that could culminate from the cigarette butt of whatever stupid allusion to motherhood you unintentionally uttered.

That's neither here nor there. I just had to let it out. No, you see, every year has a theme. There was the wedding year and the new house year and...I dunno, doctorate year or something. This year is baby year. I think Laura called it first. She has a post listing all the expectant or recently post-expectant mothers we know, but I'm too lazy to go find it.

The reason this preoccupies me today is that I fear God is trying to trick me into getting pregnant. I'm tempted to shake my fist in the air and tell Him it'll never work, but then He'd just cheat and do the whole immaculate conception thing just for spite.

Wal-Mart is holding my birth control for ransom. I'm a Sunday starter, people. It's Tuesday. AFTERNOON.

See, I've known all month that my prescription was due to expire sometime soon, which is why I've been trying for weeks to get an appointment with the lady doctor. Why can't I accomplish this? Because my doctor is booked up? No, I don't have "a" doctor. I just ask for first available. I know most women have preferences about that kind of thing, but the way I see it, it's going to be one of the most mortifying, undignified, uncomfortable experiences you have to look forward to every year, no matter whose hands are doing the walking.

I digress. I couldn't get an appointment because, and I quote, "Our computers are down. Call back in a few days."

Your computers are down? Is your pen out of ink too? Poor you.

I called three times in two weeks trying to convince them to take my money so they can violate me. Their computers were down. So, the time came for my trip to the pharmacy and lo and behold, my prescription had expired.

This was Saturday. Nothing to be done until my doctor stumbles into his office sometime around 2pm on Monday. So I called my pharmacy first thing on Monday to see if they'd gotten in touch with my doctor. No, they hadn't, and it might actually be quicker if I tried calling myself. Fine. I called my doctor's office and they said they'd handle it. Fine. I called my pharmacy around lunch to see if I could pick it up yet. Still no word from my doctor. Fine. I called his office back to get an ETA. Sometime around 5pm, they'd make sure and call so I could pick it up that night. Fine. I go to the pharmacy that evening to pick up my prescription, where I find out that my doctor's office never called them, nor did they ever get around to calling him.

FINE.

This morning, I spent over an hour calling my pharmacy, then my doctor, then my pharmacy, then my doctor, then my pharmacy. Apparently, they're mad at each other. The pharmacist must be shtooping the doctor's wife or something. Well guys, it could be worse. SHE COULD BE PREGNANT. BUT I'M SURE SHE'S NOT BECAUSE SHE'S PROBABLY TAKING MY BIRTH CONTROL PILLS. Bitch.

The last call I made to my pharmacy this morning was mostly begging for them to please, for the love of God, please break the wall of silence and call my doctor. They said they would call and to check back before they went to lunch to see if my prescription was ready.

I just checked back in to find that sadly, my pharmacy was unable to reach my doctor's office, the same one I've called half a dozen times in the last two days. But they're sure everything will be cleared up by this evening. Well, sing me a song and call me Henry, because I think I've heard this verse before.

Next week, Liz develops a hormonal imbalance! Will she get her birth control in time, or will she begin inexplicably crying at the sight of a pineapple? Tune in and find out.