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.

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.

Bridesmaids – Shit Women Do

Girlfriends are just the worst.  Why in the world would a friend ask you to come to a party, but then put a stipulation on that party:  that you have to not only buy a dress, but a really ugly dress.  A dress that you will never wear again, in a color that you would never wear in public, in a style that went out of style last year.  Plus, you have to do shit before, during and after this party?  If she is a really big bitch, she may ask you to loose weight, wear your hair in a certain way or color, nails, makeup, shoes, jewelry and the list keeps going.  Yet, if we are not part of this coveted group of girls, we are sad and offended, even if we aren’t that good of friends!  We all want to be bridesmaids, and the cu-de-ta – the maid of honor.  The movie 27 Dresses captures the concept of the outlandish dresses and behavior perfectly.  I have lived through my share of taffeta colors (pink, green, teal) and my girls wore red silk or something.  It’s a thankless job, and you really are just a slave to the bride, because once it begins, it really is all about her and nothing else matters and no one else exists.  The “Thank you”s and acknowledgments for the extra mile will go by the wayside, never to be heard or seen.  You really could save the woman’s life, literally, and it would not phase the bride to be, it would be an expectation, like ‘what took you so long’.  Then comes the best part.  If you’re in that marrying age and you have other girlfriends that are getting married it’s about to get awkward!  So, one person is in a wedding, but six months later does not ask that friend to be in her wedding.  Oops, guess you’re not friends anymore!  Either that, or, now you have 15 bridesmaids and you have tell your fiancé he needs to find more friends (looser) or ask his second cousin Marvin to step in.  The next time someone asks me to be a bridesmaid, I’ll just buy them a bottle of champagne and one for me.  I’ll come out ahead, without a headache and a decent buzz!  Prost!

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.