I go to the gym for several reasons. In no particular order, here are a few of those reasons:
It sounds good! Nothing sounds better (especially when it's true) than, "I just got home from the gym" or "I just pulled up at the gym" or "I'm getting ready to go to the gym." Adding urgency to these statements (with intentional voice fluctuation) is also impressive to those who are parked, on the couch. Asking, "Can I call you back later?" added to any of the above quotes really does have the couch potato you're speaking to, question themselves; their laziness, their health status, their level of fitness, their pending cellulite and their lack of initiative. "I'm getting ready to go to the gym, can I call you back later?" Do you detect the sense of urgency? It speaks volumes, doesn't it? (voice fluctuation is key)
Improved sex life! The older you get, the better shape you'd better be in if you plan on having marathon sex, like you did in your 20's and early 30's. Working out at the gym will provide flexibility, drive (endorphins) and stamina. These are the answers to marathon sex. Well, that and a light meal. When you enter your 40's, you can't take on a heavy meal and have 'dessert' like you used to. The rules of sex after a meal are much like the rules of swimming after a meal, there should be a minimum of a 20 minute wait before 'swimming.' Cramps and gas are not sexy. Why put you or your 'swim partner' through it? Trying to ignore or defend natural body functions when you're having sex too soon after a heavy meal is just... well, it's just not worth it. Do yourself, and your 'swim partner' a favor, and wait the 20 minutes, MINIMUM!
To look good naked! (for yourself and your significant other) There are many levels of nakedness when a woman gets older.
"Only After 9pm Naked", this naked woman wants no part of being naked in the daylight hours and will only shed her clothes after dark.
"Night Light or Candle Light Naked", this woman is only a fraction more secure than 'Only After 9pm Naked', as she will shed clothes in the dim light of a night light or candle night. No, not both. One or the other. The night light must have the lowest watt of bulb and if it's candle light you chose, then make sure it's been purchased from your local dollar store, instead of a store more reputable of true candle burning, like Yankee Candles. She wants the candle so dim, you'll question if it's even lit at all.
"Hall Light or Closet Light Naked", this naked woman is letting you know that a night light or candle light aren't enough light and that true daylight or the actual bedroom light are too much light. The 'hall light or closet light' are just right.
"Daylight or Bedroom Light Naked", this woman is far more comfortable and confident than the previous 'naked' women you've just read about. This is not to say she even has a flawless body, comfortable and confident doesn't necessarily mean flawless. Men really seem to like this 'naked' woman.
Lastly, there's the "Put Your Clothes On Naked." This naked woman would rather be naked than be clothed. You'll find yourself asking her often, "Are you going to put some clothes on?" Even insisting, "Will you please put some clothes on!" Regardless of your level of 'naked', everyone wants to look good, or at least better, naked. At least that's what I've heard.
To see what the shorts are saying nowadays! You know the shorts. You should be 95lbs-130lbs to wear them and ages 13-19 to own them. 'CHEER' across the backside is the most popular. I've seen a few others, 'JUICY' and 'CUTE' , just to name a couple. Last week, a pair of 'CHEER' shorts entered the gym, their owner was NOT in her teens. I would say she was in her late 40's, and walked with such confidence; really owning her 'CHEER' shorts. What message is she trying to convey? Should we 'CHEER' her on for her youthful, foolish style? Should we 'CHEER' for the fact that she sqwoze into these shorts that did actually fit her, but did not look good on her? (no, sqwoze is not a word, but squeeze wasn't comical enough- work with me here) I just think that if you're of such an age, or even a weight, that may not be 'CHEER' shorts friendly, that you should have fun with it! If you're going to have a message stamped, so proudly, on your ass for all to see... at least make it interesting. Do what I did, get some fabric paints and doodle on your ass. This technique works best if your gym shorts/pants are not on your body. Some suggestions that you may find as fun as I have are... FULL MOON... ASSTASTIC... GOT CHAIR... CHAIR ASS... BOUNCE HOUSE... THE END... CHEER IS FOR LAUNDRY... WIDE LOAD... I'M POOPED... ASS MAY APPEAR LARGER ON TREADMILL... SPANX ME... DEFYING GRAVITY... CAKES & PIES... CHEEKS WITH DIMPLES... HOUR GLASS (but X out the 'GL' in GLASS).
or, put two hand prints back there, one on each cheek. just make sure the hands are proportional to the size of your ass, or you're going to look stupid.
The list goes on and on! The one 'ass message' that will be sure to get attention is a lengthy message that will take a steady hand and decent, small/tiny/microscopic print, reading: IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU ARE TOO CLOSE TO ME AND WAY TOO CLOSE TO MY ASS. MY INNER THIRD GRADER THINKS YOU SHOULD TAKE A PICTURE 'CAUSE IT'LL LAST LONGER. MY INNER ROSEANNE BARR WANTS TO REMIND YOU TO USE THE WIDE ANGLE LENS. BUT WHAT YOU REALLY NEED TO DO, IS BACK THE HELL UP BEFORE I KICK YOU IN THE THROAT. HAVE A BLESSED DAY.
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
to say "I Do" or not to say "I Do"
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"
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"
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!
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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