Gynocologist – Shit Women Do

“Just scooch back and put your feet in the stirrups.”

No man will ever hear these words without pants on, unless he is learning to ride horses in the nude. Crap, mental image now. Yes, they have the ever humiliating grab em by the balls, turn your head and cough routine, but it’s nothing compared to the metal duck crammed inside and cranked like a vice in reverse. The annual pilgrimage to the gyno, or the OBGYN. No real difference, just whatever your preference is, baby doc, crotch doc, really whatever. No disrespect to the men and women who went through medical school, residency and the array of twats they’sve Had to see, but if someone is sticking implements and fingers up my who-ha and I’m in a hospital gown and not an evening gown not even getting to imagine an orgasm, I get to call them whatever the fuck I want.

Back to the pilgrimage. If you are responsible, organized and going to the same doctor, you get that postcard in the mail. It’s pretty, flowers or art adorn one side, you have that moment ‘oh someone sent me a . . .’ and you flip it over. Damn it. Dear Miss Baldwin, just a friendly reminder it is time to get in an awkward position so we can scrape cells from your who-ha. Oh, and it’s also time to smoosh your boobs, too.

Now you have your appointment set, trying to remember the last time you had your period. That morning you can’t forget to shave legs and pits, trim anything else needing maintenance, find your cutest, newest pair of underware (I’m still trying to figure this one out, no one ever actually sees them), pick an outfit that is breathable down there and cross your fingers it’s not one of those ‘discharge days’. You always try for the earliest appointment or the one right around lunch. The less time your pussy is confined, the better. After the obligatory hang out time in the waiting room, where you play, “she’s knocked up by baby-daddy” or “we’re having our first baby” and a few “I hope I don’t have to use the room she is going to”, they slaughter your name worse than a drunk barista and call you back.

The worst, absolute worst part of the entire day is about to happen. Right there, just on the other side of the door are all of those judge mental women (they are by default because you were just a second ago), in front of other staff, nurses, assistants and other patients. Anything but “step up on the scale please”. Nooooooooooooooo! Racing through your head, what can you take off here? Jewelry, the watch and pandora bracelet could easily be a pound. Shoes for sure, could the pants come off, they are about to anyway. The scale at home tells the truth most of the time, this one on the other hand, it’s a conspiracy at the deepest level. Hesitantly, the foot, sans shoe, raises to project my entire mass onto this wretched torture device. The digital numbers deliberately toy with my mind. It stops. No do-overs, no ‘let’s spin the wheel again’, that number is you. The nurse scoff and laughs, then screams out the number like a bingo game. It is projected on to the wall like a bat signal. The clock in the waiting room wasn’t a clock, it was a scale face synced with this scale now everyone knows. Damn Ben & Jerry’s. This is what it’s like anytime we have to step on a scale in public is like.

What really happens though, you walk in, they ask how tall you are, you step on the scale, they take down the number as you cringe. They ask you to step off and sit down in the small chair next to the scale and take your blood pressure, temp and pulse. You are then escorted into the empty room with the modified exam table and in the back a wall or curtain with a bench.

Now ashamed and totally regretting the pint of ice cream you destroyed Saturday night, you have to strip. The whole Monty. Bare butt and all, you put on what they call a gown, but it is more like a couple of Kleenex scotch taped together. I have see more substantial ‘toilet paper wedding dresses’. They also give you a ‘sheet’, a disposable piece of paper, aka a giant kleenex to place over your legs. And so it begins.

It’s great when the doctor walks in and asks how you are doing. It’s creepy that the nurse has to hang out in the room (patient safety from pervy doctors). It’s freaky when your in ‘the position’ with the doctors head below deck and with a hand gesture included says ‘scooch your bottom towards the end of the table. A little more, just a bit more, perfect.’ This is the position where your feet are in the stirrups, the Kleenex on your legs is really only there to keep you from having to look at the doctors face while they are on their expedition and the Kleenex with tape, open to the front is trying to fall open at every point and you have the feeling that your fat ass is about to fall off the edge of the table.

You wouldn’t believe the pick-up lines the doctor will try now!
”I’m placing my fingers in your cervical canal”
”You’re going to feel a little pressure as I push down on your uterus”
”This will be a little cold”

Then they play with your boobies! Which of course isn’t necessary because they are sending you off for a mammogram (radiology speak for squished booby x-ray). Before you even blink, the doctor is up at the sink washing their hands about to give you the biggest brush off you will ever get after having someone touch your goodies, “ok, good to see you, stop by the front, see you next year.”

It’s really depressing when this is the most action you have seen in a while. I’ve got to update my tinder profile.

My Skinny Jeans – Shit Women Do

We all have ‘that pair’ in our closet, our skinny jeans. We will never, ever throw them away. They represent different things to each of us, one day I will, I once was. Everything that lives around that pair of skinny jeans, however, is a different story. A woman’s closet is a mini store in and of itself. First, you have your seasons and depending on your climate will determine the severity of your seasonal fluxuation (someone in Chicago will have a heavier winter collection than someone in Miami). Now, within those seasons, there are formal, business/work, casual, comfy, p.j., and junk clothes. Formal is going to be your LBD, anything with sequins, shines, glittery, floor length, etc. Business attire is self explanatory. The difference between casual and comfy is casual can be worn in public, comfy not so much. The junk clothes, that’s the clothes we use to clean out the garage in, heavy yard work, paint, destructive things. Now, everyone knows the next one. We have at least two sizes in most of the above. There is no real designation between them unless there is a significant size reduction. Most of the time it just depends on how you feel that day. Bloated and lazy, it’s time for those baggy pants or that peasant skirt with the drawstring waist. Feeling awesome and hot, time for those jeggins with the back slit top. When we loose those 7 pounds though, buddy, SHOPPING SPREE! Even if there is shit in our closet that fits, it’s time for new goodies. Every so often, we purge. We go through, piece by piece. The first to go are usually the fashion disasters, left overs from the neon 80’s or the grunge 90’s. Next, the ones we know we will never, and I mean never fit into again (except for those skinny jeans). The next casualty, with our new found sveltness, the two-ton Tessy pants, well, at least a couple. You keep a couple of nice ones that you really like, just in case, and hide them in the back of the closet. After four bags of donations, your closet is still bulging at the door, your searching for hangers, you have no drawer space, the skinny jeans still have their coveted spot on the top shelf.  Yet even with a proverbial mall in that closet, you wear a uniform or the standard ‘work outfit’ to work, come home and put on your favorite pair of sweats and a grubby t-shirt that you have worn since 1998 almost 98% of the time. Classic.

The Rules – Shit Women Do

The number of ‘How To’ and self-help guides out there on landing a man could fill a small city library. One of the great ones (she said with a shit eating grin) was “The Rules”, a detailed road map of how to get any guy out there, guaranteed, IF you followed all the rules. Sounded simple enough, follow some simple rules, laid out in detail, couldn’t be any worse than the savory advice you get from your girlfriends at 1:15 in the morning, drunk at the bar after an unsuccessful night in the clubs of man hunting, again. Crying with her into your rum and coke (sorry, diet coke) in your great new shoes that are now on the bar stool next to you because they were killing your feet by 10 and that outfit that you were sure would at least get the back up guy to hit on you. So, you bought a copy of The Rules. There are 35 rules. Crap, 35! 35! I already have a problem with authority, and now this book wants me to follow 35 freaking rules? O.k., the first rule: Be a “creature unlike any other”. I think we have accomplished that, just read this book, women are fucking weird! I’m not going to list all of the rules, because, well, they are just insane, but some highlights. #7 is don’t accept a Saturday night date after a Wednesday. I guess this is to give the impression I’m not desperate and that if you haven’t ‘booked’ me by Wednesday, you’re out of luck, even if I have nothing planned except on orgy with Ben & Jerry. I also like #3 don’t stare at men or talk too much. Uh, oppressed much? Or #16, don’t tell him what to do & #18, don’t try to change him. Obviously these two rules were NOT written for women, this is in their genetic makeup, I think there was a National Geographic special on it, they found the bitch gene, it was telling all the other genes what to do and how they should have been doing it all along. The whole concept of the book is the archaic concept of landing “Mr. Right” for marriage and the writers even reference the early 1900’s as the origin for the material. The problem with The Rules, advice from your girlfriends, self-help books, gossip, Facebook, your sister, your mom or any other female for that matter, is that the guys are not in the loop – they have no clue about the rules. So while you don’t call him back because the rules tell you that you aren’t supposed to ever call him and only take his calls occasionally, he just thinks you don’t answer, gets someone else’s didgets, and you’re left at home with your cat, Ben & Jerry and a copy of The Rules on another Saturday night.

Moving

Have you done it?  As a child with your family?  Going off to college?  Out of your parents home into your first apartment, or perhaps into your first home with your partner?  Most of us have, at least once.  You’d be hard pressed to find someone that never has (and to be quite honest, those that I know that never have are just plain weird).

Moved.  That exciting yet dreaded task of packing your life into brown boxes and starting over in a set of four new walls, most of the time.  Sometimes you don’t have a choice and sometimes those four walls aren’t so new.

I have done this exercise a total of  20 times,  5 of which required long haul trucking companies and one round trip over seas.  I’m tired of brown boxes, and you’d think by now, I’d have this crap down.  My sister is the same way.  Yet every time, when it comes down to the wire, and we are looking at things as we put them into the boxes, the same question pops into our head, “do I really need this?” And inevitably, the crap we really don’t ends up in the box and the crap we spend the next three weeks looking for as we unpack doesn’t.

While packing, you always start smart.  You pack away the things you can live without for a few weeks, pack them nice and gingerly.  You mark the box and even include a detailed contents list so you know what’s in each box.  This activity lasts about a week.  As your time starts to crunch, your stuff starts to look never ending and you start to wonder why you have so much shit.  Do you really need five serving bowls?  What the hell?  How many times have you ever put out that many Doritos?  What about all of those A/C adapters, you don’t even know what they belong to, but you hang onto them anyway, and they get thrown into that box labeled ‘misc. crap’ which by the time the movers come, you have about 7 of those boxes.  The rest of it, starts to get boxed ‘however’.  Can’t find the bubble wrap, no problem, those dishes are getting packed in dish towels.  Out of boxes, trash bags work great for linens.  Honey, can you go to the liquor store, get me a bottle of vodka and whatever boxes they have?  You’d be amazed at how much shit you can fit into a Fiat.

Oddly enough, I had more crap go wrong and more crap break in my last move (which I’m still unpacking from AND still actually moving) which was a local move and my shortest distance by far, a whopping 3.4 miles, than I had in any other move.  I even paid extra to have three guys instead of two, I had clarified like five times in the days before, “three guys, three hours, $199  – yes” NOPE, two hours into it, the owner is calling saying it will be another $100 for another hour!  This was after they had broken a custom framed photo that cost me $250!  After some arguing, we agreed to a compromise but in the end, we still ran out of time and I still have boxes at the old address.  That much, I can’t fit into a Fiat!

In the meantime, I’m unpacking, putting things in their new home, discovering things about the new place, getting to know my neighbors.  I open boxes, some I know exactly what’s in them because of the label on the outside with the careful description on the box telling me the contents.  Others, I open them like on Christmas morning, wondering what kind of surprise is inside, and just like Christmas, am totally disappointed wondering, “what in the hell is this shit, and why do I have it?”

Pantyhose Hell – Shit Women Do

Pantyhose, I have theorized, were an invention by a man to torture women.  I would say the same of SPANX, but we all know those were the brain child of Sara Blakely and that thousands of women “swear by their SPANX”.  Yet what is the first thing we do when we get home?  We rip off every layer of clothing, an audible ‘aaahhh’ emits from our mouths the moment our bra is unhooked and then the task at hand:  peel off that Lycra/nylon bondage that’s been holding in, up, apart, various body parts.  What the hell?  It’s hard as shit just to get into a pair of those damn things!  She knew that when she designed them, that’s why there’s a pee hole in the crotch so you don’t have to pull them up and down all night.  I’m sure there are women who say, “screw it, it took me 5 hours to get these on, they aren’t coming off until I HAVE to shower again!”  There are everything from tucking in the tummy and controlling the butt to propping up the boobs to covering the toes.  Any woman will tell you, the array of ’unmentionables’ that we have to select from makes shopping for them an expedition.  There is no running in to grab a pair, it’s a labor of dread and in this world, there is no faking it.  All of your fat and glory is in black and white in the sizing, because there is no getting away with cramming into a smaller size in the world of nylon/Lycra undergarments.  After we have spent half a day shopping for these torture devices, we wear them all day or night sweating our proverbial balls off, then work enough calories off to not need them in the process of trying to take them off.  Once they are off, we have every intention to care for them as the label reads:  Hand wash only.  We even bought that special soap.  I, along with almost everyone I know, have a pile of hose, lycra and that teddy you wore once in the corner of the closet that the cat finds quite comfortable.

The beginning of “Shit Women Do”

From the time that that damn little egg develops until the moment we draw our last breath, women will do some crazy shit in their lifetime. Is it because they are women? Is it because men drive them to this behavior? Maybe it’s a cosmic thing and we just will never understand the reason why the female version of homo sapiens do what they do. It would be such an adventure to travel the universe to see what other life forms out there have dueling sexes, or for that matter, multiple sexes, and what bizarre rituals, habits and activities they partake in.

Me, as a little egg ran into that shitty little sperm on accident. Oops. See, I was already trying to avoid people back then, but NO, somehow in that long ass fallopian tube that little shit found me and hitched a ride and I started to get fat right off the bat. Damn it. So like any other emotional girl, I found a corner to hide in and cry, suck my thumb and eat for nine months. That is until some guy convinced me it was worth it to get out there and face the world. I need to find that guy and punch him in the face.

IMAG0022I have no idea if my parents knew if they were going to have a girl. They could have been having a Buick for all they knew. These days, you find out the sex, size, weight, e-mail address, get a 3D image, place a cell phone call to it, pre-book the pre-K, already have play dates set and have the room custom decorated in anything but pepto pink or blasé blue. Most of the time (unless you are one of the small group of slightly odd, the jury is still out on, but not quite sure what to think of you, gender neutral parenting parents), the world and your child will know you are having a girl or a boy.

See, from the beginning, women are fundamentally different. We are just doing our own thing, we’ve got places to go, things to do, trying to avoid the crowd. Then here come the guys, with just one thing on their mind, like usual.  Well, boys can’t multi-task anyway.