I had a dream last night.
I came home from the grocery store, and there were all these women in my house. At least a half dozen. I didn’t know them, but they knew me. “Ginny, can we help with those groceries?” “Where do you keep the cleaning supplies?” “Ginny, where can I hang this wash?”
They were nice enough; all of them were around my age, but were dressed like someone my mother’s age. I felt like I was slogging through chocolate pudding, but finally made it upstairs, where I found my husband, waiting for me in the bedroom. He casually told me these were his new wives, my sister-wives. As we hadn’t discussed this, nor were we Mormon, this came as a shock. I didn’t like this. But I just didn’t feel like fighting about it either.
The women looked like they’d come from people who were too closely related to reproduce. It was kind of like the way barn cats start to look a little pinched, more feral, when they’ve reproduced with their brothers and sisters too often. Human, but not quite, these women. I got a call from my doctor’s office. My pregnancy test had come back positive. I tried not to vomit. It was physically impossible for me to be pregnant. Plus, I did NOT want another child with this filthy neo-polygamist.
I told one of my sister-wives that the baby was hers. Luckily, she was exactly as smart as she looked; she believed me. She was happy, and started to glow. But then one of the other sister-wives caught on. She insisted the baby was hers. Fights broke out. Not violent ones – these were “pregnant” women, after all.
I was tired of all the noise. I hustled my kids back into the car. I called the police from my cellphone, and told them a dirty, dirty polygamist had set up shop at this address. I smiled when I heard the sirens.
(Image from here.)