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?
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.