A Gyno Tale

A few nights ago, Wiener and I went out with two other couples. One couple we both knew and the other I had only met the wife once. She seemed pretty cool the time I met her, so I thought this would be a good group to hang with. 

The friend who set this up knew the second couple really well and she told us the husband was a gynecologist. She asked us not to mention we knew like perhaps it was supposed to be on the down-low or a secret. It could also be because she knew I'd start asking him vagina related questions and she just wanted to have a nice night out without things getting out of hand for a change. Fine, I'll zip it.

But with this knowledge it got me wondering about how this guy socialized beyond other gynos. Like when meeting new people does he say, "I'm a gyno. I play with vaginas all day." Or is it vaginae? I mean it must really be difficult for him to meet new people or hang out with those not in his line of work because you know it is inevitable someone will either be snickering at you quietly or making crude comments.

I can just hear it now, especially living in Texas (warning: stereotyping) surrounded by manly men and rednecks. Redneck- "So doc, what do you do?" Doc- "I'm a gynecologist." Redneck "Oh really, that's cool. So, I guess you're elbow deep in beaver all day. Tell me, do you ever roofie them and have a little fun?" Doc- "No, I am a professional physician, plus usually there is a nurse in the room with me." Redneck- "Aw man, maybe you should roofie them both next time and gimme a holler!" 

Also, speaking of gynecologists, a friend once made the offhanded comment that she doesn't need to do kegels because her gyno checks her and says shes fine. Come again?

A few of us were out having drinks one night and we were talking about inappropriate stuff, as per usual, like Brazilians and manscaping. The topic somehow lead to kegels. Lola and I said we were too lazy to do them. Another friend says she does them and her gynecologist checks her. Lola and I gave each other a sly wtf look and said "huh?"

She explained that her gyno 'slips a finger in there' and tells her to squeeze so her muscle control and tightness can be checked. Um, hello? Isn't that the opening sequence to a porno called 'Debbie Does the Doctor?'

Lola and I were in utter disbelief and laughed. She was like "What? Don't all gynos do that?" And (to semi-quote a fave Friend's line) I said, "Yes, yes they do. In women's prison!"

We laughed, but it was an awkward moment. A quick poll later among a few other female friends revealed that no one else we know has a gynecologist that performs this test. Interesting.

So either her gynecologist is practicing some new cutting edge medical technique or he is a super perv. Maybe I should call my new gynecologist friend and ask him. Or better yet, I'll wait until our next outing and ask in front of everyone, "Hey doc, do you do kegel checks on women whilst you have your hand up their vajay-jays?" Good times. 

The Super Kegel Exerciser. Aw yeah.
image via

Friends with Guns and Invisible Murderers

Freaky shit has been going on around my house this past week. It's bad enough Devil Baby always tells me she sees ghosts and monsters in the house, but when you experience things yourself it's a whole different story.

Last week, Wiener had to go out of town for a one night business trip. This doesn't happen often, so no biggie. I used to hate sleeping alone in the house, but after having the girls and getting used to it, it didn't seem to bother me much. After all, I went from checking under the bed every night for murderous clowns for years, even when Wiener was home, to only checking for them when he leaves town. That's a pretty big accomplishment. I do sleep with a knife under my pillow when he does leave, but at least I don't even check the closets at all anymore. (Please do not take that as an invitation to come hide in my closet- I'll cut a motherfucker.)

So the day he left, the kids were at school and I was in the office at home working for about an hour after he'd gone when I heard the familiar 'beep beep' of the alarm when a door or window opens. At first it didn't register, then I thought 'Shit! Wiener's outta town!'

I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and stared towards my bedroom as this would be the only entry point someone could open a door without me physically hearing the door but only the beep. And I waited. The bedroom doors were closed so I watched to see if they opened. Now maybe I was being overly sensitive since recently reading about the Madwoman's ordeal. After all, it was 10:30am in broad daylight and surely neighbors were home and out and about in the hood. But our lot is big and heavily wooded, so anything's possible.

To be cautious, I left out of the garage and slunk around the outside of the house with my serrated butcher knife checking doors. We have six exterior doors so that's lots of points o'entry. When I got to the master bedroom door off the deck, I turned the knob-- and it was unlocked! Holyfuck.

Until this point I had been sure I was being ridiculous. I quickly locked the door with my key. (Yes, I locked the would be murderers inside.) I started calling and texting some friends to come check the house for me. I'm kind of anti-social so I haven't really made the effort to hang with any of my closest neighbors. Plus, the two flanking me were gone at work and the other two across the street are old. I didn't want to be responsible for getting two old dudes killed by murderous home invaders. You are probably asking why I did not just call the police. I don't know either. No one knows why I do what I do.

Lola was nearby, but refused to come over and help me look for murderers in the house. Apparently picking up her kids from early dismissal at school was more important. Whatever. Stupid minions! Finally, a male friend, let's call him Pepe, agreed to come rescue me. He is a Marine, former police officer and black belt.

To kill time waiting for him to arrive, I chatted with Raquel on the phone. She thought it would be fun to have casual chit chat to keep my mind off the murderers hiding in my house waiting to kill me. So she regaled me with stories of how she saw a shadowy figure in her house recently who she thought was her husband walking around, but he ended up being asleep, so it was probably a ghost. Not helping. Then she wondered if I ever saw the movie where people would hide in homeowners' attics and live there and only come down at night to creep around the house and eat while the homeowners were sleeping. Um, I missed that one... kill me now!

Pepe finally arrived and came gangsta style around the side of my house with a glock drawn by his side. (It may not have been a glock, but that's the only gun name I know and it sounds cool.) I let him in the house through the deck door. He instructed me to stay a few steps behind. He checked under my bed, then went into the bathroom while I stayed in the room. That's when I noticed my bedroom doors to the main house were wide open. Remember earlier when I was in the kitchen watching those same closed doors waiting for them to open in the event someone had crept in? Well they were wide open now. Holyfuck part deux. My heart dropped and I began shaking and said in a pitiful voice "Those doors were closed when I left the house." He went into badass mode and I got the hell out of there and fled back outside.

I could see into a few windows and saw him dashing from room to room like a Rambo-Ninja-Boss pivoting, ducking, turning, pointing the weapon, looking under furniture and in cabinets. At one point he came out asking if we have another attic entry and I told him where it was. I spent my time outside listening for a gunshot and trying to figure out where we'd move if there was an intruder in the house 'cause I wasn't going back in there, ever. Finally, he was done and we went through the house a third time together. He said he checked all the deadbolts and they were locked from the inside and I was satisfied no one was there.

When he left I was still uneasy so I took off to the store and set the alarm when leaving. Upon returning home from the store, all was in order and I had lunch and chilled. I left to pick up Fifi from school and when we got back 20 minutes later, we came in and everything was fine, until I walked by a side hall exterior door and saw that it was unlocked. What? The? Fuck? I calmly told Fifi to get in the car so we could get Devil Baby from school. I called Raquel and she was like "What the hell? Does someone have a key and they're fucking with you?!" I had no idea. I checked with Pepe again and he said he hadn't unlocked any doors and thought he checked them all. Maybe this one was overlooked?

I called a friend from an adjoining neighborhood and she came over with a shotgun. This is Texas, y'all. Everyone's packing heat. We cleared the house again and I chalked it all up to accidentally leaving it unlocked. Wiener called and he was in the car with business associates. He suggested I call Pepe and have him come spend the night. Then suggested another male friend spend the night. The business associates were probably wondering why he was trying to get some men to come spend the night with his wife. (boom chaka wow wow) In the end, my mom came and spent the night and no murderers got us.

But, two days later, when all was calm and back to normal, Wiener was out late at a meeting and I was home cooking dinner for the kids. Devil Baby came running from the front of the house to the back stairs baby gate and said "I want to go upstairs," like she always says. Then she said over and over, "Somebody's upstairs, somebody's upstairs, I want to go upstairs, somebody's upstairs!" Jeezus Christ!!! We also have a front stairwell that's baby gated off and that was the area in the front of the house where she had been playing. Sometimes she says she sees ghosts or monsters, but never does she say somebody's upstairs. Did she see something upstairs? At this point dinner was almost done and I was hungry, so I was all, "Fuck the intruders, we're staying." I didn't let Devil Baby go upstairs and finally Wiener got home and nobody has been murdered yet, but I'll let you know how that goes.

So, in case you're keeping score, that's thrice something weird has happened this week.

Invisible murderers=3  Crazy Bitch=0

Pepe thinks this is what he looks like.
He is incorrect.

Save the Toilet Paper

Fucking Devil Baby threw three rolls of toilet paper in the toilet. I guess technically that is where toilet paper goes. And it's probably my fault. We were tidying up and I asked her to put them in the toilet area of the bathroom. And, since she's smart, she knows toilet paper goes in the toilet. And, since she's also stupid  a toddler, this was her best effort at putting the rolls where they belong.

Instinctively, I began pulling them out of the toilet trying to "save" them thinking I didn't want to waste three whole rolls. Toilet paper is a currency worth more than its weight gold around this house, especially with three girls and Wiener's fondness for deuce dropping. If I had my wits about me, I would have snapped a picture to share before snatching them out.

Not a spanking clean toilet. I would not eat an egg out of this.
To clarify, (Lola), that is an empty toilet paper roll she also threw in. 

Dry-out area.

It is not lost on me that the idea of pulling them out of the toilet with the intention to let them dry out and use them is pretty gross. Even if the toilet is spanking clean, it can still be pretty germarific. 

This issue has been troubling philosophers for eons: If a toilet is sparkling clean and has been Cloroxed to death (not my particular toilet, just a toilet in general, cause that never happens around here) and scrubbed with antibacterial cleaner, is it still germ infested? Won't the germs already on my butt repel the incoming tainted toilet paper germs or does festering all alone on a clean toilet for days make them super-germs and they will spring ninja-like from the dried paper and infiltrate my buttocks with unfathomable strength and make me violently ill? Confucius knows not. 

This situation reminds me of how Raquel must cover her beverage if anyone farts in her vicinity so the poop particles from the smell do not get in her drink and she swallows them. True story. There is more reasoning behind why, but I don't want to steal her thunder. Or did I already? Too late.

But back to the germ debate. Many things were taken into consideration when deciding if I should attempt the dry-out process and risk the stealthy super-germs or cut my losses and toss them. Then I remembered I once pulled a peeled hard boiled egg from the depths of the garbage disposer, rinsed it off and ate it without dying, so wiping my ass with toilet paper that is infested with the same butt germs can't be worse than that. Right?

What? I was pregnant and really looking forward to that egg. It was delicious.

What Not to Wear to a Funeral

Putting together an ensemble for a funeral is nerve racking. You want to be appropriate and respectful, yet presentable.

Unfortunately, I am attending a funeral this week for a dear old family friend. Thankfully, I have not been in this dilemma too often. I have experienced my share of loss, but luckily instances have been few and far between. I'm not sure if this means I'm blessed to be surrounded by healthy people or I don't have any friends so I can't lose to death what I don't have.

So here's my dilemma... I am fair skinned and blonde. This presents a problem for me in picking out funeral wear. Black and gray are not flattering on me. I know most people, even blondes, swear by a LBD (little black dress) but black has always just been harsh on me. Now I know a funeral is not all about me, I do have some manners, but I prefer not looking like an Addams' family member while paying my respects.

Also, what shoes do you wear? I can't wear heels without falling, but I have an assload of wedges and espadrilles. Are they appropriate? Should you wear open toed shoes? Do I have time for a pedi? These seem like petty questions at a time such as this.

I don't want to look like I'm going to a business meeting either, but I do have a black suit jacket. And wool slacks. But it's summer in Texas so I would be sweating like whore in church for reasons other than the usual ones.

Buying something new just seems like a waste. Or perhaps it's tempting fate to have a 'funeral outfit' as if I'm asking for more people to die just so I can wear my special outfit. On the other hand, I have an old black dress with red and fuchsia rosette flowers that I could wear. It is very matronly. There go my chances of getting laid. Wait, I said funeral, not wedding. Also, I'm married. Dammit.

Interestingly, figuring out what to wear is not my only dilemma. Apparently, I have all sorts of issues.

Not to make light of a somber event, I do have a hard time expressing myself seriously in emotionally charged situations. I have a tendency to make bad jokes or say inappropriate things. I don't like people to be upset or be sad or cry- it's against my nature. Unless they're my children and I'm yelling at them or threatening spankings. I guess I use humor to deflect from dealing with difficult emotions or uncomfortable situations.

Case in point: The last funeral I went to was for another family friend I had not seen in many years. When I saw the decedent's husband, I hugged him, smiled and said "Hi. It's been a long time. So, how have you been?" Epic Fail.

With that in mind, I am nervous about going to the service later this week. My mother has already asked me to be prepared to offer to bring food over for the family if they need it. When she told me this I responded with, "Oh, like bring food to the house if they have an after party?" Oy vey. 

The white glasses makes this ensemble tres chic and funeral appropos.

50 Shades of Walmart

I feel bad using a play on 50 Shades of Grey since I haven't read the book nor do I ever plan to. I have nothing against the book, it's just that if I need a dose of soft-core porn I'll simply turn on Cinemax. I'm too lazy to read a book to get my jollies. Immediate visual gratification is better. Too far?

Anyway- I went to the new neighborhood Walmart store today and stupidity was in abundance:

As I walked in and hit the produce department, a lady flew past, cut me off and stopped directly in front of the veggies I was heading for. Did she quickly grab some lettuce and go? No. She got her phone out and started texting and stood there forever while I waited. I had been bok blocked.

Then another lady pulled her cart directly in front of me and stopped in the soup aisle as I was looking for soup. She went about her business looking elsewhere, but it was obvious I was shopping from the shelf she stopped in front of and blocked. I loudly said "I'll come back since it wasn't obvious that I was trying to get something from the shelf you stopped directly in front of." Fifi looked aghast and waited for the fallout, but it never came. She was an older lady and part of me felt bad because she was semi-elderly and I said something rude. The other part of me wanted to punch her in the face.

As I was checking out, the clerk who was scanning and bagging my groceries stopped when she scanned a three pack of Starkist tuna and said, "This has high mercury content." I didn't really understand her so I said "excuse me" thinking maybe she was trying to tell me they were on sale and I should get more. She then said "Doctor Oz said this has a high mercury content and that's why I don't buy it."

Seriously? I don't give a fuck what you buy, lady. I politely said, "Yes I am aware it has a high mercury content, but we don't eat it often so I'm sure it's fine." Do I really have to defend my grocery purchases to the cashier at checkout? It's bad enough they have to see when I buy tampons, Imodium and KY His and Hers (I don't really buy that, maybe) but she must also give me a lesson on nutrition from something she learned on tv?

She went on and on about it and was telling me we should eat salmon instead and how good salmon is for you. She had stopped ringing up my things to tell me this. I had Fifi and Devil Baby with me and wanted to get the hell out of dodge. It was after school so naturally they were cranky-tired-hungry-fidgety. I am really at my everloving whit's end with cashiers and clerks, but that's a whole other post, possibly even another blog entirely, so I will stop there.

The clincher was in the parking lot as I loaded the groceries. There was a dog left in the car next door to mine who was barking. The windows were cracked, but this is Texas people. Sadly, we can't even turn on the tv without hearing about a child or someone dying from being left in a car in the heat. Everyone knows it's at least twenty degrees higher inside a car than outside. Well, maybe not everyone. Everyone is stupid, after all. It was about 90 degrees this day. 

Fifi pointed out there was a kid in the car with the dog and also another kid left in another car nearby. The kids seemed to be teens- maybe tweleve to fourteen, but still. I wanted to call the cops or wait for the drivers to come out, but alas, I'm not the parenting police. I didn't think there really was immediate danger, except from maybe kidnappers. Again, I can't control what everyone else is doing. I can barely take care of my own minions in between glasses of wine. Next time I'll remember to snap a pic and post it on  people of Walmart  or bad parents of Walmart, whatever is the most appropriate. 

As for the rude shoppers, I don't know what else to do but put spikes on my shopping cart wheels and stab them in the ankles the next time they pull this crap.

Also, from now on I'm pretending to speak a foreign language at check out so I don't have to put up with the cashiers' psychobabble. 

OMFG. This was exactly the scene and so could have been me!
 Blonde, two young girls and an Asian cashier.
Me staring in disgust and kids running amok, only my ass is bigger.
photo credit