Life with dogs

Snow? In the living room? Green ice? In the kitchen? If only.

Wads of white cotton litter the living room floor. The couch cushion looks flatter than it did last night.

Slimy yellow-green vomit waits near the dining room table for me to clean.

That's what they get for eating the couch. But why can't we take that punishment a step further and make them clean it up?

Oh, to be a dog.

I'M GONNA BE A MOMMY!

And Joe's gonna be a daddy.

And we're going to be parents.

Because I'm growing a baby in my belly!

I'm seven weeks pregnant.

Two days ago (and this is kind of a funny story), one of the dogs puked on the floor. I usually handle cleaning up vomit just fine. No problems. Usually. Well, this particular day, I gagged all over the place. It was gross. I realized that my boobs had hurt like nobody's business for the past couple weeks. And I had to pee all the time. And I was exhausted all the time.

I took the test and got the little plus sign immediately. I might have said some bad words because I didn't really know what else to say.

I texted Joe and told him I was picking him up for lunch at the diner. When he got in the car, I asked, "So... am I glowing?"

"You kind of are," he said. "Why? Are you pregnant or something?"

"Uh-huh."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"No joke?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow."

"Uh-huh."

Then I told him to get out of the car if he wanted to smoke. "I'll quit after I finish these two packs we have left," he said.

"Uh-huh."

"You're really pregnant?"

"Yep."

He opened the car door. "I have to go tell everyone!"

I told him to wait. At least until after we had lunch.

Over big fat freaking cheeseburgers, we stared at each other and said "Wow" a lot.

"You need to call your mom," he said.

"I will," I said.

"NO. Like right now."

"She's at work."

"Doh."

Then he hounded me the rest of the day to call her. I hounded my sister all day to text me when Mom got home.

When I finally reached her, we talked about normal stuff for a minute or so. She had had a bad day and was very stressed out.

"I just had a quick question for you," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you prefer to be called Grandma... Nana... Mamaw...?"

"REALLY?!" she shrieked.

"Yep."

Then she was very excited for a few minutes. "Does everyone else already know or am I the first?"

"Nope. You're the first. Well, other than Joe's co-workers who he told immediately."

She was thrilled to be the first one to know. "Here. Ask your father the same question. Oh. And I prefer the traditional Grandma," she whispered.

I asked Dad the question.

"No kiddin'?" he asked after a long pause.

"Nope. Not even kidding," I said.

Then he said "Awesome" like 50 times.

"It's gonna be a boy," he said. "Because I have all girls. That means you'll have all boys."

The second my family knew, Joe posted something on Facebook about me being "all sorts of knocked up."

Five people have already told us it's going to be twins. I told them they could go do naughty things to themselves.

The first day I think I spent about a good five hours just bawling my eyes out.

Yesterday I was kind of excited.

Then after the doctor called last night and gave me the official results of the test at the clinic, my excitement level rose a few hundred notches and has remained that way since.

I got my prenatal vitamins (free prescription at the clinic - what, what), skipped my morning coffee(s) and started eating fruit for breakfast and drinking milk (but only with ovaltine mixed in, because plain milk makes me gag). Joe is taking care of the litter box and mixing the dog food (because I can't even handle the smell of chicken broth mixed with dry dog food).

Just a few days ago Joe and I said that if I ever got pregnant we had to get rid of Jack. I think that's one of the big reasons I cried so much the other day. But. I don't know. Maybe he'll be okay?

Last night we watched "Babies". And OMG. The cuteness. Anyway. Every time a baby cried, Jack tilted his head and stared at the screen. It was just way too cute. He kept looking like, "Now who do I need to mess up? Who is making that baby cry?" I think he'll do okay with the baby. I think the problems will come when someone other than me is holding the baby and the baby starts to cry. I think he might even be aggressive towards Joe when the baby's around. We'll see. I hope hope hope we don't have to get rid of him. I love the little guy. Even though he's a douche bag.

Well, anyway. Just thought I'd share our happy news. Excuse me while I go throw up again.

A Home Divided

After experiencing a terrible puppy tragedy this summer, Joe and I adopted two shelter dogs. They are both two years old. They are also both ginormous.

Gracie is a 135-pound St. Bernard. She's my girl and I'm her girl. We bonded instantly and now she never leaves my side. She's rambunctious and loving. She refuses to let Joe walk her unless I'm with them. I'm the only human for her.

Jack is a 150-pound Neopolitan Mastiff. He has issues. When we adopted him, we were told by the stupid, crazy "behavioralist" shelter owner (whom we reported to the SPCA for a number of reasons, including fraud, abuse and neglect) that he may need surgery in a couple years on his torn ACL (anterior cruciate ligament, located in his back right knee). We took him to the vet soon after the adoption and were told that it was actually a matter of great urgency. Bye-bye, $3,000.

We were also told that he was fine with cats.

Ha.

The first and only introduction with the cats was a stressful event for the whole family. Joe had Jack on his leash and pinch collar, which the "behavioralist" recommended. Robin (the cat) hopped up into my lap for loving. Jack wanted to approach, so Joe let him. Then, Jack opened his mouth and tried to eat my poor little cat. Robin tore off after scratching my legs all to hell (bad call wearing shorts for the introduction) and ran around the house. Gracie chased after. The "behavioralist" said Gracie was trying to protect Robin. I don't really know. I think she chased because Robin ran.

My first instinct was to punch Jack square in the nose and I physically had to hold my hand back from doing so. Jack started after Gracie and drug Joe down the stairs, nearly ripping his shoulder out of its socket.

Since then, the cats have lived on one side of the house and the dogs have inhabited the other. Thankfully, we have a door that splits the house in half. Unfortunately, the cats never get to come over here to the office, kitchen and living room. We slept in the living room on the couches for four months, until finally we decided that it was just ridiculous. The dogs could handle being alone at night. Now we sleep in our actual bed where my little Robin lays on my side every night.

When my sister was visiting, she put her construction skills to work and fixed the middle door. You used to have to slam it to get it shut. She Dremeled it down so it closes smoothly. Unfortunately, if the door isn't locked, it pops open. We learned this one day when we came home from an adventure and discovered dog shit in the front room, fur all over the bed and half-chewed used cat litter in the cat's food bowl. The cats, thankfully, were unscathed. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see exactly what happened that day and how the cats managed to escape.

I would love more than anything for our family to be whole, for our home to be open. But we can't with Jack the way he is.

We've tried everything. We did the positive reinforcement training with treats and a clicker. We tried the negative enforcement with a lot of "no's" and "being alpha". We bought him a pheromone collar. We bought him a choke collar. We bought him a Haltee. We bought him an assortment of pinch collars. We bought the training dvd from the obedience school he attended as a puppy. Everything worked the first day. After that? Not so much.

This dog has serious issues. He's afraid of the wood floor. We bought a big carpet remnant to cover the kitchen floor. He peed all over it and it was impossible to clean (gallons! fucking gallons of urine!) so we threw it out. Sometimes he's fine and can make it across. Other times, he stands there crying until he can get up the guts to cross it.

He bites at the leash when we walk him. He knows his commands, but is often too stubborn to follow through with them.

He is afraid of trash cans, for sale signs, cars, bicyclists, runners, you name it. Shoot, I've seen him jump at his own shadow!

He had a rough life. His previous owners adopted him and his sister as puppies. His sister died of a very rare disease (the only case in all of New Jersey) caused by drinking filthy, scummy, contaminated water. They left the dogs outside for days at a time. They used the hose to punish him. Consequently, he is also afraid of water.

He and Gracie get along like best friends. Only occasionally does he show aggression towards her. One time, while doing one our "alpha" exercises, Joe made Jack lay down while I walked Gracie around and around him. Then when we switched roles, Jack walked by and stepped on Gracie's head. On purpose.

Joe is at his wit's end. We had a discussion last night about Jack and his issues. Joe confessed that he just doesn't know what to do anymore. I could never get rid of him, but at the same time, I hate living like this. Gracie is fine with the cats. She sniffs them and they sniff her. I let them interact all the time. When Jack even sees them through the door, he postures up and starts growling.

I want to fix him. I want him to be a healthy, normal dog. I get that he had such a rough life. I just don't know how to help him. This morning I walked him and instead of turning him around and heading home when he acted up, I kept going, I kept working with him. I stood my ground until finally, 15 minutes later, he walked next to me like a good boy. Meanwhile, cars were driving by, inhabitants staring, probably wondering why the hell I was jerking my dog around so much and what I did to make him such a bad dog.

Ugh. It's a process. I hope we'll get him better one day. I really do.

Blast From the Past: Oct. 6, 2006

Local Superhero Beats Living Crap Out of Creepy Guy

It had been a long day. A long, monotonous, paperwork-filing, cape-sewing kind of day. I couldn’t wait to get home and kick off my Manolos and soak in the bubbly tub with a comic book and a steaming cup of cappuccino. When the time clock banged out 5:00, I was out of there.

The thoughts of the tub and the comic book filled my head and I barely noticed The Creepy Guy standing by the entrance. He opened the door for me and I mumbled, “Thank you,” because that’s what you’re supposed to say when someone opens a door for you. Creepy Guy or not.

“You are very welcome,” he said with a thick unidentifiable accent.

As I was fitting the new yellow and black helmet over my head, careful not to mess my hair, out of the corner of my eye I saw him retreating back into the building. I fired up my Ducati and took off. As I passed the other entrance to the building, I noticed him leaning against one of the pillars, watching the street. I glanced in my side mirror and saw him race to his car as soon as I had passed. The silver-striped car followed me as I turned down the road I’ve traveled down the past three years. Instead of going straight like I normally would on my home, I made a sharp right at the next street. I looked in my mirror again as I sped down the quiet street and saw his car slowly pass. His head turned and he watched me.

Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out. I decided not to go straight home in case he was keeping an eye on me. I made a few twists and turns and just when I was sure I had lost him, there he was again. I wove through the rush hour traffic like a pro on my new bike. He went a lot slower, but like a shadow, he was on my tail.

I nearly dropped the bike as I made a last-minute turn decision. I thought it had been a smart move, but he seemed to anticipate the turn into the cemetery, because there he was, closer than he appeared in the mirror. I sped past the gravestones, not taking any time to read the names like I usually did. I made it all the way to the end of the road. Dead end. A cliff loomed before me. I shut down the engine and jumped off the bike. I propped it up on the kickstand and looked down the drop-off. The waves of the angry ocean slammed into the dangerously sharp rocks below. I removed my helmet and turned to face my pursuer.

He had followed my example and exited his vehicle. “What are you going to do now?” he asked with wave of his hand toward the edge. “You seem to have reached a dead end.” He reached for my face with his slimy hand. One thought struck me as I saw his hand inching toward me in slow motion. “No way am I going to let that greasy hand touch my hair.” Before he could even react I had grabbed his arm and flipped him over my head.

The look on his face as he laid there on the ground can only be described as a look of utter surprise. “I see I have underestimated you,” he said with a creepy laugh. “But perhaps…” he leapt to his feet and had my arms behind my back in a fierce lock, “…you have underestimated me.”

Oh, crap. This isn’t going exactly how I planned, I thought. Flashbacks from training camp were plowing through my head. I wiggled, I jumped, I kicked, I flailed, but to no avail. This guy was strong.

“Now, how about coming home with me for a glass of wine, maybe some dessert,” he said in a manner I suppose he thought to be seductive. I could feel his nasty breath on my neck and his, um, manhood pressing into my lower back. I felt filthy, violated.

“No!” I screamed. His lips were on my ear, caressing, kissing, and breathing on me. His face was scratchy and greasy. I stepped forward, hoping to make him lose his balance. He again anticipated my move and followed me. He had one hand firmly grasping my wrists and the other was slowly inching up my stomach, reaching for places no man has ever touched. And I intended to keep it that way.

I busted out my super strength and freed myself from his grasp. He had one of those, “What the…?” expressions on his face as I turned around and clocked him in the jaw. He fell inches from the ledge. I walked closer as he writhed in pain on the muddy ground. He yelled as I lifted my foot, as if to kick him. “Please!” he yelled, his voice squeaking as it neared the “s,” “Please don’t hurt me! I wasn’t going to do anything! I swear! I was just playing!”

I kicked him an inch closer to the edge. He covered his face with his hands as I inched closer. “You were just what?” I asked, fully taking advantage of the power I had over him. “Playing? I was just playing?”

“Is that how you play?” I yelled. “Instead of dolls and board games you play with real people?!” My voice echoed as I continued to grow louder. “That is not acceptable!! I’m calling the cops!”

If he wasn’t afraid before, then he was certainly afraid now. “Not the cops! Please! I don’t want to go back!” But it was too late. I had already pushed the button. The sirens that had been wailing in the distance grew louder. I kicked him one more time for good measure, then threw on my helmet and sped off just before the squealing tires signaled the arrival of the sheriff and his posse. In my mirror I saw the uniformed men cuff the Creepy Guy and load him into the back of a patrol car. It had been a really long day. I went home for my reward.

[Author’s Note : This is a true story. Well, most of it is true. Okay, some of it actually happened. Well, maybe it was based loosely on true events. You decide.]

In case you're curious about the real story....

The first part is true. Instead of a Ducati, I hopped into the passenger seat of my mother's van. We drove around the block several times until Creepy Guy got bored and decided to quit following us.

And also? I've never read a comic book in my life. Especially not in the bathtub.

Ah, imagination. Why have you forsaken me?

The Visit. And Various Other Things.

Every time I say good-bye, I wish I had never left. That should be a song. Then again, if it was a song, I would have listened to it the whole way on the train ride home. And I would have cried. I guess it's good that it's not a song.

My sister came for a visit and stayed for three weeks. It was wonderful. Swell. Glorious. I worried that we might have issues, seeing as how I was the one who told on her for shoplifting last summer and sneaking out with an 18-year-old. But, no. She was cool. We're friends again and it's awesome.

We visited King of Prussia Mall, the Jersey Shore, New York City and just about everything in between. I cried buckets when she left. It was nice getting to know her as she is now and I wish she could have stayed forever.

Joe is in Europe. The lucky bastard. He is currently sleeping in a fancy shmancy hotel in Spain. I am eating a tiny pizza, drinking a beer, and listening to the sound of my dog licking his crotch. Yumm.

Joe went to Germany for a couple days and is now in Spain for training for his new job. He was supposed to go for three weeks, but he got promoted. The company could only spare him for a week. The big-wigs at the international headquarters want to make him CEO of the company in the states. Did I mention he's only worked there for two months?

I guess we (did you notice the "we" as in "me" as in "I") have to go to Europe twice a year. I swear, this is the best job ever. Except for the part where he has to travel without me sometimes.

Tarantula Legs and the Red Dress

If I never wear another ankle-length jean skirt again it'll be too soon. Same goes for those stupid maxi dresses that I had to wear a collared shirt under. And opaque white tights.

Mom went through a phase - can you call five years a phase? - where she believed women should never be seen in public wearing pants. She also had a sort of revelation, I guess you could call it. A revelation that answered the problem of me being attracted to boys and them reciprocating. She executed this light bulb moment by banning me from shaving my legs until I was 18.

So there I was. Tarantula-legged teenager trying to play basketball, hike the rocky trails at the State Park and rollerblade in dresses that constantly conspired to trip me. I got pretty decent at hiding my legs and my feminine curves while running to flattened Pepsi box bases and kicking the boys' asses in tackle football. But, God, how I hated her for the embarrassment that came as a result of her stinkin' rules.

Most of my dresses had been handed down to me from people in the church. It wouldn't have been so bad if most of the people in our church weren't old. I remember one old lady dress in particular. If I still had it, I could probably wear it and be a fashion sensation, what with vintage being the new black and all.

The dress was red with huge white polka dots. It was a classic 50's style dress, probably truly made in the 50's, with a starched white collar, a zippered back I couldn't fasten myself and a thick white belt around the waist. I wore it to church once, paired with white opaque tights and white flats. Everyone at church told me I looked fabulous. I would have been on cloud nine if my hand-me-down, too-long slip and my hand-me-down, three sizes too big, lacy old lady bra hadn't made the outfit so ridiculously uncomfortable.

I prayed in earnest that morning during the offering prayer. While Mr. Wease, the resident mumbler, bowed his head and mumbled, mumbled, mumbled, Amen, I kept from giggling by praying that we wouldn't go to a fancy restaurant for lunch after church. But, Dad came to church that unfortunate Sunday. And that only meant one thing: he wanted a steak.

Dad and Mom chain-smoked as Dad drove to the next town over and parked in front of Ponderosa. As everyone piled out of the Bronco, I dawdled, checking to make sure everything was in place in my non-matching, hand-me-down fake Louis Vuitton backpack purse.

"Jesus Christ!" Mom yelled. "Do you need a fucking written invitation?"

I got out of the truck. "No, Ma'am."

People stared. Teenagers pointed and laughed. It felt like one of those horrible slow-mo sequences in a movie where someone falls off his bike trying to do a cool trick only to end up looking like an ass as everyone around him starts laughing.

As soon as we sat down at our table in the smoking section, Mom ordered our drinks, Dad his steak, and everyone but me stood to head to the All-You-Can-Eat for $5.99 buffet.

"I'm not hungry," I said after Mom shot me a dirty look.

"You better damn well eat something. And be fucking thankful for it," she whispered through gritted teeth. "Little kids in China don't get to eat at Ponderosa!" She grabbed my arm and yanked me up, then smiled cheerily at the passing waitress.

I looked at the interesting scuff marks on my shoes and walked up to the buffet table without bumping into anything - another skill I managed to perfect during my teen years.

"I love your dress!" shouted an elderly lady behind me in line as I plopped mashed potatoes onto my plate. "I used to have one just like it when I was your age!"

A teenaged girl snorted.

The next Sunday I reverted back to one of Mom's handmade dresses. I didn't get nearly as many compliments that day, but that dress was much easier to move around in, so I played tag with the boys in the hallway after church.

The Dream

Lately I've been trying to get in touch my soul, I guess you could say. I've opened my mind to the reality that things happen that cannot be explained, to the idea that there is more than one way to get to Heaven, to the possibility that life is but energy that lives on forever.

I've started keeping a dream journal. In one of my books, "Thinking Write" by Kelly L. Stone, the author encouraged writers to explore the vast chasm that is the subconscious. Every night I fall asleep asking my subconscious for a dream to assist me with my current project. Every morning I awake frustrated that no answers have come. I wrote in my dream journal faithfully for about... oh, two days. Then I lost interest. It wasn't working. Every once in a while at some random point in the day, one of the previous night's dreams come to me and I rush to pick up my pen and record it in my purple journal. This happened today.

I suddenly remembered a dream I've had two or three times this week. I sat down and wrote it out.

In my dream, I was afraid to log into Blogger. Mostly, I was afraid to check Charlie's blog. I was afraid I would read a message saying he was no longer with us. Finally, I worked up the courage and checked his blog. The background had been changed since the last time I saw it. The header and the profile name were different, in classic Charlie style - he always does like to change things up. I saw a picture of a beautiful, peaceful landscape. His last entry had been posted just days before.

I had this dream at least twice. The first time was a few days ago. I had it again last night. My subconscious was trying to tell me something, I decided. It was trying to tell me that even if his life had ended, his words would live on forever, as would the impact he made on my life and on the lives of others in the blogosphere.

After I finished writing the dream, I walked to my computer and typed in "Blogger.com". I logged in and checked Charlie's blog. I was afraid, just as I had been in my dream, just as I have been for some months, to see what I might find there. The background was different from the way it was the last time I saw it. His last entry was three days ago. He posted a picture of a beautiful, peaceful landscape.

It was silly of me to spend all these months away because of that fear. I tried to catch up on everything I missed. I'm glad I had the dream and I'm glad it brought me back to what I love and to you fellow bloggers whom I love, though I have never met any of you.

Hi, it's me again

I have no excuses. I won't even try. But did ya'll know I finally made it into a book? I can't remember if I told you that or not. But I did.

Life has been ridiculously wonderful. Joe has a new job. I've gone back to taking my job seriously. We adopted two giant dogs (one of whom, unfortunately, has a taste for cats). But I'll tell you about all that later.

And also. I had a major psychic moment today that pertains to the blogging world, one person in particular. Don't let me forget to tell you about that one on another day, too. It was profound.

The real reason I came here is to get something off my chest.

Nothing makes me despise my womanhood more than a trip to the doctor's office. Nothing makes me despise being a military retiree's wife more than a trip to the huge brick and beige building that is the Medical Group.

As if the embarrassing questions aren't bad enough, add to the mix that you never know which doctor or PA you're going to get. Sometimes you get a cool chick doctor. Other times you get a creepy old man doctor who likes to lay his sausage fingers on your arm for no damn reason.

When it's time to make an appointment, I put off that dreaded phone call for as long as I possibly can. The day I finally work up the gumption, I carefully listen to the recorded options because they have just changed. I press "1" for Family Practice. I pace as the pre-recorded woo-hoos for the Medical Group intertwine with elevator music and warnings to hang up and dial "911" if this is an emergency.

A grumpy woman finally comes on the line and asks for my last four. And by my last four, she means my husband's last four. I have no trouble spouting out his social security number on command, but I can't for the life of me remember my own. Good thing I never need to use it.

The woman asks the reason for my visit and I tell her I want to be put on birth control. She sloooowllly asks a couple questions, then her voice speed changes to that of light when she gives me the date and time and promptly hangs up. I can't remember the time, so I decide to show up first thing in the morning and just wait it out.

Upon arrival, I usually have to show three cards to the only nice person in the whole place - a dark-haired woman who checks the patients in. This time, however, she was busy, so I hand my cards to the Senior Airman behind the desk and said, "I have an appointment?..."

He types in my name. "Women's Health", he says. "Ew, ew, ew, ew," I hear him think. He hands my cards to the woman. "Here. You do it." He wipes his hands on his BDU pants as if he's afraid they're now covered in vaginal secretions.

After a quick, barely noticeable eye roll in the Senior Airman's direction, the woman drops what she's doing to check me in. She tells me to wait outside Door No. 8.

Normally, the numbered doors make me feel like I'm on a game show. I spend at least 10 minutes imagining what's behind each door. "So, what do we have behind Door No. 8, Bob?"

"A NEW CAR!!!"

The audience squeals.

But. At this point I'm too busy freaking out to have any imaginary fun. I didn't know I'd have to see someone in "Women's Health". I cross my fingers and pray I'm not taken to a room with a table equipped with stirrups and told to put on a paper gown.

I try to read a book, but the only words I see on the pages are "These are fingers... this is the speculum... you may feel a slight cramp..."

A kind-faced civilian nurse - a woman, thank goodness - calls me by my first name. I took that as a good sign because I hate being Mrs. Last Name. Or just flat out Last Name.

I follow her to a room and thank God for answering my prayers when I am motioned to sit in a chair in a room containing only a desk, two chairs and a blood pressure machine.

The nurse makes conversation about the ridiculous taxes in New Jersey, and how crazy it is that we never used to get earthquakes, tornadoes or hurricanes until last week when we got two out of the three. She asked when my last pap smear was. I lied. "April." They never check the charts...

"That's odd," she says. "It shows here that your last one was April, 2009."

Shit. Since when do they check the charts?

"How peculiar," I say. "Seems like just yesterday..." Insert uncomfortable giggle.

After the blood pressure was taken... twice and I answered the rest of the embarrassing questions, she led me to another room (an office - woot!!) to meet the doctor.

He was a dude. An old dude. With glasses. And a hairy chest mostly visible under his civilian shirt. "Just one minute, please," he tells me as I sit in the chair across from him. He puts on a headset and starts talking to his computer about his last patient's vagina being mostly healthy.

So. Umm. Yeah...

He takes off the headset, then shakes my hand (EW!!) and introduces himself. I'm going to call him Dr. Douche. Seems fitting, right?

"So, you want birth control, eh?" he asks.

"Uh... yes."

"And what did you have in mind?"

"The pill," I say.

"Ahh..." He leans back in his chair and scratches his beard. "And you smoke?"

"Yes."

"Bless your heart." That was a first. Never had my heart blessed for smoking. "That's rough."

I nod.

He tells me that bad things happen to women who smoke and take the pill. He suggests a diaphragm. "You just put it in there every night before you go to bed when you think you might have relations..."

"Um... okay."

He reaches across the desk and touches my arm. "I'll show you one." He gets up and puts his arm around me and leads me down the hall. Ew again.

He steps into a room and comes out with a little box. Inside the box are about half a dozen little rubber things that all look like they are way too fucking big to live in my vagina for six hours at a time.

He puts his arm around me again and leads me to the appointment desk. "She needs to schedule a pap smear and a diaphragm fitting." He winks.

"Oh, shoot," says the lady behind the counter. "The computers are down."

"Bummer," I say. Not meaning it one bit.

"Well, you call later, then," Dr. Douche says. He rubs my arm. "I'll see you soon."

The fuck you will! I did a full body shudder and ran, not walked, to the safety of the double doors under the big EXIT sign. I shuddered the whole way home. I felt so violated and I kept my pants on the whole time!

I know I need to at least schedule my yearly, but holy shit! I'm not going back to Dr. Creepy Ass Douche! And the doctors get progressively creepier each time I go! The first gyno I had looked like a fucking muppet - the one with the glasses and the moppy hair that was always in his face. And he just went to work without any warning to me or anything! The second one looked like he was an aspiring womanizing underwear model. And he kept winking at me! And who knows if I'll ever actually get the female doctor I ask for every fucking time.

But. I told Joe about my experience. I may hate being a woman sometimes, but he told me stuff about his yearly exam that made me hella thankful I wasn't born with a penis.