Adventures in Gynecologistland

I didn't go into my annual exam with the intention of blogging about the events that go on there. Trust me, a true Southern lady doesn't sweat - she glistens; she doesn't fart - she passes gas; and she sure as heck doesn't blog about her Who Ha, but this Who Ha saw some funny things today.

This was my first visit with this particular doctor. I'd heard good things about him, and he's in a newer office in the more affluent part of town, so I was expecting as pleasant an experience as going to that particular doctor as you can get. I walk into the lobby and the room is full of....forgive me, but it's the only way I can describe them....welfare rejects and social deviants. They've divided the room racially - Cracker Town was in the front with their dirty, Rebel Flag tattoos and racial slurs; the passive-aggressive Black Panthers were at the back, laughing at the Crackers and directing suggestions in their general direction. Then there was Little Mexico in the middle. Now, I don't think that my Lady Flower is better than their Lady Flowers...but I think my Lady Flower is better than their Lady Flowers. But, I guess all vaginas are created equal in the eyes of GynoMan. Red, yellow, black, or white they're all billable in his sight.

An hour had passed, and they'd called most of the Panthers and Little Mexicos back already, and I guess they finally decided it was time for a vag of a different color, so here I go...finally gaining entrance into Gynoland! As I'm walking through, the office is totally and completely washed in plaid...plaid carpet, plaid curtains, plain gowns...with the occasional accent of pregnant, redneck teenager. The first attraction: the pee room, where the nurse had acquired, and displaying, a myriad of urine samples on her desk. There was every hue of yellow imaginable...instead of "Roy G. Biv", it was "Lisa Did Piss."

Ahh time for the main attraction...the exam. Walking into the exam room, I half expected to see taxidermied animal vaginas prominently displayed on the walls, but alas... My doctor was a lovely man; a good ole country boy with a pleasant bedside manner with warm hands (which are needed in this field I believe). My only complaint is that he tried to talk while performing the exam. I guess there's nothing wrong with that, but come on! It's not the mouthpiece of a megaphone (although it would be a very ergonomic megaphone), and it's very difficult to make small talk in that awkward of a position. I have enough problem making small talk in a normal situation, so it's slightly amplified when a total stranger is touching my cervix.

The closing ceremony was an ultrasound. I won't speak of the horrors that happened there, but will say one word to give you a clear picture...probe. One plus - I watched a lovely romantic sitcom involving 2 ovaries, a uterus, and their grumpy next door neighbor, Mr. Bladder. Apparently one ovary is going to need rehab...the tech kept commenting on how high it was. I don't know how it smuggled the weed up there, but I see a rich, prosperous future ahead of us. I can just picture all of my internal organs with their own unique personalities living in their own soap opera..."One Egg to Ovulate." I, of course, have cysts on both my morning glories, which the tech explained that a lot of overweight girls with facial hair have (I'm not kidding!). If she was able to see my facial hair from the ultrasound of my lady bits, that must be one powerful probe! I wonder if that was how Sarah Palin was able to see Russia from her house...

I once heard Carol Burnette say that there's humor in everything. I now firmly believe that statement. There is humor in everything, even in vaginas. Although, it may depend on whether you're on the table or...you know.