If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you’ll know that I make terrible life decisions on an all-too-regular basis.
Have sex with a college sophomore? Fine. Black out on a first Tinder date? GIRL, WHY THE FUCK NOT.
And, over my 22 years of life, I have realized that the absolute best time to make terrible decisions is during a blizzard. Like, what else am I supposed to do? Watch Netflix and drink wine and sleep and shit? Those sound like nicegirl hobbies. Like, fucking Betty Sue goes into work the Monday after a blizzard and is like *insert southern accent here* “y’all, I made the best homemade caramels while I watched the snow drift gently past my window pane, as if the pretty little angels were crying soft tears of happiness.”
Then, her coworker Chad is like “Wow Betty that sounds amazing, by the way you look so pretty today and smell like vanilla and sunshine, also has anyone seen or heard from J?” No, you haven’t, because I’m blackout behind a dumpster in Columbia Heights or something. Duh.
Let’s take this story back six months, to January 2016. I was on a date at the Italian Embassy and hammered on champagne and beer and like, LOVE, I don’t even know, so when this guy was like “let’s go back to my place *winky face*” I was like OK FUCKBOY YEAH LET’S GOOOO and then I made bad choices. Happens.
I’m on the metro back from NoMa (UGH SO FAR) the next morning, and snow starts falling. I was like “aw cute snowflakes how romantic!” until they WOULD NOT STOP. People were carrying pitchforks and torches to the neighborhood Trader Joe’s, ripping each other limb from limb over the last carton of Almond Milk, and I’m just spooning my body pillow like fuck I’m pregnant fuck I’m pregnant FUCK I’M PREGNANT AHHHHH. Good times.
Now, this girl can’t even take care of a fake plant, let alone a child, so the little voices inside my head started hissing. Plan B, J. PLAN B, J. YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT PLAN C IS, J.
Ok. Well, there’s like 10 inches of snow outside, so CVS probably isn’t even open, but I’ll call them anyway. Just in case. I call the Clarendon CVS, and some guy answers. Which is like, super awkward, because now they’re clearly open, and that was my only question… but I don’t want to just hang up, because my mother taught me manners, so I just go with it.
J: Hi, are you open? Or are you just a hobo who sleeps in the store when weather permits?
CVS Man: YES! We at CVS are HERE for YOU! 24 hours a DAY, 7 days a WEEK, RAIN, SHINE, or BLIZZARD! NOTHING CAN STOP US!
J: K cool cya soon.
Armed with this knowledge that I will not be giving birth after all, my spirit is renewed. I jam myself into every snow-proof item of clothing I own, leash my Huskies up to my sleigh, and mush off to CVS to finish my mission, texting my friend A on the way there.
You see, A had also taken Plan B within the past week (how we know we’re #soulsisters) and was essentially my spiritual guide. She could answer all of my hard-hitting questions.
J: Where is it? The pharmacy?
A: Behind the front counter.
J: Do I need a prescription? Doctor’s note? Parental supervision?
A: Go. to. the. front. counter.
J: Did it hurt?
A: No, it’s a small pill.
J: …when you fell from heaven?
A: Shut the fuck up and buy the Plan B.
So, I tie my dogsled to the nearest bike rack, and walk into this CVS. There’s one guy behind the counter – 18 years old max, fuckboy-looking, will judge me. I dip into the toothpaste aisle to assess my options. There don’t appear to be any female employees, and I have forgotten my disguise, so I’m tempted to leave – but I press on. MISSION NO BABIES.
I approach the teenage idiot at the front counter.
J: Ehem, hello, sir. May I have one Plan B please.
Fuckboy: LOL HAHA LOL.
J: Do not speak, just complete the transaction.
FB: HEY GIRL ARE YOU EASY LIKE SUNDAY MORNING.
J: I will rip your THROAT OUT GIVE ME THE PILL.
For some reason completely unbeknownst to me*, he went all pale and grabbed the package off the shelf behind him. $53.99 later, I’m outta there. I don’t even bother untying my dogsled, opting instead to bolt through the snow, conspicuous CVS bag in hand, giggling maniacally. I bust into my apartment, try to rip the packaging apart, and realize that this is like a RadioShack clamshell gone wrong.
*I later realized that I had sprouted fangs and knuckle hair. My b!
Swear to Beyoncé, you needed a CHAINSAW to get this shit open. I went through three different pairs of kitchen shears and one canine tooth before I was finally able to reach my prize. But that was only the beginning.
This shit was like RUSSIAN NESTING DOLLS. Inside the main package was a box with some instructions, and then another box inside that. I was ripping through it like a kid at Christmastime, anxious to get to that one little pill. Twenty minutes later, victory was mine.
I ceremoniously thrust the pill into my mouth, chased it with a healthy dose of Cuervo, and stood there. And waited. I mean, I was expecting a parade, or at the very least a banner that said “IT’S NOT A BOY! OR A GIRL!!!” or something. ANYTHING.
Nope. Nada. So, I went to my friend M’s place and played beer pong and drank Everclear with him instead. #blizzardlife.
I later sent this asshole a Venmo request for that $53.99, plus $10 for emotional damages. He still hasn’t completed it. But I’m holding out hope.
Anyway, I’m not a mom, and THANK THE FUCKING LORD because I just started dating again and I feel like that would make shit really awkward. Also, because there’s not a chance in hell I could give up tequila for 9 months. Nope. That ain’t me.