Worst. Gyno. Visit. Ever. February 26, 2013

Glad I got your attention, ladies. And for you men who dared to read further, congratulations. Glad you could join us. We’re going to be talking about lady bits.

So I’ve been a little stuck lately in the writing department. My novel and article writing are going great, but nothing was inspiring me for this blog (i.e. nothing that I could make fun of or complain about).

But then I visited the gynecologist today, and just like that my problem was solved.

Let me begin by saying that I have had several horrible gyno visits in my lifetime, so it shouldn’t surprise me that this one was terrible as well. But usually the bad part only happens when my feet are in the stirrups. This time the frustration started right when I walked in the door.

I was at a new office, and I knew I had to visit Suite 2030. I headed to the elevator, thinking that it was on the second floor. I stepped into the elevator slightly, looking over at the buttons to see if there was a directory. But then before I could figure anything out, some old lady who works in “hospitality” comes up behind me, flat out PUSHES me into the elevator and says, “PLEASE STEP INSIDE.”

Now I can see if you are escorting a bleeding body on a gurney, you’d want me to get the hell out of the way. However, as far as I could tell this lady was only going to the lower level to get herself a bowl of Metamucil from the cafeteria. I understand the importance of fiber, but this was ridiculous.

I exchanged a look with another lady in the elevator.

My look clearly conveyed, “Oh no she di’int…”

Her look conveyed something like, “Oh, what a crazy, spunky old lady! Isn’t she fun?”

If this were Say Anything, she would have been the kind and caring Diane Court and I would have been the insensitive, ageist Lloyd Dobbler who tried to show Cocoon to all the senior citizens.

Clearly I was not as forgiving.

Old woman: Well it looks like we’re all going to the lower level.

Me: Actually I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.

Old woman: Well where are you trying to go?

Me: 2030.

Old woman: (cranky tone) 2030? What does that mean?”

Me: Suite 2030.

Old woman: (crankier tone) WHICH. DOCTOR.

Me: Dr. C- (name is hidden to protect the innocent)

Old woman: Oh well you didn’t need to get on the elevator! You need to go back to where you were. Just press one and it will take you back there.

She says this last part in a patronizing voice, and you can tell she truly believes that she has been the most helpful hospital employee that ever lived.

Me: Gee, thanks for that advice on how the elevator works. I never would have figured out how to get back to the first floor. And by the way, I never would have had to take this f*cking elevator ride in the first place if you hadn’t PUSHED ME IN before I even knew where I was going.


Okay, I really didn’t say that last part. But that’s how it happens in my fantasy.

So I find Suite 2030 and sit down. For 55 minutes.

This is not entirely bad because I have my lovely SmartPhone and I can clean up my gmail account which is overflowing with offers from all the flash sale websites I belong to. Let’s just say it’s gotten a little out of hand, but I refuse to unsubscribe from any of them because I may miss out on the greatest designer sale ever. But in the meantime it’s either a whole lot of “Save 50% on Photo-to-Canvas Prints”, or else I’m about a day too late and all the good stuff is already sold to people who don’t have day jobs.

Oh, and did I mention that I was having an ultrasound done? (No, I am not pregnant.)

An ultrasound requires one to have a full bladder.

Yes, I sat there for 55 minutes while having to pee.

So about 30 minutes in I decide to whine on Facebook. A friend suggests that I do Kegel exercises to help pass the time.

I want to tell her, “Honey, I am on the verge of peeing myself right now. Believe me, I am the definition of Kegel exercises right now.”

When I am finally called into the ultrasound room, I then I have to endure a large probe jutting into my abdomen. While I still have to pee.

I am then allowed to relieve myself, but then I have to go back for the vaginal ultrasound which is basically the longest and most uncomfortable photo shoot ever. Kind of like when Lindsey Lohan arrives to the photo studio hung over and two hours late and everyone has to scramble to make up time, and the photographer has a really hard time getting the right shot and some incompetent stylist assistant did not get the right goddamn jewelry from Cartier.

Except in my case there was a crazy-long hunt/probe/expedition for my left ovary who thought it would be funny to hide. I was not amused.

After this, more peeing and then another fun procedure. I won’t even get into the details of this, but it involved a catheter and then more exploratory action.

I finally get out of there nearly three hours later. To use a quote from the musical Chicago, “I’m really irritated, and I’m looking for a little sympathy.”

And that, my friends, is why I’m having this second glass of wine right now.




Here’s Why I Can Relate to Cypress Hill and The Fresh Prince February 8, 2013

I hear you, Cypress Hill.

I feel your pain, Fresh Prince.

Both of you knew people who just didn’t understand.

B-Real and Sen-Dog were frustrated because nobody could understand how they could just kill a man. Well I’ll tell you why: there was some rookie who busted into their house and tried to take their chrome.

And The Fresh Prince…we all know how that turned out. His parents just didn’t understand. I mean sometimes a kid just needs to impress the ladies with his parents’ Porsche, and how are you supposed to do that if you’re wearing Brady Bunch pants, a shirt with a butterfly collar and Zips for God’s sake?

Well, my hip hop brothers…I too have people in my life who just don’t understand.

Let’s start with my stepdaughter. Once a week I will see her scouring the internet, looking for a “current event” for one of her classes. After a few minutes she will excitedly tell me about the article she found. It’s usually something about an abandoned cat with 3 legs, one eye and severe halitosis who is adopted by autistic conjoined twins after he saves them from a fire caused by their faulty iPad. What she clearly does not understand is that although this may be a super groovy story to share with her classmates, it is not – and I repeat it is NOT – a “current event”.

Calling this a current event is like calling Brett Favre a “loyal Green Bay Packer”.

Calling this a current event is like calling Audrina Patridge a “real” actress.

Calling this a current event is like calling Honey Boo Boo’s mom a “proper Southern lady”.

Let’s see…the fact that an angry, revengeful ex-cop is on the loose killing people right now is a wee bit more noteworthy than the feel-good cat story. Before you choose that current event, kids, let’s do a little gut check, shall we? If you can’t picture it showing up as a clue on Jeopardy! someday, then it’s time to find another story.

Another person who doesn’t understand is the hand crème guy at the mall. Don’t let him fool you; the hand crème guy is basically the mall’s resident gypsy. The second you take that sample of hand crème, he will take your hand, give you a flower, tell your fortune, and then accuse you of making him fall and injure himself as his buddy lifts your wallet. This is all done in a confusing Romanian accent of course.

Clearly the hand crème guy does not understand that the average person (i.e. me, who was taking a half day vacation) does not have the time to stop and hear his spiel about this magical crème which supposedly contains ground-up diamonds, gold flecks and skin cell samples cultivated from Kristin Cavalleri. (Because we all know that bitch’s hands are impossibly smooth, having never seen an honest day’s work.)

Most of us need to get on our merry way so we can buy more threadbare sweaters from Forever 21, or so we can check out the raunchy cards and tee shirts at Hot Topic. Hand crème guy needs to take a lesson from Panda Express. Distribute the delectable sample and then move on. If it’s that great, we will come back for the chicken.

The last guy who just doesn’t understand is my company’s Kaizen Event Leader. Now don’t get me wrong. I think Kaizen events are very valuable and actually kind of cool. After all, you find a bunch of stupid, redundant tasks that people have been doing for years, and you show how pointless and wasteful it’s all been. You and your team are then heroes for finding all this waste and saving the company time and money. Not only does management love it, but the entire week you are in these meetings you are fed free soda and snacks. It’s pretty kush.

The only problem I have with this is the clothing requirement. No, I’m not talking about a special dress code. Rather I’m talking about my company’s requirement for each team member to order some article of clothing with the company’s name and logo on it along with the embroidered words “Kaizen Event Team Member”.

My feelings on company apparel are quite simple. They run along a scale ranging from “Oh hell no” on one end to “The only way I’m wearing any company clothing is the day I start working for Prada” on the other.

Of course, the shirt is the first order of business on Day One of the event.

“What kind of shirt do you want?” the Kaizen Event Team Leader asks me.

“Uh…do I really need to order one?” I ask.


“I’d be saving the company money if I didn’t order one.”

A confused look, then silence.

“Well how about I think about it and let you know,” I say, hoping that he will just forget about it.

No such luck. The next day I am approached again. So I try to avoid a decision by using smart-ass humor.

“Okay, get me a tank top,” I say. “Wait, no…a tube top.”

Laughter, then silence. His pen is still poised to take my order.

I really didn’t want to do this, but he leaves me no choice. I am forced to take the direct approach.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” I begin. “I don’t want a shirt. I will not wear the shirt. Not for camping. Not for highway garbage pick-up. And not even if I attended the annual Kaizen-palooza (I’m sure that’s what it’s called) conference, which, by the way, is probably someplace like Vegas…and I need to look cute there. Now this is in no way a reflection on all you fine people or this event. However, the only winner here is going to be the ironic hipster who buys this shirt from the thrift store. Because that is where it’s going once I get it.”

“You can get a sweatshirt or polo or even a long-sleeved shirt…those long-sleeved ones are nice…”


“Fine. Give me a red t-shirt.”