Have spent the better part of the past three hours in the waiting room at the twat doc. Oy vey.
I ended up really enjoying the experience. The doctor, not the “OK, that emerald ring you lost three years ago has gotta be up there SOMEWHERE” part. I tend to prefer male doctors since they know their way around better than anyone, and believe me, if HE couldn’t find my beloved ring, NOBODY can!
I was getting fairly antsy after a while and just wanted somebody — for the love of God, ANYBODY — to examine me. Hey, it was going to be the most activity the ol’ girl has seen in (*mumble mumble*) so yeah, bring it.
Actually, quite honestly, it was the first lunch break I’ve taken in (*mumble mumble*) so I really wasn’t too concerned. After the three-ring circus spectacular (assclowns unite!) that was my morning, it was actually the most pleasant part of my day to have someone impale the honey pot with a metal stirrer. And if THAT doesn’t say something, I really don’t know what would!
Since we’ve bypassed TMI on the coochie superhighway, let’s pull over to the next rest stop and talk about those little wonderful magical pills that those kind of doctors can prescribe to you. I mean, not that I’m planning on falling on someone’s dick accidentally or anything. But, you know. I aim to be more prepared than FEMA in hurricane season.
But the funny part of all this is, shit, I’m 34 years old and have a three-month supply of freedom pills. Do I still hide them from my Extended HouseguestTM like I had to do when I was half this age? 🙂