I want to start an all-female punk-rock band with my friends who are also in their 30s/40s, for the secondary reasons that I want to learn to play bass AND develop a convincing sneer. But the primary reason I want to start a women-only punk band is so I can call it “Pumping Milk.”

(Wonder if Motherwear would whip me up some punk-rock regalia, heavy on the Spandex, with cut-outs for nursing.)

I thought of this as I was packing my breast pump for my day away today. The sad thing is, not only have I stored it in a gallon-sized Ziploc, but I think I'll also put it in a brown paper bag, so that when I return to class they don't have to see what I've been doing.

Oh, yeah, the HR lady found me a place to pump milk — it's up a hill and halfway across campus. By the time I get there during our 10-minute class break, I'll have to turn around and come back. Oh, and that building is only open until 5:00. What time does my first class let out? 5:00.

So, instead of pumping in the attic garret a-t-t-i-c, funny! Geez, what am I? Eight? of the HR building, I'll be locked away in the differently-abled bathroom stall next to my classroom.

Gross, gross, and more gross. Hence, punk-rock band. I can see it now: “We're Pumping Milk! Helllooooo, Cleveland!”