Tag Archives: gross

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night…

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rabid-narwhal

What did YOUR Uterus do today?

It all started when  decided to pretend-pay my bills. I do this usually once a month. I open up all of the bill-ish looking mail that I have been sticking in a basket on my desk for the prior 29 days. Then, I very adultly decide which bills I will pay and which can wait for another 29 days or so. Sometimes I find fun things disguised as bills, like, letters letting me know I have accumulated enough points on my cell phone bill to get 3% off of a brand new toaster ( I don’t toast things so…)  Or a letter from a fellow village resident letting me know that we have someone in the neighborhood who is using all of the bandwidth ( I don’t know what bandwidth is so…). Or, in the case of Last Night, a letter from my GYN telling me I was scheduled for a “procedure” at 9am…the next morning….which would be this morning.

And so, I went to hang out at my doctor’s office  at 9am. I mean, there was a “procedure” to take place , but I guess the warm up to that was me sitting pants-less for 45 minutes in anticipation. Yeah. 45 minutes of no pants. I swear it must be somewhere in my Permanent Record that I enjoy sitting ass naked in exam rooms. I don’t, but somewhere along the line, someone got the impression that I did, and now, here we are, 43 years later…free ballin…again. I have to say I was curious as to what  this “procedure” would entail. Aren’t you curious?

The nurse came in and took my blood pressure. 119 over 77. She complimented me on my low blood pressure (nurses always do, which is why I added it to my online dating profile). I asked her what all this “procedure” was going to be like. She was pretty vague…something about iodine and a small amount of blood and uterus and cervix. You know how some people hate the word moist? I feel the same way about the word cervix. It absolutely makes me want to gag. I think that is why I had such a hard time going into labor spontaneously. The thought of my cervix doing ANYTHING grosses me out the door.

Anyway, after about 4 days and 1200 texts to my friends about being half naked for no good reason, the doctor came in. She went over what she was about to do. It was something about a straw with a cutting tool and maybe a telescope? something about a spatula and then she said cervix and I tuned out.

I assumed the position, scootched down 3 times and tried to go to my happy place in my mind. All of the sudden, I felt this blinding pain, a cross between a cramp and buck shot being directed into my abdominal cavity. For a minute, I thought my missing right ovary had returned with assault weapons and possibly a rabid narwhal. I probably would have kicked the doctor right in the ear but I think I was being pinned to the table from the inside. There may have been some swearing, there was absolutely some begging and bargaining. At one point, I believe I may have promised the nurse a new car if she would just get the doctor out of my cootch long enough for me to jump out the window.

And then I heard the doctor sigh and say “Well, your cervix is very cooperative but….blah blah blah blahblahblahblah” Yeah, she said the magic word and that was all it took. Let’s just wrap up this TMI nightmare by saying that I had NOT planned on this nonsense today. In fact, I was headed into work when I decided to take this detour into female hell. I love being a girl, there are so many reasons to love being a girl. But the down-there doctor always makes me rethink my stance on feminism.

There is more to the story but, I will leave you with this thought : A gynecologist is simply a dentist for your lady bits.

Dear Diary, Day of Ignorance

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Just don't.

Just don’t.

I am so incredibly angry right now I don’t know if I will be able to get through writing this.

Today, I woke up, showered, and went to a gynecological appointment. I really don’t remember what it was for but it was scheduled, so I went. I had a few things I wanted to ask about so I didn’t mind going. I don’t like my doctor. I have never liked him. But he had enough confidence that I figured he knew what he was talking about as far as lady parts go. Oh and also, he told me he knew everything there is to know about women’s anatomy. He told me that alot. He told me repeatedly he is an Expert on PMS, on bladder issues, on every type of infection,weird smell, discharge and color that can possibly happen to a boob or a hoo ha. Great. I never believed him, but, I usually allow egotistical, narcissistic men to just prattle on and on…they love to hear themselves talk.

I walked in, told the receptionist that I have new insurance, did the new insurance dance and then had a seat in the nasty, skeevy waiting room. Looking at all of the other ladies, knowing we are all sort of dreading being there. Looking at the few men who are there also in support of their wives or girlfriends…in one case possibly his mom…Old, young, pregnant, not. We are all waiting.

They call me into the closet. It is where they do blood pressure and weight. That’s all terrific. Pee in a cup…for what? I don’t know. But I was given a detailed demonstration on how to do a clean catch. I am 41 years old with three children. I am not sure what about my appearance says “Too Dumb to Know How To Pee In A Cup” but there ya go. And then I get to go into the room with the table with the heel holders. I have  to strip from the waist down and hang out with a paper over my private parts. Now, we women are just used to this sort of treatment. We are used to feeling totally and completely vulnerable. Physically and emotionally. It’s sort of a “woman thing”. No big deal.

So there I sit, half naked. The only thing I have to hold onto is a paper sheet because my dignity was left in the bathroom with the cup of pee. As I am texting my bff about what we are going to do this weekend, the nurse comes in all apologies. I guess they don’t take my new health insurance. Um…ok!!! But WAIT! She wants me to put my pants back on and wait right here. Why? Well, just in case the doctor wants to see me anyway. It will cost about 200 dollars but if he wants to see me…TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS?????????????? FOR WHAT?????????????? Since WHEN did I start having to PAY others to look at me naked???????? I hadn’t given up on my fall back plan of being a stripper and here I am being told that if I want this man to look at my intimate places I am going to have to PAY HIM????????????????????????????????

And there I sit. Waiting. The nurse is falling all over herself apologizing to be for the mix up. How she thought they accepted my insurance but it’s from The Exchange so they don’t and oh boy is she sorry. She wants to get the receptionist in here and the accountant and the billing department. I was totally fine with it. Not an issue. I hated this doctor’s office, I was never impressed with the cleanliness or the friendliness or the understanding of the people who work there so, I’m thinking this is a marvelous opportunity! By this point, the nurse is almost crying and offering me free magazines on herpes and breastfeeding. She’s a mess.

The doctor wants to see me in his office pro bono. Oh for fucks sake. Fine. I go in an sit down across from him. His other nurse/secretary sits in the corner taking notes on her computer. Or maybe she is a frustrated court stenographer? Who cares. As soon as my now covered ass hits the chair doesn’t this ignorant, arrogant, absolutely clueless doctor (the one who I ASSUME took that oath about “First, do no harm”) start in with “So, why exactly did you go to The Exchange for health insurance?” But before I could answer he pukes out HIS take on it, on why HIS practice will NEVER participate with it, how it is going to collapse our government and kill people and how we are all just very very stupid and we don’t understand how the medical system works. If only we simple people were just smarter, more willing to pay for what we need then there would be no Exchange and the president wouldn’t be killing our people…

Took me a few. I had to pull myself out of the fog that always encases my brain when I am confronted with something that is so incredibly wrong. Now,I am not saying that his opinion isn’t valid. I am not even saying that he is wrong. But I sure as SHIT am saying that there is NO conceivable scenario in which a doctor should EVER bring a patient into his office and berate and belittle her for her choices based on HIS experience and HIS opinion.

I sat there and smiled my gee-you-are-an-incredibly-stupid-person-smile and let him ramble. He was sure to include his superior abilities in his chosen profession, he rambled a bit about how his practice would rather give away free health care than participate with The Exchange which pays LESS than Medicaid. How can he possibly justify getting paid less than what he deserves? Oh…yeah…I guess at that point I was suppose to nod agreeingly.

Instead, I cleared my throat and said ” I see your point” which was when he smiled that self satisfactory smile. He then asked if I would consider paying out of pocket for his superior services as that is really what would be best for my health. I cleared my throat again because the bile was really getting in the way of my answering his question. I said “I would rather be seen in a backwoods shed by a witch doctor with a hanger and raccoon hat and dirty fingernails than to EVER be seen by you again.” I suppose that was a little harsh and exactly what he would expect a poor, stupid woman like me would say. I didn’t really say that. I said “It’s a shame that money and politics have become your way of life. Because I am guessing when you became a doctor you had morals and standards. Unfortunately, you have obviously have been corrupted by a mindset and have forgotten completely that your first directive is to treat women in a respectful manner. It was never nice doing business with you. I will find a new doctor.”

And I left. He mumbled something about the hospital not taking Exchange insurance and how did I expect to find a new doctor and I was making another bad decision…blah blah blah.

I have friends who hold a similar view to Dr. Demented. It’s ok. I love them. They love me. Ain’t no thang. But for a DOCTOR to bring me into his office to discuss HIS political views, HIS life views and HIS opinions? Nope. That is wrong on every level. It’s rude, disrespectful and very very dumb. I can’t abide stupid. I really hope that other women do not have to go through what I went through today. And if they do, I wish they also tell him where to stick his speculum.

Apparently the dog knows how to do a clean catch.

Apparently the dog knows how to do a clean catch.

It’s My First Thanksgiving Charlie Brown!

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Yup, that was what we had in our fridge Thanksgiving 1990

My first Thanksgiving on my own was memorable. Not for the gorgeous bird or the huge table of family and friends. But because I was 17, living with my best friend in Houston, Texas. And she was a vegetarian. But I was determined to make us a turkey. After all, we were grown ups!! Her boyfriend was coming but not until the next day with one of his pals. I just couldn’t let Thanksgiving pass without a celebration. My mother was coming also but not arriving until 2 days after the holiday.

I had no idea what I was doing. Not one clue as to how to begin. So, I called my dad. He got me started. First, buy a turkey. Ok, that was priceless info because I  thought that turkeys just showed up in the kitchen. Put the bird in a pan and turn on the oven (my dad was a gourmet cook who didn’t hold out much hope for my traditional thanksgiving being that I was 17 and didn’t realize I had to actually go and buy the turkey). Got it. Bird, pan….wait… was I supposed to take off the wrapping? Ok, hot wrapping off the bird. So far so good. I made real, undercooked, lumpy, mashed potatoes and stuffing out of a box (the best kind). My best friend made her green bean casserole and some other gross tofu/veggie dishes that I would never eat because gross.

My favorite part of the meal is the gravy. It always has been and always will be. I could drink gravy. I love gravy. Now, how do I make gravy? I had no idea. Hello Dad? Ok, I needed flour. Or cornstarch. Yeah, we were 17 years old….I didn’t even know what cornstarch was. I thought it was what you used on shirt collars. The grocery stores were closed by this time, so I went to my across the way neighbors. They were a couple who were, um, 17 years old!!! No, they didn’t have any flour or cornstarch (don’t you use that for keeping collars stiff?). I tried some of the other neighbors. Most were gone to friends or families for dinner. And the rest didn’t have flour or cornstarch. But Terry was home. He was the super special guy that lived below us and he was already half in the bag. He assured me I could make gravy with the coarsely ground cornmeal he had in the cupboard, as long as I invited him up for the festivities. Excellent!!

And off I went to make my fav part of thanksgiving, confident that coarsely ground cornmeal would do the trick! How exciting to be so grown up and independent and making our very first thanksgiving dinner!!! My best friend and I set our tiny table with what we considered our best china. She had bought some cool plates at Pier One….yep, we were all grown up!! I stirred that coarsely ground cornmeal into the gravy for about an hour trying to thicken the drippings. No luck. Come ON!!! It’s cornmeal you really can’t get more traditional than that!!

2 hours later Terry showed up ready for some yummy thanksgiving dishes. Instead, he got lumpy mashed potatoes, turkey broth with what resembled saw dust shavings in it and some tofu sweet potato disaster (it very well may have been delish but it had tofu in it so it was just simply nasty in my book). The turkey itself was not bad. Except for the bag of salmonella that no one told me to take out before I cooked it. What kind of a joke is that? A whole bag filled with the grossest parts of the bird!!! And I was supposed to TOUCH that thing???

Despite it all we had a lovely dinner, all grown up like. Since then, I have been fortunate to have some of the best thanksgiving dinners with some of the most wonderful people. But I will never forget that very first one, which despite the food fiasco, was filled with good friends. I have since grown up to make the most incredible gravy anyone has ever tasted, I know anyone who tried to down that first gravy experiment would agree!!

And so begins the tradition of M&M’s, Honey roasted peanuts and cat in a glass…

You Lucky Duck…I mean mole…

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my lucky weed whacker

My grandma always told me I was lucky. Like daily. So, I grew up believing I was a “very lucky little girl”. Turns out, grandma might have been wrong about my luck. Then again, I guess it depends on the perspective. I mean, I could view my being adopted rather than aborted as a lucky occurence or I could see the abandonment part of being given away. Luck or choice…who really knows.

But when it comes to everyday stuff, my luck seems to run short. I always, without fail, every single time, pick the wrong line. At the grocery store, at the movie theater, at the gas station…everywhere. It is a running joke between me and the kids. I will see the shortest line and head for it just to stand and wait for at least 20 minutes while the other very long lines that I did not pick flow like a river to the sea (you like that imagery, don’t ya). I tried to trick my luck and pick the longest line, but it didn’t work. I was still waiting 20 minutes later as every other line had been cleared.

Today, I was outside cleaning the patio, weeding and scraping moss off the bricks, ya know, making everything pretty. I was remembering the past few springs and the incidents that occured.The first year in this house was my first experience with a weed whacker. Surprisingly (or not), it took me all year to learn that wearing flip flops and shorts while weed whacking is a very, very painful idea, especially when the crushed stone driveway has a weed.  Last year I was weed whacking and accidently weed wacked a dead mole. Mole guts flying everywhere. Such a tiny creature created such a huge mess, all over my pants and shirt. I also weed wacked a pile of dog poop that was buried under some huge weed. Ok, I did that more than once. I am now very leery of huge weeds because they obviously excrete poop that is exactly like dog poop. Who knew. EIther that or my dogs are very careful about where they poop…maybe I am being paranoid….

Anyway, I was not weed whacking today, I was manually pulling weeds. Huge weeds. And as I am bent over just like a little old lady, butt in the air, chest hanging out, I grab a huge handful of weeds and yank with all my might. Out come the weeds along with a dead mole. The mole flew up from the ground, hit me on my forehead, bounced off my unintentionally exposed chest and landed right in front of me. I screamed louder than I did when I thought I had won the lottery and ran away into the back yard doing my “grossed out” dance. I shake it off and go back to the scene of the crime to check out the body. Yup, it a dead mole. I was hit by a flying dead mole. Is that bad luck or just a fluke? I don’t know, but it was really, really gross, that I do know. I am the only person I know that this type of stuff happens to.

Now, of all the places in my yard that my mother could have buried the dead mole that the cat left as a present for us, she chose the place where I happened to be weeding today. Who’s luck is that and is it good luck or bad? Not so good for the mole or me, but when I tell my mother she will probably laugh. I guess I was lucky that it wasn’t a dead skunk, or a rabid racoon. R.I.P. mole and thanks for the memories….