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.

Nuts and Bolting

Mary (aka Undercover Mother) and I were chatting about her impending trip to the eye doctor this week. As it turns out, we go to the same one. We'll call him, Dr. Evans** I've been going to Dr. Evans for eye exams since I was a wee little redhead.

Mary confessed that for this week's appointment, she's opted to go with Dr. Evan's daughter who is a newly minted eye doctor. "Instead of going to see the nut rubber."

"The who what now?" I asked.

She said it again, without trying to laugh. "The nut rubber."

Picture it: You're sitting in the eye examination chair thingy. Dr. Evans is seated (legs open) in his wheely chair, and comes toward you to begin the exam. Granted, we're dealing with eyes here so a doctor does need to get close. And before you know it, his nuts rub against your knee. And I don't mean bag of peanuts...

At first, you think, did that JUST happen? A drive-by scrotum sack swish? You try to put it out of your mind. Clearly you imagined it. But then you come to the realization that you've had less bodily contact with lap dancers.

Mary has even attempted to out smart the good doctor. She's tried to cross her legs (he asked her to uncross them), and tried to use her purse as a knee/nut guard (he put her purse on the floor). And per usual, she was groin grazed.

And here I thought it was just me. Turns out Dr. Evans doesn't discriminate between the sexes, he's an equal opportunity nut nuzzler. He's given Mary's son, Brad, the ball brush, in addition to her daughter Bridget. The more Mary and I talked (and laughed because the whole sorted scrotum scenario is as funny as it is bizarre) we discovered it's also happened to our coworker Aaron (who was oblivious to Dr. Evans' beat with his south of the border bongos).

And here's the quandary. My next eye appointment is in January. Should I go to Dr. Evans and blow the whistle on his testicle two-step? Or should I let sleeping dogs lie, and just switch to his lack-of-sack daughter?

Hmmm...

**Definitely not his real name, what am I crazy?