There are so many benefits to being married, as well as the many benefits of not being married. In a relationship, your significant other is usually put on a pedestal. Not a high pedestal; more of a small step stool, like small children use to reach the bathroom sink. When you're married, your spouse is usually put on the back burner. The back burner position isn't intentional, it's not even immediate. It is however, inevitable.
As women, we tend to get pampered and tend to pamper ourselves more, when we're not married. Buying undergarments, for example. When single, the female tends to purchase items from specialty boutiques like Victoria's Secret. Seeking little black things, little red things, little see-thru things; the smaller, the better. Now married, and our bride is in Walmart buying value packs of Hanes Her Way. She goes from reading really explicit articles like, "32 positions on your dining room table" to very helpful articles like, "expecting 32 for thanksgiving dinner? how to decorate your dining room table." The changes do not happen overnight and they will also not occur all at once. The New York Strip dinner has turned into a Gourmet Meatloaf dinner, not because she's trying to save money (yet), but because the picture on the back of the Lipton Onion Soup Mix box has challenged your bride and her domestic talents. Her 'inner- Martha' is out and loose in your kitchen. May you have a fire extinguisher close by. When she was single, sure she may have clipped and used coupons. But now that she's married, she uses a coupon organizer. From afar, it looks like a very thick envelope. But come a little closer and meet a bride's new best friend. It files all her coupons in convenient categories and is still compact enough to fit in her purse. Such an outstanding system for saving, yet not taken into consideration until after she weds. And you thought she shaved her legs daily? No sir! She shaved every other day. Now that she's married, the task of shaving has sadly decreased to two days a week. This is why she may be wearing tube socks to bed. It's not because she's cold. It's because she's hairy.
The groom goes through some changes too. When dating, he showered his girl with gifts and may have been even a little spontaneous. (for any men reading this blog, take a moment and look up the word spontaneous. women love spontaneity) It's not that the gifts were large or even expensive. Just small, romantic gestures and surprises for her, from time to time. However, after he marries, the surprises now only arrive on occasions. These are known as gifts. They'll show up on Birthdays, Christmas, Valentine's Day, an Anniversary and maybe Mother's Day- that is, if you have children or pets... and that's if he remembers these occasions. You'll notice Christmas is the one occasion he'll seldom forget. Thanks to the large, decorated tree in your living room, this will remind him that Christmas is approaching. Although, no matter how large the hint, the male, married or not, will always wait until the last minute to shop. No matter what the occasion.
For the husband, after about three years, he will no longer give actual gifts. His wife will receive gift cards, instead. Not very personable; most wives are offended and insulted by this form of gift giving. But, they should pace themselves, because in another couple years, they don't even get gift cards... they'll get cash. And not from a beautifully decorated card and envelope, but from their husband's wallet, over breakfast, Christmas morning. The only reason you didn't get gift cards or cash within the first few years of wedded bliss, is because you'll be receiving random appliances. A new vacuum, a George Forman Grill, a Swiffer Wet Jet, maybe some new razors- his way of offering assistance with your neglected hairy legs... and from the true 'role model' of a husband, a weed eater. He's been wanting you to help with the yard work, but never really knew how to ask. Or, like with the new razors, maybe the weed eater is his way of offering assistance with your overgrown bikini line. "Merry Christmas"
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Halfway Home
In my previous blogs, you may have giggled a little, laughed a lot, rolled your eyes or found no interest whatsoever in what I had to chirp about; clicking the red X box to log off! And that's fine, and it is!
Entering my 40's, two great sayings; or mantra's, or motto's, that I still love and have brought with me into my fourth decade are, "it's all good!" and "no worries!" Did you notice the exclamation points? If you say it, mean it! Own it! Express it! Live it! We all know this is crap and is easier said than done. However, our intentions are always good. Are they not? I have the best of intentions. I also have a severe lack discipline, cuss like I'm trying to meet a 'curse word quota,' and procrastinate like no other! Procrastination is the worst trait or characteristic to possess; I'd improve upon it, but I'm too busy procrastinating! It's awful!!! And that is no joke!
Not really knowing my Dad's side of the family, I can only do the numbers based on my Mom's side of the family. I lost my Grandfather three months after his 80th birthday. I lost my Grandmother one week before her 80th birthday. 80! Hummm? If God grants me the life; to allow eighty balloons in a room, with a cake that is topped with two candles, an 8 and a 0. A room filled with family, close friends, and even Great Grandchildren who won't want to be there because they'll have better things to do... I would be the happiest birthday girl in the room!!!
Is it bad that I feel like I am halfway home? I'm forty now, and although Math wasn't my best subject, I know that in another forty, God willing, I will be eighty. I'm in the 'second act,' 'round two,' or what about 'part two?' Now, what do I want to be when I grow up? What pressure! At what age do we grow up? There are certainly stages and milestones in our life. But do we ever really grow up? I am a firm believer that age is just a number; that your attitude and mindset will guide you to more positive places, and I don't mean geographically.
I have friends who are puzzled that I speak up for myself, can make small talk with almost anyone, can speak in front of a crowd; saying, "I wish I could do that!" Well, why can't you? You, are your only obstacle. You may need to read that again. You, are the only one who may be making excuses. You, need to take ownership of you. Because You, are limitless! You have no limits! You are unlimited! The limits or obstacles that you create, are just that, ones You create! So, stop it already!
Your life should have no regrets. Life is about taking chances, enjoying your family, being blessed with good friends and relationships, being grateful you woke up today and taking full advantage of the day. It's about doing things you love, and compromising when you need to. Speaking up for yourself and taking ownership with everything you do. Admitting when you are wrong and apologizing if you need to, sincerely.
I knew a man who was always sharing with me how envious he was that I was so close with my family and that he wished his family were like that. To this day, that man now has a family of his own and still has no good connection with his own family; his parents, his siblings, his nieces and nephews. I wonder, what will that do for his children and for their future families? Break the cycle. Set the example, and lead by that example.
Many years ago, I was good friends with colleague at work. She was out for a week or two and no one really knew why. One day she came back in, stopped by to say hello and to speak with management. She stopped by my desk only for a quick hello. I said, "How are you?" and in a voice that sounded like she had the worst cold ever, she said, "Sick." Thinking she had a horrible cold or the flu, in a jokingly manner, I said, "Well, don't give it to me!" I think I caught her off guard with that statement, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, I won't." She proceeded to the back to speak with management and I never get to see her before she left. She passed away just a few weeks after. Turns out, she didn't have a horrible cold. She had been crying because she learned she had a brain tumor. She was there to speak with management and human resources, and to also clean out her locker. She later learned the tumor was inoperable. I called to let her know I was thinking about her; which how do you call someone with an inoperable brain tumor? It was difficult. Making it even more unbearable, all she could say was, "You're not going to get it! Don't worry, you're not going to get it!" She remembered our previous conversation very clearly. She was crying and not making much sense. That was a very emotional phone call. Her husband reassured me that she was on numerous medications and that she wasn't angry at me. She was just angry, and that it was the meds talking. From the time she was out of work, to the time she passed away, it was no more than two months total. She was mid forties, newly married and so upset that management gave her one amount for a raise and she thought she deserved more. She was living her life. I wonder if she would have done anything differently? If she had any regrets? If she said all the 'I love yous' she wanted, and if she heard them as well?
If you want to do something, do it! Do it with love and do it with conviction! Stop procrastinating! Take ownership and enjoy your day. Stop saying you'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is an assumption, not a guarantee!
Entering my 40's, two great sayings; or mantra's, or motto's, that I still love and have brought with me into my fourth decade are, "it's all good!" and "no worries!" Did you notice the exclamation points? If you say it, mean it! Own it! Express it! Live it! We all know this is crap and is easier said than done. However, our intentions are always good. Are they not? I have the best of intentions. I also have a severe lack discipline, cuss like I'm trying to meet a 'curse word quota,' and procrastinate like no other! Procrastination is the worst trait or characteristic to possess; I'd improve upon it, but I'm too busy procrastinating! It's awful!!! And that is no joke!
Not really knowing my Dad's side of the family, I can only do the numbers based on my Mom's side of the family. I lost my Grandfather three months after his 80th birthday. I lost my Grandmother one week before her 80th birthday. 80! Hummm? If God grants me the life; to allow eighty balloons in a room, with a cake that is topped with two candles, an 8 and a 0. A room filled with family, close friends, and even Great Grandchildren who won't want to be there because they'll have better things to do... I would be the happiest birthday girl in the room!!!
Is it bad that I feel like I am halfway home? I'm forty now, and although Math wasn't my best subject, I know that in another forty, God willing, I will be eighty. I'm in the 'second act,' 'round two,' or what about 'part two?' Now, what do I want to be when I grow up? What pressure! At what age do we grow up? There are certainly stages and milestones in our life. But do we ever really grow up? I am a firm believer that age is just a number; that your attitude and mindset will guide you to more positive places, and I don't mean geographically.
I have friends who are puzzled that I speak up for myself, can make small talk with almost anyone, can speak in front of a crowd; saying, "I wish I could do that!" Well, why can't you? You, are your only obstacle. You may need to read that again. You, are the only one who may be making excuses. You, need to take ownership of you. Because You, are limitless! You have no limits! You are unlimited! The limits or obstacles that you create, are just that, ones You create! So, stop it already!
Your life should have no regrets. Life is about taking chances, enjoying your family, being blessed with good friends and relationships, being grateful you woke up today and taking full advantage of the day. It's about doing things you love, and compromising when you need to. Speaking up for yourself and taking ownership with everything you do. Admitting when you are wrong and apologizing if you need to, sincerely.
I knew a man who was always sharing with me how envious he was that I was so close with my family and that he wished his family were like that. To this day, that man now has a family of his own and still has no good connection with his own family; his parents, his siblings, his nieces and nephews. I wonder, what will that do for his children and for their future families? Break the cycle. Set the example, and lead by that example.
Many years ago, I was good friends with colleague at work. She was out for a week or two and no one really knew why. One day she came back in, stopped by to say hello and to speak with management. She stopped by my desk only for a quick hello. I said, "How are you?" and in a voice that sounded like she had the worst cold ever, she said, "Sick." Thinking she had a horrible cold or the flu, in a jokingly manner, I said, "Well, don't give it to me!" I think I caught her off guard with that statement, she rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, I won't." She proceeded to the back to speak with management and I never get to see her before she left. She passed away just a few weeks after. Turns out, she didn't have a horrible cold. She had been crying because she learned she had a brain tumor. She was there to speak with management and human resources, and to also clean out her locker. She later learned the tumor was inoperable. I called to let her know I was thinking about her; which how do you call someone with an inoperable brain tumor? It was difficult. Making it even more unbearable, all she could say was, "You're not going to get it! Don't worry, you're not going to get it!" She remembered our previous conversation very clearly. She was crying and not making much sense. That was a very emotional phone call. Her husband reassured me that she was on numerous medications and that she wasn't angry at me. She was just angry, and that it was the meds talking. From the time she was out of work, to the time she passed away, it was no more than two months total. She was mid forties, newly married and so upset that management gave her one amount for a raise and she thought she deserved more. She was living her life. I wonder if she would have done anything differently? If she had any regrets? If she said all the 'I love yous' she wanted, and if she heard them as well?
If you want to do something, do it! Do it with love and do it with conviction! Stop procrastinating! Take ownership and enjoy your day. Stop saying you'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is an assumption, not a guarantee!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Hubba Bubba and Doc Baker
It was only when my Monday got away from me, and I was I sitting with a couple of girlfriends that evening, and I realized, 'I guess I can blog about anything.'
We weren't speaking ill of husbands, which is usually what happens when you get a few vaginas together. We weren't chatting about how children can suck both your energy and a few of your brain cells, so effortlessly and successfully. We were however, speaking of dentists, one mouth doctor, and gynecologists, the other mouth doctor...... come on people, they both say "open wide."
We found ourselves sharing phobias, terror in the chair and a gynecologists visit that went so wrong, you could only laugh. As that's all you could really do, because the thirty minute visit was so unprofessional, irresponsible and a farce of an appointment; that had I known what I was truly in-store for, I would have B.Y.O.B. Brought my own BArTeNdEr! And maybe even my own BoUnCeR!
I hadn't shared the experience in two years. At the time, the only person I shared the experience with, was the young lady I knew, whose work was affiliated with a local hospital, who seemed to have a great head on her shoulders, and who referred me to this doctor. The very dreaded, gynecologist.
Unlike most women, I don't mind the 'downstairs' doctor. He or she has attended medical school, can prescribe drugs, can deliver a new baby into the world and can keep my 'downstairs' healthy and in working order. I have a wonderful 'downstairs' doctor in Florida, but recently moving to Georgia, was shopping for a new one. Took the advice of a friend, as noted above. A 'downstairs' doctor is not someone you do business with based on a billboard or an ad in the yellow pages. You go to reputable friends and have them suggest reputable doctors. Although, what I learned with this experience, I should have checked my reputable friend's references.
Allow me to share my thirty minute appointment with you. Though I am one to embellish and even exaggerate, there was no embellishment or exaggeration needed with this 'story.' Sad but true!
I had just seen my doctor in Florida for my annual visit. We discussed heavy bleeding, he suggested a procedure where the inside of the uterus is burned a little bit to prevent such heavy bleeding. Or maybe we discussed roasting marshmallows, this has been almost 3 years ago, so I really don't remember. So, my doctor had suggested finding a local doctor, learn that doctor's opinion and go from there.
My visit started off like any other. I signed in, they took my license and insurance card, I filled out a book worth of paperwork, signed on the dotted line and waited. It should be acknowledged, from the initial phone call to the office, to the day I was now in the office, I shared many times (not to waste the doctor's time) that I had just seen my Florida doctor and I was there for a consultation and a possible second opinion.
The waiting room was standard, clean and loaded with every issue of Parents magazine. I noticed through a vertical glass panel of the office a very young assistant. I didn't know what her role was; I knew that she was in scrubs, looked young enough to have not even started her first period, yet was holding a clipboard. I can remember laughing to myself, wondering, 'since when do you need a clipboard to clean a doctor's office?' Well, five minutes later, with the most comical of irony, the scrub-wearing custodian must have gotten promoted, because she was now in the waiting room, calling my name to come on back. I'm walking beside her, wanting so desperately to ask, "is it bring your daughter to work day?" But, I couldn't say anything. I could only stare. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she didn't look a day over fourteen and she seemed to be a little too happy. Annoyingly bubbly. We start with the blood pressure. She's asking me how my day was going, I was looking for hickeys on her neck. Blood pressure kind of high, no hickeys to be found. Now I notice she's chewing gum. Did she buy this with her allowance or her paycheck? She's taken my blood pressure and is about to record my weight, now I'm annoyed that she probably makes more than I do and got to work on her Huffy banana seat bike. There's no way she's old enough to drive. Then she asks me to get on the scale. My Hubba Bubba chewing, hickey-free, underage, money in the bank, cheerleader records my weight without laughing out loud, or batting an eye, and invites me to follow her back to a room. A room? What does this mean?
When you have your initial appointment with a gynecologist, there is always a consultation in their office. An office where you can view their medical degree, see family photos and maybe some artwork their child did in third grade. This is the only doctor's office where this takes place. There is no such consultation, or meet and greet, if you will, with any other doctor! As we were walking down the hall, I could tell there was not going to be such a meet and greet today. I could tell I was walking away from the welcoming zone. Several steps later, my Hubba Bubba princess opens the door, escorts me in and politely tells me the doctor will be in soon. She asks me to put the gown on, open in the front, and leaves. Just as I'm thinking, 'I'm here for a consultation,' I notice my room. My exam room. My suite. My suite was unlike any other. If I had an iphone back then, I would have taken several pictures for evidence. It's amazing what a woman who is expected to be naked in five minutes can notice in five minutes. The room was the size of an exam room, but with no exam room features. No pictures of newborns on the wall. No silk flower arrangements in sight. No small boxes of tissues to be seen. Most importantly, no screen or divider, no curtain, no separate room, no nothing for one to change. Believe me I looked. And when I looked, that's when I realized where I was. I was in a storage room, that just happened to have an exam table. There were many machines in the room, a filing cabinet and white walls with nothing but a diagram of a vagina you may have caught in Health Class. Not that all storage rooms have a diagram of a vagina in them, but I know a storage room when I see one. I was in a storage room. Any second a man who I have never met, will be in and is expecting me to be naked, wearing a worn hospital gown that never closes properly in front.... and I'm still dressed. And there's nowhere to change. And I'm pretty sure Ashton Kutcher is going to walk in any moment with a camera crew, letting me know I've been 'punk'd.' And, I would welcome him. I would welcome Ashton with a hug, because there is no other logical explanation as to why this is happening to me. But, I can't think about hugging Ashton now, I need to remove all clothing and get into the generic gown, like ten minutes ago. Hubba Bubba and Doc Baker (yes, that's a Little House on the Prairie reference) will be in any second. The only thing that would make this more uncomfortable is if Bubba and Baker walk in, mid-change. Or so I thought!
I've made my way through the clutter and am now on the exam table, very upset that I shaved. Not that the gynecologist caresses your legs anyway, but with today's events, it would have been nice that if he actually bumped into me, I would have cut him with my leg stubble. Damn it, I shouldn't have been so thoughtful!
He knocks (I'm shocked) and enters. Hubba Bubba in tow, clipboard and all. He shakes my hand, introduces himself and is seemingly polite. Draped in my open gown, I briefly reiterate that I was there for a consultation and had just had my 'annual' a month ago. We chat about the heavy bleeding, the recommendation and the fact I was seeking a local doctor. I did neglect to tell him I would still be seeking a local doctor after this visit.
Always the next sentence to hear, "Well, let's take a look." Hubba Bubba was off to my left, several feet over and my doctor for the day, Doc Baker was just about to start a breast exam... for my consultation.... for my heavy bleeding........ Where the hell are my BaRtEnDeR and BoUnCeR? Anyway, right boob pops out; more like falls out, and Hubba Bubba looks straight up to the ceiling, as if she just saw a shooting star. My hickey-free cheerleader couldn't even make eye contact with raw boob number one. She was uncomfortable and I'm sure was in some slight neck pain based on how fast she looked up when the boob fell out. Right boob isn't even the big boob, left boob, will undoubtedly put her in therapy! Thank God for my peripheral vision, but still waiting for Ashton Kutcher to arrive. Boobage good, now Doc Baker continues his exam 'downstairs.' Luckily, if Bubba stays where she is, the only thing she's going to view is side thigh cellulite. I wanted to tell her, "Stay Bubba, stay!" Doc Baker agrees with Florida doctor to procedure to prevent monthly hemorrhaging. While still stationed 'downstaris' he asked me something, and I made the mistake of looking up when answering. I now realize I have a height preference for 'downstairs' doctors. I looked up, but I didn't see him. I saw the top of his nose and his eyes. No mouth, no chin, no shoulders, no chest. He's too short to be a doctor, at least a 'downstairs' doctor. Was he sitting on a stool? I know when he walked in, I was the taller of us. I also know I was on an exam table. But, he was short. So short that all I did see was his head, and only part of it. Which took me back to birthing videos, when for the first few minutes of birth, all you see is a head. Here I am answering this doctor's question and all I see is half head. Next uncomfortable thought, 'so this is what I would look like giving birth to adult human head.'
He needed to stand up! Or buy some shoes with lifts, or heals! I need to close my legs, get dressed and get out! I am happy to report that when my Florida doctor asks a question, I can see his head, his shoulders and his chest and I have no notions of giving birth to an adult human head.
In sharing this very true story with the few people I have, the same question is always asked, "Why didn't you leave?" And to that I answer, "Are you f***ing kidding me!!!" I had to see what was going to happen next. Train wreck from the time I walked in, to the time I left. I wasn't in any danger. It was surreal and I wasn't about to cut my visit short. No way!!! I was not going to be rattled by Bubba and Baker!!! I paid the co-pay and left.
The office called a couple weeks after, asking if were interested in making an appointment for the procedure; I never laughed so hard in my life! Went on to explain that I would never return to their office and said several curse words, both old and new, in the process. After telling this story to the woman who referred me, she was stunned, horrified and embarrassed. She tells me she's always been in an exam room, with tissues and flowers and newborn photos on the wall. Well just rub it in, why don't you! When I asked about Hubba Bubba, my 'friend' later learned and shared with me, that Hubba Bubba was Doc Baker's daughter, she was seventeen and she was going to nursing school. The woman who called me back regarding a future appointment was his wife, she works in the office as well.
So, i guess it's, bring your family to work day... Everyday!
Even living in Georgia, I still visit Florida to see family, friends, and my outstanding, and tall; Bubba-free, 'downstairs' doctor!!!
Even if my all girl parts fall on the floor tomorrow, I would pick them up, pack them up and we'd be on our way to Florida! Maybe stopping for a few travel necessities, Slim Jims, bottled water, a Whatchamacallit and a pack of Hubba Bubba!
We weren't speaking ill of husbands, which is usually what happens when you get a few vaginas together. We weren't chatting about how children can suck both your energy and a few of your brain cells, so effortlessly and successfully. We were however, speaking of dentists, one mouth doctor, and gynecologists, the other mouth doctor...... come on people, they both say "open wide."
We found ourselves sharing phobias, terror in the chair and a gynecologists visit that went so wrong, you could only laugh. As that's all you could really do, because the thirty minute visit was so unprofessional, irresponsible and a farce of an appointment; that had I known what I was truly in-store for, I would have B.Y.O.B. Brought my own BArTeNdEr! And maybe even my own BoUnCeR!
I hadn't shared the experience in two years. At the time, the only person I shared the experience with, was the young lady I knew, whose work was affiliated with a local hospital, who seemed to have a great head on her shoulders, and who referred me to this doctor. The very dreaded, gynecologist.
Unlike most women, I don't mind the 'downstairs' doctor. He or she has attended medical school, can prescribe drugs, can deliver a new baby into the world and can keep my 'downstairs' healthy and in working order. I have a wonderful 'downstairs' doctor in Florida, but recently moving to Georgia, was shopping for a new one. Took the advice of a friend, as noted above. A 'downstairs' doctor is not someone you do business with based on a billboard or an ad in the yellow pages. You go to reputable friends and have them suggest reputable doctors. Although, what I learned with this experience, I should have checked my reputable friend's references.
Allow me to share my thirty minute appointment with you. Though I am one to embellish and even exaggerate, there was no embellishment or exaggeration needed with this 'story.' Sad but true!
I had just seen my doctor in Florida for my annual visit. We discussed heavy bleeding, he suggested a procedure where the inside of the uterus is burned a little bit to prevent such heavy bleeding. Or maybe we discussed roasting marshmallows, this has been almost 3 years ago, so I really don't remember. So, my doctor had suggested finding a local doctor, learn that doctor's opinion and go from there.
My visit started off like any other. I signed in, they took my license and insurance card, I filled out a book worth of paperwork, signed on the dotted line and waited. It should be acknowledged, from the initial phone call to the office, to the day I was now in the office, I shared many times (not to waste the doctor's time) that I had just seen my Florida doctor and I was there for a consultation and a possible second opinion.
The waiting room was standard, clean and loaded with every issue of Parents magazine. I noticed through a vertical glass panel of the office a very young assistant. I didn't know what her role was; I knew that she was in scrubs, looked young enough to have not even started her first period, yet was holding a clipboard. I can remember laughing to myself, wondering, 'since when do you need a clipboard to clean a doctor's office?' Well, five minutes later, with the most comical of irony, the scrub-wearing custodian must have gotten promoted, because she was now in the waiting room, calling my name to come on back. I'm walking beside her, wanting so desperately to ask, "is it bring your daughter to work day?" But, I couldn't say anything. I could only stare. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she didn't look a day over fourteen and she seemed to be a little too happy. Annoyingly bubbly. We start with the blood pressure. She's asking me how my day was going, I was looking for hickeys on her neck. Blood pressure kind of high, no hickeys to be found. Now I notice she's chewing gum. Did she buy this with her allowance or her paycheck? She's taken my blood pressure and is about to record my weight, now I'm annoyed that she probably makes more than I do and got to work on her Huffy banana seat bike. There's no way she's old enough to drive. Then she asks me to get on the scale. My Hubba Bubba chewing, hickey-free, underage, money in the bank, cheerleader records my weight without laughing out loud, or batting an eye, and invites me to follow her back to a room. A room? What does this mean?
When you have your initial appointment with a gynecologist, there is always a consultation in their office. An office where you can view their medical degree, see family photos and maybe some artwork their child did in third grade. This is the only doctor's office where this takes place. There is no such consultation, or meet and greet, if you will, with any other doctor! As we were walking down the hall, I could tell there was not going to be such a meet and greet today. I could tell I was walking away from the welcoming zone. Several steps later, my Hubba Bubba princess opens the door, escorts me in and politely tells me the doctor will be in soon. She asks me to put the gown on, open in the front, and leaves. Just as I'm thinking, 'I'm here for a consultation,' I notice my room. My exam room. My suite. My suite was unlike any other. If I had an iphone back then, I would have taken several pictures for evidence. It's amazing what a woman who is expected to be naked in five minutes can notice in five minutes. The room was the size of an exam room, but with no exam room features. No pictures of newborns on the wall. No silk flower arrangements in sight. No small boxes of tissues to be seen. Most importantly, no screen or divider, no curtain, no separate room, no nothing for one to change. Believe me I looked. And when I looked, that's when I realized where I was. I was in a storage room, that just happened to have an exam table. There were many machines in the room, a filing cabinet and white walls with nothing but a diagram of a vagina you may have caught in Health Class. Not that all storage rooms have a diagram of a vagina in them, but I know a storage room when I see one. I was in a storage room. Any second a man who I have never met, will be in and is expecting me to be naked, wearing a worn hospital gown that never closes properly in front.... and I'm still dressed. And there's nowhere to change. And I'm pretty sure Ashton Kutcher is going to walk in any moment with a camera crew, letting me know I've been 'punk'd.' And, I would welcome him. I would welcome Ashton with a hug, because there is no other logical explanation as to why this is happening to me. But, I can't think about hugging Ashton now, I need to remove all clothing and get into the generic gown, like ten minutes ago. Hubba Bubba and Doc Baker (yes, that's a Little House on the Prairie reference) will be in any second. The only thing that would make this more uncomfortable is if Bubba and Baker walk in, mid-change. Or so I thought!
I've made my way through the clutter and am now on the exam table, very upset that I shaved. Not that the gynecologist caresses your legs anyway, but with today's events, it would have been nice that if he actually bumped into me, I would have cut him with my leg stubble. Damn it, I shouldn't have been so thoughtful!
He knocks (I'm shocked) and enters. Hubba Bubba in tow, clipboard and all. He shakes my hand, introduces himself and is seemingly polite. Draped in my open gown, I briefly reiterate that I was there for a consultation and had just had my 'annual' a month ago. We chat about the heavy bleeding, the recommendation and the fact I was seeking a local doctor. I did neglect to tell him I would still be seeking a local doctor after this visit.
Always the next sentence to hear, "Well, let's take a look." Hubba Bubba was off to my left, several feet over and my doctor for the day, Doc Baker was just about to start a breast exam... for my consultation.... for my heavy bleeding........ Where the hell are my BaRtEnDeR and BoUnCeR? Anyway, right boob pops out; more like falls out, and Hubba Bubba looks straight up to the ceiling, as if she just saw a shooting star. My hickey-free cheerleader couldn't even make eye contact with raw boob number one. She was uncomfortable and I'm sure was in some slight neck pain based on how fast she looked up when the boob fell out. Right boob isn't even the big boob, left boob, will undoubtedly put her in therapy! Thank God for my peripheral vision, but still waiting for Ashton Kutcher to arrive. Boobage good, now Doc Baker continues his exam 'downstairs.' Luckily, if Bubba stays where she is, the only thing she's going to view is side thigh cellulite. I wanted to tell her, "Stay Bubba, stay!" Doc Baker agrees with Florida doctor to procedure to prevent monthly hemorrhaging. While still stationed 'downstaris' he asked me something, and I made the mistake of looking up when answering. I now realize I have a height preference for 'downstairs' doctors. I looked up, but I didn't see him. I saw the top of his nose and his eyes. No mouth, no chin, no shoulders, no chest. He's too short to be a doctor, at least a 'downstairs' doctor. Was he sitting on a stool? I know when he walked in, I was the taller of us. I also know I was on an exam table. But, he was short. So short that all I did see was his head, and only part of it. Which took me back to birthing videos, when for the first few minutes of birth, all you see is a head. Here I am answering this doctor's question and all I see is half head. Next uncomfortable thought, 'so this is what I would look like giving birth to adult human head.'
He needed to stand up! Or buy some shoes with lifts, or heals! I need to close my legs, get dressed and get out! I am happy to report that when my Florida doctor asks a question, I can see his head, his shoulders and his chest and I have no notions of giving birth to an adult human head.
In sharing this very true story with the few people I have, the same question is always asked, "Why didn't you leave?" And to that I answer, "Are you f***ing kidding me!!!" I had to see what was going to happen next. Train wreck from the time I walked in, to the time I left. I wasn't in any danger. It was surreal and I wasn't about to cut my visit short. No way!!! I was not going to be rattled by Bubba and Baker!!! I paid the co-pay and left.
The office called a couple weeks after, asking if were interested in making an appointment for the procedure; I never laughed so hard in my life! Went on to explain that I would never return to their office and said several curse words, both old and new, in the process. After telling this story to the woman who referred me, she was stunned, horrified and embarrassed. She tells me she's always been in an exam room, with tissues and flowers and newborn photos on the wall. Well just rub it in, why don't you! When I asked about Hubba Bubba, my 'friend' later learned and shared with me, that Hubba Bubba was Doc Baker's daughter, she was seventeen and she was going to nursing school. The woman who called me back regarding a future appointment was his wife, she works in the office as well.
So, i guess it's, bring your family to work day... Everyday!
Even living in Georgia, I still visit Florida to see family, friends, and my outstanding, and tall; Bubba-free, 'downstairs' doctor!!!
Even if my all girl parts fall on the floor tomorrow, I would pick them up, pack them up and we'd be on our way to Florida! Maybe stopping for a few travel necessities, Slim Jims, bottled water, a Whatchamacallit and a pack of Hubba Bubba!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Have You Seen My Bundt Cake?
I'm not sure if what I witnessed recently was a confidence, an obliviousness or simply, denial at its best. Allow to me acknowledge the woman who was standing ahead of me at the concession counter at the movies, who ordered a large popcorn with extra butter. Specifically telling, not really asking, but telling the popcorn 'fetcher' that she wanted the butter on the bottom, in the middle and on the top... and a large diet coke! I was actually hoping a small, but strong, child was around to maybe pick my jaw up off the floor. I certainly couldn't do it myself. I was in shock! I was stunned! I couldn't move! And here's why..... this lovely lover of popcorn with layered butter and large fountain diet drinks, was, let me start off by saying, was old enough to dress herself. She appeared to be mid 20's, white, about 5'7" and if I would have to guess.... based on every episode of the Biggest Loser I have ever seen; which is all of them, and of course my own weight, I would say she weighed anywhere from 280lbs-286lbs. Yes, I gave myself a 6lb curve. I also just typed a very lengthy 'run on' sentence, that would not impress my former English teachers. But, that's one of the perks of blogging! Well, that and the fact I haven't brushed my teeth today! Or gotten dressed!
Anyway, I'm standing by my 280lb guess. I'm really good at guessing people's weight, especially women's weight. I have been almost every size. In my adult life, my body has ventured from an 8 all the way to a very full, but loose, 22. Well, the 20 was way too tight, so although I did 'graduate' to a 22, it should be noted they were LOOSE!!! And I only wore them twice! Then I burned them! Let's face it, the only 20's a woman should ever be in, should last only 10 years.... and that should be her age, not her size.
Okay, back to my twenty-something, robust, popcorn with layered butter lover. She was wearing, hummm... where to start.... I'll start from the ground up. She was wearing black ballerina flats, jeans and a top with cap sleeves. The flats were cute; they're trendy, enough said. Her shoes were not what made me ask a 7 year old boy if he could please hand me my jaw from the floor. The jeans? Well, the jeans were denim, they were very tight, they were something that she would have needed assistance getting into. I find myself wondering if she's wearing a catheter today, because that movie 'snack' is going to hit her bladder at some point. Who will assist her when her bladder is dancing? My concern wouldn't be getting the jeans down necessarily, but getting them back up. I can only pray she has her cell phone with her in case of an emergency! She's going to need a few extra hands to help her pack herself back in there. The jeans were low rise. I guess it's easier to let it all hang out than pack 'everything' in a pair of jeans? I don't even know why they produce low rise jeans for anyone over a size 12 or so... it's just cruel. At least apply some self tanner to the 'overage' you're exposing. Let's talk overage, shall we? I've heard of a muffin top, I comprehend the muffin top... this was more like a bundt cake exploded!!! As they say in Georgia, this was a "hot mess!" Her 'middle' was everywhere! Just hanging out! Saying "hello!" It was layered, much like her popcorn. The upper 'middle' was laying on the middle 'middle' and then the lower 'middle' was what was so desperately packed into her 'cute' jeans! Just a mess! But like any decent train wreck, you couldn't turn away! And I couldn't. I felt so bad that I couldn't turn away. Well, no I didn't. Yes I did. No I didn't. Yes I did. No I didn't. I really didn't. The cap sleeve top was kind of sheer, which really didn't matter only because her 'middle' was out and about anyway. The good news about the portly arms dangling from the cap sleeve top, is that they would seem to withstand carrying a large popcorn weighed down with excessive butter and a large diet drink. The top was on the short side, or, was it her belly was on the long side? All I know is, I was there to see a movie and I couldn't step away from this hot mess of a plus size preview I was witnessing at the concession counter! I should be ashamed. But, I wasn't. I was impressed! Was this a confidence that I was witnessing? If so, where did such confidence come from? Was this an obliviousness? Maybe she has no idea? Maybe she has no mirrors in her home? But does she not feel the draft across her layered 'middle'? Or is this denial? Maybe this heifer thinks these jeans fit great, cover her, flatter her and look absolutely hot! Maybe? If you know me at all, then you know I do have the balls to ask. However, I left my balls at home that day! I know I wanted to do one of two things in that very moment: Give her the infamous 1994 "You Go Girl!" or Remind her, "You know, when you buy a large popcorn and large drink, you get free Snowcaps!" I did neither!
I looked, because I'm human. I was both concerned and impressed, that she didn't seem to care. I do hope that she finds a mirror. Extra weight is not good for your health, your heart, your body or your spirit. Assuming she is in her mid 20's, I hope she finds a mirror soon. Weight is a demon and weight fluctuation is Hell. I would want her to figure this out soon. To improve her health, to be kind to her heart, to rescue her body and to have the happiest of spirits!
Although I did leave my balls at home that day. Her balls are, by far, bigger than my balls!!! Congrats to that!!! You would never see me walking into McDonalds in my bikini and Super-Sizing the Bic Mac Meal!
Thank God for the Drive Thru! See you there!!!
Anyway, I'm standing by my 280lb guess. I'm really good at guessing people's weight, especially women's weight. I have been almost every size. In my adult life, my body has ventured from an 8 all the way to a very full, but loose, 22. Well, the 20 was way too tight, so although I did 'graduate' to a 22, it should be noted they were LOOSE!!! And I only wore them twice! Then I burned them! Let's face it, the only 20's a woman should ever be in, should last only 10 years.... and that should be her age, not her size.
Okay, back to my twenty-something, robust, popcorn with layered butter lover. She was wearing, hummm... where to start.... I'll start from the ground up. She was wearing black ballerina flats, jeans and a top with cap sleeves. The flats were cute; they're trendy, enough said. Her shoes were not what made me ask a 7 year old boy if he could please hand me my jaw from the floor. The jeans? Well, the jeans were denim, they were very tight, they were something that she would have needed assistance getting into. I find myself wondering if she's wearing a catheter today, because that movie 'snack' is going to hit her bladder at some point. Who will assist her when her bladder is dancing? My concern wouldn't be getting the jeans down necessarily, but getting them back up. I can only pray she has her cell phone with her in case of an emergency! She's going to need a few extra hands to help her pack herself back in there. The jeans were low rise. I guess it's easier to let it all hang out than pack 'everything' in a pair of jeans? I don't even know why they produce low rise jeans for anyone over a size 12 or so... it's just cruel. At least apply some self tanner to the 'overage' you're exposing. Let's talk overage, shall we? I've heard of a muffin top, I comprehend the muffin top... this was more like a bundt cake exploded!!! As they say in Georgia, this was a "hot mess!" Her 'middle' was everywhere! Just hanging out! Saying "hello!" It was layered, much like her popcorn. The upper 'middle' was laying on the middle 'middle' and then the lower 'middle' was what was so desperately packed into her 'cute' jeans! Just a mess! But like any decent train wreck, you couldn't turn away! And I couldn't. I felt so bad that I couldn't turn away. Well, no I didn't. Yes I did. No I didn't. Yes I did. No I didn't. I really didn't. The cap sleeve top was kind of sheer, which really didn't matter only because her 'middle' was out and about anyway. The good news about the portly arms dangling from the cap sleeve top, is that they would seem to withstand carrying a large popcorn weighed down with excessive butter and a large diet drink. The top was on the short side, or, was it her belly was on the long side? All I know is, I was there to see a movie and I couldn't step away from this hot mess of a plus size preview I was witnessing at the concession counter! I should be ashamed. But, I wasn't. I was impressed! Was this a confidence that I was witnessing? If so, where did such confidence come from? Was this an obliviousness? Maybe she has no idea? Maybe she has no mirrors in her home? But does she not feel the draft across her layered 'middle'? Or is this denial? Maybe this heifer thinks these jeans fit great, cover her, flatter her and look absolutely hot! Maybe? If you know me at all, then you know I do have the balls to ask. However, I left my balls at home that day! I know I wanted to do one of two things in that very moment: Give her the infamous 1994 "You Go Girl!" or Remind her, "You know, when you buy a large popcorn and large drink, you get free Snowcaps!" I did neither!
I looked, because I'm human. I was both concerned and impressed, that she didn't seem to care. I do hope that she finds a mirror. Extra weight is not good for your health, your heart, your body or your spirit. Assuming she is in her mid 20's, I hope she finds a mirror soon. Weight is a demon and weight fluctuation is Hell. I would want her to figure this out soon. To improve her health, to be kind to her heart, to rescue her body and to have the happiest of spirits!
Although I did leave my balls at home that day. Her balls are, by far, bigger than my balls!!! Congrats to that!!! You would never see me walking into McDonalds in my bikini and Super-Sizing the Bic Mac Meal!
Thank God for the Drive Thru! See you there!!!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Three Pairs of Jeans and a Fluffy Cashier!
As I work my way into my 40th year, I'm noticing it's like working your way into a pair of jeans that just came out of the hot dryer, the day you've started your period! You knew it was coming, you wish you were better prepared and you're regretting inhaling that bag of potato chips yesterday! You now have beads of sweat forming in a variety of places, desirable and not, because you're doing the "i think i can" dance to get into a pair of jeans that clearly should have been 'line' dried and not 'dryer' dried! I'm not saying you need to get a clothesline for that time of the month. Do what I do, throw the washed jeans over the bars of your treadmill. The jeans will keep your other 'treadmill clothes' company.
Where are your period jeans? If you wear a size 12, smart women of all ages know that you should have a size 14 on standby. These are your Period Jeans! Don't forget about your Low Self Esteem Jeans, these are the size 16 you should have on standby! Let's be honest, period or no period, we all have fat days! You take your 'fat day' size 12, jump into the Low Self Esteem size 16.... and the compliments are never ending!!! "Wow, you've lost weight!" "You look amazing!"
You will feel light as a feather, I guarantee it!
Although, I will tell you... when you're purchasing a pair of size 12, 14 and 16 jeans simultaneously, the cashier does tend to give you a questionable look. My suggestion: throw in a pregnancy test for good measure! Then just make small talk, "I hope it's a girl!" Obviously, this only applies if you're buying jeans at Target or Walmart. Last I knew, they didn't sell pregnancy tests at Macy's. If you're shopping for your three pairs of jeans where there are no pregnancy tests, don't panic, just purchase individually. It is more time consuming, but you'll save yourself the questions the inquiring cashier would ask. Well, unless she's on the fluffy side. The fluffier cashier would probably appreciate the three-jean-tip!!!
I hope you appreciated this tip!!! You're welcome!
And no... the 40's aren't so bad.... you just have to have the right attitude AND the right pair of jeans AND a treadmill!!!
Where are your period jeans? If you wear a size 12, smart women of all ages know that you should have a size 14 on standby. These are your Period Jeans! Don't forget about your Low Self Esteem Jeans, these are the size 16 you should have on standby! Let's be honest, period or no period, we all have fat days! You take your 'fat day' size 12, jump into the Low Self Esteem size 16.... and the compliments are never ending!!! "Wow, you've lost weight!" "You look amazing!"
You will feel light as a feather, I guarantee it!
Although, I will tell you... when you're purchasing a pair of size 12, 14 and 16 jeans simultaneously, the cashier does tend to give you a questionable look. My suggestion: throw in a pregnancy test for good measure! Then just make small talk, "I hope it's a girl!" Obviously, this only applies if you're buying jeans at Target or Walmart. Last I knew, they didn't sell pregnancy tests at Macy's. If you're shopping for your three pairs of jeans where there are no pregnancy tests, don't panic, just purchase individually. It is more time consuming, but you'll save yourself the questions the inquiring cashier would ask. Well, unless she's on the fluffy side. The fluffier cashier would probably appreciate the three-jean-tip!!!
I hope you appreciated this tip!!! You're welcome!
And no... the 40's aren't so bad.... you just have to have the right attitude AND the right pair of jeans AND a treadmill!!!
Friday, June 4, 2010
"Blogging for Dummies" leads to a 'road-walker' make-over on Oprah
There is no doubt that there is a thick, bright yellow book waiting for me at Barnes & Noble titled, "Blogging for Dummies." I, however, will chance it. I will make do, without. I will attempt to make ALL of my English teachers proud of me; my eleventh grade Journalism teacher as well. Besides, I'd rather not part with the assumed asking price of $19.95. Instead, I will 'wing it!' Those who may not be familiar with the term 'wing it,' please refer to "Slang for Dummies." No, nothing to do with a bird; that would be located in yet another, bright yellow book, "Inappropriate Hand Gestures for Dummies."
So, Where to begin? I have NO idea! Do I blog about funny things, sad things, honest things, happy things, depressing things, friends I love, friends who are no longer friends; or maybe, family members I'd rather not claim? Do I blog about sex, weight, money, vacations, bad habits, embarrassing moments, food, hobbies, relationships, health; or, what about love? Do I blog about strangers who walk along the side of the road, and based on their tan and the look of dehydration, have been walking awhile? Should I confess to you, that on more than one occasion, I thought of pulling over and asking, "Where are you going?" Actually, here we are, only the second paragraph in, and I'm lying to you. I wouldn't ask, "Where are you going?" I think I would ask, "How did you get here?" I know I would NOT ask the very obvious, "Don't your feet hurt?" That's just rude! But seriously, where is he going? How did he get 'here'? Does he have family? And most importantly, how much farther is he going to walk? I get sweaty and struggle to walk level one on the treadmill for twenty minutes, and it seems he's been walking for hours, if not days. I don't think he imagined that for himself. I don't think when his third grade teacher asked, "What are you going to be when you grow up?" his response was, "A thirsty, tan, road-walker." Forgive me, "road-walker" just sounds cuter than "homeless." There's nothing 'cute' about being homeless; about being a road-walker.
The most bizarre thoughts run through my mind though. Like, 'Wow, he's Tan!' You can never go wrong with a bronzed body! Well, except for the skin cancer. Of course, then I start thinking... 'Okay, he's a road-walker, I doubt he has Blue Cross. Not only does he need a ride, some money, food and water; what he really needs is sunscreen!' Next bizarre thought, 'Nice body!' He seems to be in great shape. Look at the work-out he's getting, extensive cardio and weight lifting. He's carrying what looks to be a pretty full backpack. Based on the size of the body he's chopped up, Lord only knows the weight of that backpack. I almost got in an accident last week when I found myself doing 13mph in a 55mph. I was trying to get a better look at a road-walker's face. No doubt, a semi-attractive road-walker can cause some accidents, people! But, with a soap filled shower, a haircut and a shave; I often wonder if the road-walker I pass today is going to be Oprah's 'make-over' success story tomorrow?
The lengths that people will go through to be on Oprah!
So, Where to begin? I have NO idea! Do I blog about funny things, sad things, honest things, happy things, depressing things, friends I love, friends who are no longer friends; or maybe, family members I'd rather not claim? Do I blog about sex, weight, money, vacations, bad habits, embarrassing moments, food, hobbies, relationships, health; or, what about love? Do I blog about strangers who walk along the side of the road, and based on their tan and the look of dehydration, have been walking awhile? Should I confess to you, that on more than one occasion, I thought of pulling over and asking, "Where are you going?" Actually, here we are, only the second paragraph in, and I'm lying to you. I wouldn't ask, "Where are you going?" I think I would ask, "How did you get here?" I know I would NOT ask the very obvious, "Don't your feet hurt?" That's just rude! But seriously, where is he going? How did he get 'here'? Does he have family? And most importantly, how much farther is he going to walk? I get sweaty and struggle to walk level one on the treadmill for twenty minutes, and it seems he's been walking for hours, if not days. I don't think he imagined that for himself. I don't think when his third grade teacher asked, "What are you going to be when you grow up?" his response was, "A thirsty, tan, road-walker." Forgive me, "road-walker" just sounds cuter than "homeless." There's nothing 'cute' about being homeless; about being a road-walker.
The most bizarre thoughts run through my mind though. Like, 'Wow, he's Tan!' You can never go wrong with a bronzed body! Well, except for the skin cancer. Of course, then I start thinking... 'Okay, he's a road-walker, I doubt he has Blue Cross. Not only does he need a ride, some money, food and water; what he really needs is sunscreen!' Next bizarre thought, 'Nice body!' He seems to be in great shape. Look at the work-out he's getting, extensive cardio and weight lifting. He's carrying what looks to be a pretty full backpack. Based on the size of the body he's chopped up, Lord only knows the weight of that backpack. I almost got in an accident last week when I found myself doing 13mph in a 55mph. I was trying to get a better look at a road-walker's face. No doubt, a semi-attractive road-walker can cause some accidents, people! But, with a soap filled shower, a haircut and a shave; I often wonder if the road-walker I pass today is going to be Oprah's 'make-over' success story tomorrow?
The lengths that people will go through to be on Oprah!
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