I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression Read Free

Joe McCarthy would put your name on a pinko list under the glass on his desk, and you would be blackballed from joining the VFW. There was some rumor that you would not bear children for seven years, but I doubted that.
    One night my husband had a few drinks and threatened, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m gonna go in and rip the DO NOT REMOVE tags from the pillows on our bed.” He didn’t know what he was saying and a neighbor and I had to physically restrain him.
    The other day I read where the Department of Labor, together with the Upholstery and Bedding Advisory Board, have reworded the tag to read,
    THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED EXCEPT BY CONSUMER .
    Frankly, I don’t know what the world is coming to. Today the pillow tags. Tomorrow, we’ll be opening asparagus right side up.
    Oh, I’m not lily white by any means, mind you. I’ve done some pretty rotten things in my life. Once, I deliberately left the cover of a matchbook open while I lit a match. Another time when I thought no one was looking I sprayed whipped cream on my strawberries without first shaking the can. In moments of anger, I’ve even taken the cellophane off lampshades and purposely screwed on lids in the opposite direction of the arrow.
    But ripping the DO NOT REMOVE tags from pillows. That’s something else. After I read the story, I went to my room and shut the door. I pulled down the spread of the bed and held the pillow in my arms. Sliding my fingersalong the seam I felt the tag. Gently, I wrapped my fingers around it and ripped it off.

    At that precise moment, I heard a bolt of thunder, the cat ran under the bed and I saw small feathers oozing out of the seam where I had ripped the label.
    I fell to my knees. “Bless me, Ralph Nader. I have sinned.”
    The world seems to be moving so fast. I know you’re not going to believe this, but there has not been a how-to book on sex published in fourteen days. The little fact has made quite a difference in our Wednesday night bridge club. Last night, not one person made mention of the word sex … or for that matter even thought about it.
    “How’s your mother?” asked Maxine breaking a thirty-minute silence.
    “Fine,” said Mildred, “I finally seduced … rather induced her to go to town and check out the spring passions.”
    “You mean fashions,” said Maxine.
    “That’s what I said,” said Mildred. “The clothes were a drag, but we did enjoy lunch at a new place on Main Street. If you’re interested, they have wonderful David Reuben sandwiches there.”
    We all looked silently at Mildred who stopped talking and rearranged her cards. Another half hour passed.
    “An amusing thing happened to me at the supermarket yesterday,” said Maxine. “I was in the express line when I realized I was down to my last sensuous … I mean cent.”
    “What did you do?” asked Mildred.
    “Wrote a sex, what else?”
    “You’re lucky you had your sexbook with you,” I said. Twenty minutes went by.
    “I hope no one is on a diet,” said Fern, our hostess. “I’d hate to contribute to anyone’s … what is it they call fat people?”
    “Obscene,” said Mildred.
    Ten minutes later, the silence was interrupted by Maxine. “Heavens, what time is it?”
    “Eight-thirty,” I said dryly.
    “Time sure flies when you’re having fun,” she said.
    “Well, it certainly is refreshing to sit around and talk about worthwhile things other than sex,” said Mildred. “I have discovered a new dimension to me.”
    “Well, are we going to talk or play cards?” asked Fern. “Come on Mildred, it’s your turn to bed.”
    “That’s bid,” I corrected.
    “Whatya expect in fourteen days,” snarled Fern, “a miracle?”
    The sex thing does bug you sometimes. It used to be so simple. Now you have more manuals than a hydraulictruck. Last year, when I became old enough to buy
Cosmopolitan
without a prescription, I was intrigued by their sexy horoscopes. I would read through Aquarius,