A blog in three parts, accidentally.

I know I should blog. I know. I feel like I'm neglecting the global fan base who has made me the international superstar I am today. But really, you haven't missed anything.

I dig working at Squish (although so far I've spent more than I've earned), but I'm still feeling kinda like an outsider. I haven't dropped the full-on Pennytude on them, though, so maybe they don't know I'm cool yet. It's a kinda lonely gig, too. It's a small space inside a Macy's store, and when it's not busy we're supposed to stand outside the Squish counter's walls and stop passing foot traffic. That'd be fine with me, except I'm not allowed to whip out my boobs. What fun is that?

Last week was MIL's birthday, R's birthday, and Thanksgiving. Even though we were already planning to go out to Chez Inlaw on Thursday, R said we'd also go out Sunday for MIL's birthday. I would have been pissed about having to go there twice in one week, let alone in one month, but it was all worth it when my BIL, Reverend Aldi, let it slip that they'd have to bring their dog to Thanksgiving. Since the Aldis have to celebrate every holiday with my Inlaws, PLUS Mrs. Aldi's own totally creepy family, Chantal would otherwise be stuck at home all day.

Please tell me you remember what happened the last time the Aldis took their dog out to the Inlaws. It may have been the best day of my life.

Anyway, I was totally giddy all week, imagining a repeat of this past Fourth of July, when Chantal dropped a huge steaming pile of poo right on the immaculate white carpet in FIL's living room. I even thought about sneaking over to the Aldis' house and feeding Chantal some chili when everybody else was asleep.

Y'all know I'm not above it.

Imagine my disappointment when I arrived on Thursday afternoon and both Chantal and The Reverend were absent. The Reverend was sick, supposedly. MIL said he sounded terrible on the phone.

Shit, if WE were supposed to be there and we had a car wreck on our way there, we'd have the ambulance take us to FIL's house even before we went to the ER because otherwise FIL would give us endless grief. It's happened before. He was a real dick to R when I was home sick with the Strep on Mother's Day one year. He didn't believe for a second that I was really sick. I WAS. And it was still more pleasant than going out there for the afternoon.

Wanna hear my theory? I think The Rev faked being sick so they wouldn't have to take a chance on having the dog poop on FIL's floor again. R agrees with me. There's a good chance the dog will come out for Christmas, I think. Fingers crossed!

So, since The Rev and Chantal weren't there, it was an extreeeeemely boring afternoon. Mrs. Aldi and the Aldikids were there, but they only stayed for a little bit before they had to leave for Mrs. Aldi's sister's house, so then it was the five of us Karmas and MIL and FIL.

I've figured out that if we take a kid-friendly movie with us, we can all watch it together. We get credit for staying a couple of hours, we don't have to engage in any conversation with anyone, and it has a definite end, which allows us a graceful exit. Total WIN.

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Ok, now we move on to Part Two of this post. Literally as soon as I finished typing "total WIN", I stood up and felt a horrible pain in the lower left part of my abdomen. I sat back down, got on WebMD, and tried to figure out what the problem might be. I didn't have a fever or vomiting or any other weird symptoms, just a hideous stabbing pain that got worse when I went from sitting to standing. I couldn't stand all the way up straight.

WebMD's suggestion was to seek medical attention immediately, so, in gut-wrenching agony, I drove myself to Urgent Care. Actually, I had to wait for Beeb to get home so I could explain to her that Pie's obnoxious friend John was coming over after school because his mom needed to take her other son to a late doctor's appointment and she wouldn't be able to be there when John got home.

Beeb was relatively cool with that, and I called R on the way there to tell him what was going on. He would probably be home before Pie and John got home anyway, so it was going to work out fine. I went to Urgent Care, waited for about 30 minutes, got into a room, had to do the old pee-in-a-cup trick, and yay, I'm not pregnant. If I was, they'd have had to peel me off the fuckin ceiling. Seriously.

Next step, a blood draw. I haaaaaate blood draws. I get all freaked out. I've cried before; recently, even. It's totally embarrassing.

Bloodwork came back fine. Next they wanted a pelvic exam. Ugh.

So, just to recap, I'd already peed in a cup, bled into a tube, and now I was supposed to expose my crotch to someone other those who have been granted prior authorization. It made me think of that classic line from Clerks, "I'm not even supposed to BE here today!!"

Look, I've already got my annual Cooter Rootin' scheduled for Wednesday morning. I'm not aesthetically prepared to spread 'em for a stranger right now. I haven't shaved in a couple of days. I'm wearing panties that say "You Wish" on the butt. Now it's kinda unintentionally comical, obviously, but I wouldn't have worn those on purpose to see my gyno.

Especially if I had known that it would be performed by the same little guy who's done my throat cultures the last five or six times I've been in there with the Strep. Now he gets to swab a much more sensitive part of me.

I decided many years ago that I prefer to see a woman gynocologist. I know different people have different opinions on this very personal choice, but here I was about to flash my crotch for this dude who, up to now, had only seen my diseased tonsils. He only had above-the-neck familiarity, and now I'm granting him access to the Holy of Holies (pun intended). I just felt a little strange about it.

For those of you familiar with the show Seinfeld, Dr. Dennis looks a lot like NBC president Russell Dalrymple, whom George and Jerry stalk in the episode entitled "The Shoes," until they find him in a restaurant. Whereupon Elaine, in a very low-cut dress, walks over to his table to ask if he could help her open her bottle of ketchup. She flirtatiously leans forward and asks,

"Do you have a... Ketchup Secret? Because, if you do have a Ketchup Secret, I'd really, really like to know what it is."

He totally looks like the Ketchup Secret guy.

I hope this helps at least some of you visualize what I was dealing with at this point. He left the room so I could get undressed from the waist down, and a minute or so later I heard him knock on the door to ask if I was ready. I told him sure, I'm all set, come on in.

He re-entered, clad in what looked like a green plastic hazmat lab coat. I didn't know whether to be totally insulted or to burst out laughing. I mean, dude, what is this, a fucking alien autopsy? Am I going to spew florescent toxic oozing zombie fluids all over you? Pretty sure I'm not, but it's best to be prepared, I guess.

I scootched my cootch down to the edge of the table and stuck my heels in the stirrups. And if that information is too graphic for your taste, then you're reading the wrong blog, my friend.

While inserting the speculum, he said, "Ok, now, the key is to just relax." Like I've never had a pelvic before.

No, the key is to keep myself from laughing so I don't accidentally fart at Dr. Ketchup Secret.

Staring into the abyss (while I tried to relax), he stated that he was seeing, and I quote, "a little more discharge than he'd like to see". Well, hell, if I'd known somebody'd be scraping me out today, I probably wouldn't have gotten me some luvin' this morning either. Oops. I don't know what kept me from asking, Well, gee, how much discharge would you LIKE to see?

Thank God my filter was still engaged. This guy would NOT have found it funny in the slightest. Therefore, I'd like to put a simple request out there to any current or potential medical student:

If you're considering a career in the field of Gynecology, please, please, PLEASE get a muthahfuggin sense of humor. I can't possibly stress this enough.

He started poking me from the inside and the outside, and DAMN, it hurt. His diagnosis? Ovarian cyst. He suggested I call my gyno and get in for an ultrasound.

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Which brings us to part three of this post. I'll have to post that part tomorrow. It's still too raw to write.

(The experience, NOT my vagina.)