On How I Was Violated by Hagar the Horrible

So I know you’re all waiting with bated breath to hear about the rousing time I had at the doctor’s on Thursday and I’m here to assuage your anticipation.

The place was pretty skimy. (I have no insurance so that kind of forces my hand to opt for walk-in clinics and the like, most of which are not exactly beacons of hygiene and professionalism but ya know, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.) However, because of the outdated offices I was aesthetically blessed with a superfluous amount of faded silk flowers infiltrating every space upon which to gaze at. Beautiful I tell you.

The Boo drove me but refused to enter the premises as he told me it was a “girl doctor” and he “doesn’t do stuff like that”. Fine, suit yourself and sit in the car. (He was out there for 2 hours.) The benefits of your boyfriend sitting directly outside the entrance to your doctor’s office? You get text messages like this for the duration of your visit…

“If you get a nurse in pink scrubs who looks like an inbred make sure she washes her hands. She is out here smoking a cig like she’s on crack or coke.”

(See where I get it from?)

Luckily I didn’t get the coked up by-product of a mother-son relationship. Instead, I got the mean, angry, heavily mustached Hispanic woman who looked at me with disdain for making her actually work. (So sorry, heifer. Didn’t mean to pry you away from your Cup O’Noodles.)

She had a severe tude for the first 5 minutes or so in which she talked over me and ignored my questions. However, being the true bitch I am, I cattily pulled the “kill em with kindness (and sarcastic, snide remarks)” and eventually she snapped out of it.

At one point while the stached nurse was consulting a BMI chart and informing me that I was, indeed, overweight for my height (well, thanks for that), a wandering redneck with an improperly bandaged hand seeping blood and wreaking of Hepatitis shuffles his way into the room, ambling about, muttering incoherently and asking for “that there” (ie. Blood samples). I was horrified to realize that this man was not some homeless war vet from the street but yet, an EMPLOYEE for one of their sister companies. WTH??! How does this crusto have a job and not me?!?!?!

(The world is a cruel, cruel place.)

I eventually saw the “doctor.” She was a "huge, beastly, bulging" man woman (name that movie) who stampeded her way into the room swaddled in stereotypical floral moo-moo and hair cut appropriately butch-like. This worried me.

Her breathing was excessively loud and the flammability of the friction from betwixt her thighs imposing on each other’s personal space was quite scary. And loud.

Her fingers were akin to Cheddarwurst and her breath was something atrocious.

It was then that it occurred to me that either a) this woman was not an accredited doctor and I was being swindled for a ghastly amount of money or b) this woman was dying right before my eyes insinuated by the shortness of breath, beads of sweat forming along her upper lip, and the 20 second pauses between her words while walking down the hall.

Or c) she was a man.

All in all it was pretty traumatic. But hey, at least I had this to look at while I was being violated by the He-Man's German sausage sized digits.

I kid you not. It was (cleverly) taped to the ceiling above my examination table.

I would have felt much more comfortable had it been this.