Sher vs. The Mammogram - Part One

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Copyright © Sherri Bailey
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The Texas Institute for the Study of Saliva and Wolverine Cravings

Before we move onto your regularly scheduled programming today, here's a quick note for my female readers. I am currently conducting a highly scientific study of the male psyche using some real life males as my subjects. Stay tuned for some deep and life changing insights coming up next week.

OK so I've been keeping my menopausal life on the down low. Some years ago I was told I was in menopause, but then the pause stopped and as it turned out all the bad hormonal BS was attributed to Hashimoto's Thyroiditis and I left bio-identical HRT in the past.

But taaaa-daaaaa - it's back. And when I say it's back, what I really mean is, "I FEEL LIKE I COULD KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS AND EAT ITS BRAINS!!!!"

Yes, I'm a little touchy. (But not the way Mr. Man likes me to be.)

Naturally I called Pharmacist and said, "I AM GOING TO KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS IF YOU DON'T FIX THIS!!!!!!!"

He said okay and then I think he wet himself.

Long story short, I had to spit in tiny vials for an entire day and ship them off to The Texas Institute for the Study of Saliva and Wolverine Cravings.

Once they did whatever it is spit scientists do, they sent a report back to Pharmacist and Doctor. It said I'm so messed up, it's no wonder I can't watch chick flicks without my gag reflex kicking in. I'm like one testicle away from being a man.

Thus the wolverine fetish.

I've had several visits with Pharmacist since then. On my first visit he announced I would be applying something to a place on my body that embarrassed me so much I could only tell my closest girlfriends. The image of him saying the word that describes where I was to put it is burned in my brain. Forever. I damn near passed smooth out next to the Chapstick display and the pen chained to the counter.

Thankfully enough time had passed that I could finally face him once again because I had to go back today.

This time he said, "Hey girl! Come back here with me!"

"Back here" is a place surrounded by glass where he compounds stuff for people who like their pharmaceuticals compounded. I believe it involves pounding of some sort.

He handed me a mask like the one surgeons wear and I pranced my happy ass into the compounding room glancing only briefly at all the little people who were standing on the lower level looking up at me with envy.

"That's right people. This mask means I am somehow important and medical-ly." I made a mental note to wear it to Wal-Mart next time I go - which will be in approximately 5 minutes as I live in a constant Wal-Mart going loop.

Of course I know the feds like you to have a degree to make medicine, but since Pharmacist and I are buds, I figured it would be like Martha Stewart having friends over to learn to bake cupcakes.

As I was looking for the giant white tub labeled, "Medical Marijuana", he commenced to showing me how he stuffs capsules. It was quite riveting. Then he showed me how he measures. Also riveting. Then, out of NO WHERE, he said to me, "Now what you're gonna wanna do is take this much of that stuff in that tube and apply it directly to the vulva."

I said, "Can you show me that measuring thing again?"

The phone rang. It was the aforementioned Texas Institute. I don't know who was on the other end but Pharmacist was super excited. "Yes! Oh yes! This is great timing because she's right here. So which do you think we should use? OK. Well we're going to be applying it directly to the clitoral area. Yes. Right on the clitoral area."

Thank you Jesus for the mask because I began to grin from ear to ear and giggle. This man was tossing around funny no-no words AND he had made it sound as though this whole deal was about to go down right there in the pharmacy since WE were going to apply it to my lady business.

Just the two of us in the glass room, compounding and what not.

Listen kids, I don't care who you are there are certain words you should never say. Ever. Not to your partner, not to your spouse, not to your doctor. You know why? Because they are so clinical they sound utterly dirty, plus once you hear someone say those words, they are stuck in your head like the Wiggles singing Fruit Salad.

I would also like the record to reflect that as an adult woman nearing the 45 year mark, I was unaware there were so many doctor type words for my down there and that I would have to learn them all from my pharmacist. Thank you public North Carolina schools.

I don't remember what happened next because I think I had a seizure or something, but I do know I have $150 worth of tubes and pills that are guaranteed to turn me back into a girl again. The directions say I'll know it's working when I can watch Titanic through to the end without vomiting on the coffee table.

Oh and when I stop ripping the guts out of wolverines.



Copyright © Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

I'm not pregnant. I just can't spit.

My ovaries are pissing me off. When my Doc told me a couple years ago that they weren't being ovary-y enough, I secretly thought the ovary fairy would probably tap me on the abdomen one night while I slept and I'd wake up all girlie and ovarian again.

Now Mr. Doctor is on the ovary bandwagon once more and says the girls have all but quit doing their thing. As you know, ovaries control the baby eggs and a woman's ability to dance slutty for her husband.

That's why I haven't made a baby in close to 15 years and my attempts to woo Mr. Man look like I'm doing the pee-pee dance while trying to suck a popcorn kernel out of my front teeth.

Don't you go worrying about me though because Doc has a plan. A highly scientific plan. A plan so crazy medical, I'm not sure you can even wrap your mind around it.

He's making me spit. In a thingie. And then I'm supposed to slap a stamp on it and mail it to somebody in a lab who will then do God knows what with it.

What if they take out my DNA and make another me? My Daddy used to say it wouldn't take nothing for him to make another one just like me and he didn't even have my spit in a thingie.

Despite my misgivings I'm gonna try and do it because I always do what men in white coats tell me to do. That's why I wash the butcher's car every Thursday and why he could identify my boobs in a police line up.

Not that my boobs have ever been in a police line up but there's always tomorrow.

The only thing that really concerns me is the actual mechanics of the spitting. I'm not much of a spitter. The evidence of that can be found in the numerous pieces of chewed gum stuck to the driver's side of my car. When I was a kid and we'd have watermelon seed spitting contests on balmy southern evenings, I just swallowed mine.

I was more comfortable with the stigma and humiliation of a watermelon induced child pregnancy than with having a slobbery black seed stuck to my chin.

Stay tuned for important updates about my spit and my ovaries. If you're lucky, I'll take pictures. On second thought, I don't know that my digital camera is equipped for that kind of thing so we'll have to see how it goes.




Copyright © 2008 Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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