God-Damn Creepy-Crawling Eight-legged Freaks-Part 2!!!

God-Damn Creepy-Crawling Eight-legged Freaks-Part 2!!!

What is it with me and spiders? Or rather what is up with the little fuck faces scaring the holy shit out of me; and in the most ridiculous situations?

        Had one of those long, all day, nurse manager meetings that are, oh so entertaining to begin with, today. Walk in, take my seat, look up and I can see clear across the room, like a drone honing in on a Iraqi terrorist, my previous little ass-hole spider’s distant cousin, scuttling around on the far wall. He scurries around in circles, like a half-naked teenage boy, caught with his pants down in his girlfriend’s bedroom by her father, frantically searching for the nearest exit. Finally, fading into the dark mahogany molding of the conference room, or so he thinks; I can still see him; I have the eyes of a hawk (glasses and all). I think, “hmmmmmm, I’m gonna keep an eye on that little bitch”.

        Then the meeting begins, heated discussion takes over and of course, my ADHD, (squirrel) takes over.

        There I am… actively, and quite dramatically if I do say so myself, knowledgeably conveying some frustrations many of us have with (can’t for the life of me remember what hell I was bitching about) to the poor unfortunate souls who came to “help” with our concerns. Little did they know they were conversing with such a vocal and opinionated group of women!

        When out of fucking-nowhere… here comes the now huge (because he’s much closer) pitch-black hairy fucker zip lining down his silky mutant repelling cable from the god-damn ceiling to land on MY FUCKING COMPUTER!!!!

Seriously? That’s where the bastard chose to go? Twenty other people in the room, he heads straight for me? This bitch is going dowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwn!

        Of course the bitch was me; instantly slammed back in my chair as if taking off on a shuttle launch, screamed like a banshee midsentence and did a triple axel to the back of the room. Disclaimer: No human or self was harmed in the making of this blog post.

        So this time, instead of steady and brave hubby coming to the rescue, twenty other people, nurses no less, just gape at me like I’ve just lost my mind; obviously wondering what medication I’m taking and what medications I should be on, until the few people around me finally notice the little bastard trying to type a letter about how spiders fucking hate me across my computer keyboard and dive into action.

        I’ve gotta hand it to the other gals. They were quite calm about the whole situation. The lady in front of me calmly trapped the little shithead under a (conveniently placed) empty water glass and another lady was nice enough not to want to incinerate the little bitch-face with a long handled proton pack, like I was ready to, bummer, but rather scooped him up in the glass and let him go outside.

        I’m sure he has plans to track me back to my lair and infest my house with his rabid offspring.  He was probably out in the parking lot taking down my license plate number.

        I’m done. This is just ridiculous. What the hell?

It's My Vagina! Not an Excavation Tunnel to China

So, had my yearly pap the other day…

Let this be a lesson in what NOT to do for any future OB/GYN candidates out there.

            First, when going through the humdrum of the standard questioning of the last years' womanly issues, it helps if you can actually recall when I was in last. No it wasn't TWO years ago, it was last year. Hence the annual oil change. Had I popped out a baby you would've been the first to know since that is why I ultimately went with an OB/GYN, just in case I mistakenly get knocked up. You guys are supposed to know your shit about that stuff.  And thanks for the unsolicited need to tell me what I already know about smoking and birth control. I’m a fucking woman, who has been on birth control for half my life, I've read the inserts AND I’m a fucking nurse. Got it!

 Second, I love my computer as much as you obviously do, but it’s nice if you actually talk to me; you've just given new meaning to the term “My face is up here”.  

And third…

I swear my gynecologist should try his hand as a mechanic in the car pit at the Indy 500 speedway. I’m surprised I didn't hear the torque of the vagina spreader as he cranked me open. The man apparently has no varying speed settings other than Mach 5. Dude, sloooooow down! And if this is such a challenge for you, you should really invest in oh shit handles, since the white-knuckled hand gripping of the exam table on the one side and slapping of the wall on the other, gave you no indication that I really wasn't relishing, nor was my pleasure tunnel prepared for your foreplay-lacking Speedy Gonzalez advancement.  Could you maybe pause long enough for my seized up labia and vaginal muscles to relax for one fucking second? And what is it with not even warming up the god damn speculum in the first place? If I wanted frostbite up there, I’d sit on a pole out in the middle of nowhere on the east coast, where they’re enduring a polar vortex, or bring my own tank of liquid nitrogen to save you the trouble.

 I was also at a loss as to what the hell he uses to “swab” the cervix. It felt somewhat akin to a wire bristle brush or a metal replica of a pissed off porcupine being inserted ass first. I’m convinced if this year’s result is abnormal; it’s probably due to the fact that he collected bladder and colon cells as well. Oh did you discover urea and E. coli in the Pap smear stain? Wonder why? I swear I could feel your whipping cream-Kitchen-Aid-setting 10-like whisking up in my throat.

Then there was the breast exam. Were you having childhood nostalgia for inducing Indian Burns? I know you’re searching for those pesky and possibly hiding little lumps, but do you have to rake your fingers across my nipples like you’re trying to remove residual Gorilla tape adhesive? I think one of my nipples was actually pushed to a new position somewhere on my abdomen creating a new belly button; only this one’s an outie.

My poor body and in particular, coochie-coo! She was absolutely quivering with horror from this experience. In fact, it gets worse every year.  Going for my yearly oil change is turning into Valium-requiring events that I typically attribute to the dentist. Which leads me to wonder what the hell it is with orifices and the need for the pokers and prodders to give you Helga’s House of Torture-like pain? Is this a litmus test for something; never-ending pledging week for dental or gynecological professionals? Is this an attempt to convince a woman to actually have a child? Because these experiences OH!-so lead me to believe that child-birth “really isn't that bad”.

Why do people say "Grow some balls"? Balls are weak and sensitive! If you really wanna get tough, grow a vagina! Those things take a pounding! -Betty White

She’s fucking right!

Time for a new and nice vaginal medical professional; I fear if I stay with this guy any longer, my box is going to fold up like a terrorized turtle and just suddenly fall out of me like Wiley E. Coyote trying to drop an anvil on Road Runner. Any suggestions? J