So. Seer is a hypochondriac, okay? For the last few weeks, I’ve been convinced I’ve been having blood clots again. Not that I’ve had blood clots before. I just periodically think I’m having them. I have imaginary attacks of the clots. I called the advice nurse and mentioned something about having pain in my groin and they sent me to the OB/GYN, but not my regular awesome one whose name is really like “Dr. Douchebag” (I’m not fooling), but some dude I don’t know. I said to the advice nurse that I would be happy to go to the regular doctor, but it was too late: I’m a lady, and I said “groin,” so I’m at the OB/GYN. To the vagina doctor with ye! Be gone, wench!
At my HMO they have glamor shots of all the doctors in the waiting room. I looked at who would be looking under my hood that morning. He was the handsomest. Hello, Doctor! What makes anyone become a pee pee doctor? Why do you want to handle people’s genitalia all day? My brother, Judge, had a friend who decided on urology as his specialty.
“Why on earth would you do that?” Judge asked him.
“You know, for the lifestyle,” said A Friend.
“The lifestyle of holding men’s penises all day?” Supposedly they don’t have to go to the ER that much, and they have really regular hours. But when you do have to go to the ER, hoo boy! And the regular hours are filled with penises. Sick penises.
Back to this morning. Dr. Dreamboat was about fifteen years older than his photo. Bait and switch, Sir. Gorgeous George was also annoyed that I was sent to him for my imaginary blood clots. Dude, I didn’t request you. I just called the advice nurse. But I was due for a fucking pap smear so they caught me. Oh hooray. I love having my cervix scraped with a toothbrush. If I could do it while I drove through in my car, like an oil change, I’d come in every three months.
Short, Stocky and Handsome continued to be irritated when he couldn’t find the littlest speculum. He was throwing them around in the tray/bin/junk drawer (I couldn’t see it, just my feet in stirrups and his head) all angry, like a mad boss about to can someone. Yes, it’s been a long time since I got laid, okay? Ages and ages since anyone but anyone but yours truly’s seen me naked–exception: I did get waxed a week ago, so he-ey, I don’t look like a cave lady at present–and you need to use the petite speculum. Player player for real, y’all.
They warm the speculums there, which is actually as disconcerting as the cold metal ones. (I guess I choose plastic.) I mean, it wasn’t cold going in, but after a minute, I realize, This metal in my punani is really, really warm. Like hot tub warm. Why is that? Huh, they heat that shit. How do they warm it? What does that look like? Is it a light? It is in water? No, I didn’t hear splashing while he was going apeshit. Well, not “apeshit.” What is that thing? Who thought of that? Is there a speculum warmer salesman? I don’t ever want to meet him.
I won’t tell you what happened next, not because it’s embarrassing (don’t get it twisted: it most certainly is), but because you won’t want to be my friend and read this blog anymore. Only one person will want to hear that story. I have at least enough shame to hold that one inside. Let’s just say that Dr. Love Canal was not into the lifestyle of being a lady pee pee doctor this morning. He doesn’t think I have blood clots, either. He had places to go, people to see, warm speculums to find, and good morning.
But I did read a weird pregnancy magazine while I was waiting for Dr. T. and the Woman [Who Makes Sure He Doesn’t Molest You and You Don’t Sue Him and the Hospital (if you don’t go to the gynecologist, most visits are chaperoned. And if you don’t know, now you know. It’s you, the doctor/nurse practitioner, your cooter, and a bystander. Oh, and the door was partially open for a good deal of my visit, so anyone else who wanted to visit Seer’s Canyon could have also stopped by to chat and see the sights. The wonders of nature!)].
This cray-cray stack of shiny papers was mostly there to sell products to fiercely paranoid and nesting women. Anyone who has been near a woman pregnant for the first time knows that they are extremely driven to make everything perfect for their coming spawn. They are also extremely vulnerable to all propaganda that tells them what they should expect, what they should have, and, as women, new ways to fall short.
Enter: the orgasmic birth! Yes, women are now supposed to have orgasms while they’re giving birth, and if you don’t something’s fucking wrong with you. And if you did, something’s wrong with you, because everyone will mock you. Everyone loses! And yet, everyone wins, because it’s so salacious.
See, sexual orgasms and birth have so much in common. Don’t you get it? Do I have to draw you a picture? Vaginas. Muscle contractions. The baby’s moving through the same places penises move through. Rigid bodies. Lots of emotion. Endorphins. Lots of blood rushing to your genitalia (serious, how many times can I talk about bits in a week? Let’s see!). This is supposed to be happening, ladies. You will have an orgasm–if you’re doing it right. It’s a problem with the patriarchy taking over the birthing process, making it all medicalized, when it isn’t really a disease at all! It’s all a love-in, with you all happy and joyous and coming all over yourself when a giant, six-pound parasite that has been sucking the life out of you for nine months is pulled out of your gaping, red vagina. And your baby is all, “Hello everybody, welcome to me!” and you’re all, “Oh, oh, oh!” and your partner is all stroking you and loving up on you and it’s the best thing ever and you want to do it again immediately.
At least, this is what everyone has told me about giving birth.
This is not the gynecologist I saw today, nor is this at all representative of what happened to me, but I’ll be he could make you come while you gave birth. And he could make your husband come, too. And make everyone else extremely uncomfortable. (Really, if you were having an orgasm with a lot of people there, wouldn’t everyone else be really, really uncomfortable? Unless they were all voyeurs. I suppose it’s possible.) This video is yet another reason you should visit Everything Is Terrible regularly.