Un-Pap-ular

[Interior...Doctor's Office]
Doctor: So what's brings you in today Redhead?
Me: I'm here for my [whispers] check-up.
That's why I look so cagey.
Doctor: When did you have your last...check-up?
Me: It would have been a year ago in November. Not last last November but this last November that just past. Plus now it's February so 12 plus 3 carry the 1...a year and three months.
I really need to learn to count in my head.
Doctor: Have you ever had an abnormal...check-up?
Maybe once.
Me: Not that I recall.
Doctor: Then you can get one every two years.
What kind of cracker jack doctor are you?
Me: But last year you told me to make sure I was tested again in a year because my tests were so infrequent.
Don't you remember every word I say?
Doctor: Now I'm telling you, you can get it done every two years.
Me: Not that I'm trying to argue to have a...check-up, god knows it isn't a barrel of monkeys. Like getting strip-searched at the airport by a Danny Devito look-a-like. But I definitely want to have it done today while I'm here. I just drove an hour and a half for this.
Plus, I shaved.
Doctor: Why don't you have a doctor in the city?
Because God is trying to punish me.
Me: It's impossible to find a doctor's that's taking new patients. Besides, I wanted to keep you while I was undergoing all of those tests with the specialist.
Doctor: Yeah, I've got friends in the city who can't find a doc earlier.
Then why did you ask dumb-ass?
Doctor: [Hands me a paper gown, closes the hospitalish curtain, and mumbles small talk]
Should I take off the knee-high nylons or leave them on? I'm not sure of pap-protocol. I decide to leave them on. Even though they smell odd, like sweaty bologna...thanks to my unbreathable faux-snakeskin boots.
Me: Ready. Set. Glove.
Doctor: [Still trying to make small talk] Now relax.
Yeah huh. Give me a pair of those gloves and I'll tell you to relax.

This reminds me of my Grade 12 prom - my breasts weren't squeezed at all. I ask about an itchy mole that has cropped up on my arm, which has me paranoid with visions of skin cancer. But the doctor says it's nothing to worry about (unless it starts oozing puss...ew!).

I think my doctor actually finds this hard . And he's a young doctor. Not that it's easier when you're younger (less experience and all that - again, just like Grade 12 prom). But it's weird. He's a DOCTOR. And a man. It's not like I'm repulsive when I'm half dressed (even if all I'm wearing is an unflattering paper gown).

Oh god. Maybe that's it. Or maybe he thinks it's weird that I shave. Or that I left my bologna-smelling knee-highs on. Or maybe I'm just being silly.

Still, I hope he's not that timid in the delivery room. Poor baby.

Oops I Did It Again...

Have you ever gone to the bathroom, only to realize mid-pee that you don't hear the tinkle tinkle of urine...

You do the between-the-legs-WTF-look (because you "hover" you don't sit EVER) and see the lid is down. Yup, you've just peed on the toilet lid, and the floor. And a bit on your coat.

Did I mention you're in the staff bathroom of your dental office?

Vitamin C

Paul was sick with the flu for the better part of last week, plus the weekend but managed to buck up enough for V-Day. There's nothing like the opportunity for lovin' to make a man rise from his death bed sick bed.

I'm not entirely/partly/remotely sure why men turn into moaning groaning babies when they get sick. Paul was nursing a "bad" case of snuffles co-mingled with a dash of coughing. And a fever - Ooooo. But by the sounds of it [literally], he had leperacy or malaria.

Not that I think Paul was faking it or anything. He really was sick. He even finger blew his nose in the shower. But I question the degree of sickness, of Paul, or any man. When a hang-nail can morph into flesh-eating disease, you need to distance yourself and stop encouraging any man-baby behaviour. I mean come on, child birth anyone?

I have the sinking senstation the flu is making a come back, and I'm numero uno on the hit list. So, I've been taking some preemptive action, mainly by boning up on my vitamin C's - coffee and chocolate. No moaning, no groaning. Just proactive kick-assness instead of reactive sorry-assness.

Now what's so hard about that?

Eggsactly

During my vacation this week, I've been left to my own devices which includes cooking my own "meals" [note: I've been eating a lot of toast]. I am resigned to the fact that if I lived alone I would probably never cook and survive on the substance provided in take-aways.

With Paul doing all of the cooking, I've become a bit rusty in the kitchen. Considering my pre-Paul cooking skills (which consisted of stuffed mushroom caps and chocolate chip cookies), one could argue I have always been rusty in the kitchen. Apparently, sometimes there is no where to go but down. This morning I somehow managed to burn boiled eggs for breakfast. Burn. Boiled. Eggs.

Good thing I look cute in an apron.

Desperate (to-be-a) Housewife

This week I'm enjoying a much needed three days off mini-vacation (the first in almost a year). And I've realized a few things:

1. I could seriously get used to being a stay-at-home housewife. For a month or so anyway. Before I got bored. But still, it would be one great month. Yesterday, I even ate chocolates...while watching soaps!

2. I need to get out of this life-sucking job and into something new. A job where people can be creative. And dress in clothes I drool over with envy. Where you don't get f-bombed by clients every ten minutes.

3. I should really start planning my wedding. It's in 6 months and 3 days (not that I'm counting). I don't even know where to start. Groom: check. Venue: check. Justice of the Peace: check. Ok, now what? I read all the planning books. And it's not like this is my first wedding, or Paul's for that matter. But this is THE wedding. Exclamation point. Full stop.

I think I need a vacation to recover from my vacation.

On My Chinny Chin Chin

Lately I've noticed hair sprouting up in the most unexpected of places. Rogue hairs. Very stealth like. On my chin, upper lip, from moles, on a nipple (ok, ok, two nipples).

It used to be nothing a tweezer couldn't fix. But now my tweezing has reached olympic proportions. I am resigned to the fact this has everything to do with age. Yeah, yeah age is just a number - a number of chin hairs.

Luckily I'm a redhead so my unwary hairy situation is somewhat invisable to the naked eye. And by naked eye I mean Paul's eye. But I can see the little suckers. They're there, taunting me.

It brings me back to my first date with Paul and I spent hours doing some pre-date self-maintenance. I even plucked my knuckle hair. Knuckle hair! I mean who DOES that?

Guys are much more lax about the whole hair thing. Probably because men are supposed to be hairy. Men = hairy = fertile. Women = hairy = quasimodo.

If this is 32, what will 40 bring?

Duty Calls

If you haven't had the pleasure of partaking in a colonoscopy, I'll give you the run down. No pun intended.

First, you drink a big jug the size of antifreeze full of clear liquid which boasts as much flavour as stale pineapple with a hint of cardboard. Then you spend the next 9 hours *ahem* "reading in the library".

Next, you go to the hospital where they shove a ******* up your *** and then they **** and you can't even ****, let alone **** for the next day.

I tried to forget that my ass resembled the Japanese flag and looked on the bright side - bonus weight loss! Two piddly pounds worth. Apparently my crap, much like my alcohol tolerance, is a light-weight.

And somewhere in Hollywood, someone is probably paying for this.