I only just sort of don’t like you

It’s that time of year again.  When you get a little note in the mail from your doctor’s office telling you to pop in for your pap in.  Pap smear, that is.  I don’t know anyone that gets excited over doctor visits.  Just the thought of one gives me a low level panic attack.

I am a classic case of white coat paranoia.  I smell death everywhere in the exam room and see the grim reaper himself in a lab coat.  Okay, so I have a Chicken Little type of irrationality, but what do you see when you walk into a gynecologist’s office?  Needles and probes and some sort of steely aluminum shit in the corner that looks like an effed up version of Wall-e.  My first thought when I saw that machine was god damn, where the hell is he going to stick that?  I don’t think I have any hole in me big enough. 

But then again, doctors know more about your body than you do.  They also have their own unique way of relating the news to you. I ask my cardiologist what’s up with my heart and he’ll say well, you have paroxysmal supra ventricular tachycardia and/or quite possibly idiopathic ventricular tachycardia and I’ll open up my eyes big and wide, lie through my teeth, and say oh, yeah, of course! okay, that makes total sense now!, even more effing confused than before I asked the question and mentally ticking off the way I’d like things to be done at my funeral.  Dear Mr.John Hopkins, you need a crash course in how to explain non deadly afflictions in less deadly sounding terminology.

These cats look very much like I do during and after said scenario.


As bad as it is, a cardiologist visit is nothing compared to an appointment with the gynecologist.  Having someone who looks like my grandfather tell me to lay back and spread my legs is disconcerting, to say the least.  They also seem very suspicious of my efforts at losing the baby weight over there.  It might have something to do with the fact that the baby starts kindergarten next year.

The question of so are you going to have more kids? is inevitable and I can’t answer Gee, I don’t even know when the next time I’m going to take a piss isI’m guessing it’ll be when you ask me to do it in a cup, but neither one of us knows for sure, right?  They of all people should know that kids don’t ask for an invite.  They just show up, as did my youngest, and leave you wondering where did you come from?!  I’ve had my uterus securely under lock, key, and alarm system since then.  Only god can hack that code.

Speaking of which, good god,  doctors love to judge you.  The way they ask how many partners have you had, with steely gaze fixed, makes you squirm and wonder if even that man who tried to feel you up in the crowded elevator counts, with the afterthought of damn, that was eight years, two kids, and some pounds ago.  If I gave him the offer today he would probably refuse.

The biggest bummer of all is that most medical professionals look more like Dr.Phil than Derek Shepherd.

dr_phil_bversus tumblr_static_derek-shepherd-photo

Then there’s the trust issue.  He’ll assure you he’s gentle when his speculum wielding leaves you requesting a fucking epidural, but if at the same time he tells you you have esophageal hepatitis type F aortic kidney disease with inflamed pulmonary hardening of the abdominal cavity, you’ll believe him.  I bet half the people reading this thought that shit was real.

Don’t let this post take away from all the good doctors do, though.  Don’t think that.  You know what I’m talking about.  That sneaky little thought that if a doctor did any real work, he’d be called a nurse.  That kind of thinking is not nice.  Sure, he might only pop in for five minutes, but those five minutes are enough for someone with years of medical experience and if he was any better at what he did, he’d fix whatever was wrong with you with a twitch of his mouth and only the halo over his head as a light source.  Unless he graduated from shadymedschool.com, in which case I’d fly my ass right outta there.  Doctors do 95 percent of the good in this world, if you don’t count the one that performed Dick Cheney’s heart transplant.  That mofo should’ve known better.

Coming up next, The Doctor’s Version : A Rebuttal.  Spoiler ahead : Includes pissed off as hell MD’s who claim they are unfairly blamed for all medical problems of every fucking patient we come across.  Might also include diagnosis of put down the Fritos and get on treadmill for smart ass female patient

Disclaimer : That was a joke and I don’t promise any future posts on a doctor’s version of the shit he has to endure at the hands of whiny patients when he just tells them stuff for their own effing good.  I mean, where would I find someone like that?

Cat pics courtesy of https://catmacros.wordpress.com/tag/biting-sarcasm/.   McDreamy pic courtesy of my dreams.  Dr.Phil pic courtesy of just pick any effing place, he’s all over the internet anyway.

It’s Jurassic Park around here and just call me Tyrannosaurus Rex


Warning : Intense bitching and discussing of female issues to follow.  Enter at your own risk.

Those dinosaurs?  They’re me.  The kid scared out of his mind, cowering behind the desk?  Anyone that crosses my path a certain week out of certain months out of the year.  It’s not always like this.  It’s not always bad.  It’s usually pretty easy, minus a few cramps and way too many trips to the bathroom.  But when it gets bad, it gets bad pretty quickly.  The angry verbal lava you are spewing from your mouth runs hot and fast and before you know it, there’s been a lot of damage done.

I don’t know how women who have to deal with PMS every month manage to survive and with their marriages intact.  My periods have always been pretty symptom less, but post pregnancies, they got complicated, just like everything else in my life.  Now I don’t know what each month will bring.  It’s like being on the Price is Right.  There could be a new car behind that door or a frying pan.  I could be writhing in pain and sofa bound, cursing my uterus, ovaries, estrogen, mother nature and the cosmic forces that made me a woman.  Or the week could breeze by with minimal discomfort and I can toss and turn and sleep in whatever position I want to without worrying about waking up to the Chainsaw massacre.

This guess and go game of my reproductive cycle is distressing.  It may not seem that way, but I don’t like being a bitch.  No, I really don’t.  I feel like when I am, it’s because I’m provoked.  Examples would be when the old fart next door is mowing his lawn for the >insert any number of your liking here, it’ll work< time and that too on a Saturday morning, when no one wants to see the ass crack of dawn.  I feel like I’m usually nice to a fault, but I’m sure my husband would disagree.

This post isn’t about me, though.  It’s about me in relation to PMS.  Premenstrual syndrome.  I don’t know why they call it that when you feel the symptoms before, after, and during your cycle.  Someone enlighten me.  The worst thing, in my opinion, about PMS is that you JUST CANNOT FREAKING CONTROL IT.  It’s like a damn affliction.  When I’m swearing at the spaghetti water because “how the eff do you dare to boil that slow, your mother must have been some form of reverse osmosis shit”, I know I look like a mad woman.  But I can’t help it.  It’s like you know the bridge has collapsed and there’s a bazillion foot fall but you’re going to go on ahead anyway because your brain has lost control of the stick shift that is your mental balance.  That’s what it is.  A momentary (long moment) loss of mental balance.  Describes it perfectly for me.  I just didn’t want to use the term out of respect to people who really suffer from mental illness.  But then they say PMS can sometimes be a form of mental illness.  This is such a face palm moment.

Anyway, I hope I didn’t gross you out too much and you managed to enjoy your little tour through the female brain during uterine shedding season.  And no, I don’t think women are superior to men because they have to deal with Niagara falls in the overalls every month, even if the vein of this blog post seems to be heading in that direction.  As someone once snarkily pointed out to me, men have issues that are unique to their gender, also.  Like how to deal with their wives when aunt flow is visiting.  I see my husband’s face when I’ve turned into the housewife from hell and I hate the look I see there.  It makes me sad that I’m so mean and he’s so helpful, which unleashes another spewing of demonic proportions brought on by the frustration of knowing I’m so mean and he’s so helpful.  It’s a crazy, vicious cycle.  Pun intended.

So there’s my rant of the day/ode to my sistas.  What’s that?  I shouldn’t blog about female issues because it’s a public platform and it’s gross and what’s my problem, do I have cooties?  Well, what can I say?  That’s just how I am.  I don’t mind discussing issues of the female persuasion in the company of males as long as it’s done aesthetically, meaning I won’t ask you to see if this tampon can fit inside your nostril but I can help you out if you want to know what medicine will work best for your girlfriend and her “female problems.” What?  I sound like a bitch?  Well then, you’ll just have to forgive me.  You see, I’m on my period.

Dinosaur pic courtesy of http://www.pmslweb.com.