Today, I had my yearly thingy with Dr. Perky, which is always a treat, because I can test my knowledge of officially recognized AKC breeds off the poster she apparently has in each exam room. Or maybe the poster is only located in the Girly Parts exam room. I don’t know. I should pay more attention next time, but really, I’m too busy trying to pretend that I am anywhere but sitting in a one-sided robe on a sheet of butcher paper, about to have my Buy One Get One Free breast exam (during which Dr. Perky told me all about Washington DC’s stupidly designed Metro, fast and without break, so that all I had to do was say ‘Uhuh’ and not have to fill in any awkward pauses with ‘Yeah, so that’s my nipple right there! Ha ha!’ And then when it was time for the scooting (the girls know what the scooting is. Boys, just nod your pretty heads and try not to think about it), my thigh cramped up and I almost kicked Dr. Perky in the stomach. I’m not sure how one adequately apologizes for such a gaff, but apparently it involves a cold duck’s bill.
No, boys, you won’t get that either.
Later, after I conned her into filling my dermatologist prescription (my dermatologist left the HMO, so I couldn’t just call it in without being seen by someone new) and she assured me that my periods and cramping are on the sucky side of normal but nothing to be alarmed about and also congratulated me for being less fat than the last time she saw me and also for not kick starting her spleen, I fled, whimpering into the parking lot. I really hate being a girl, you know. Hate.
I stopped at Sbux on the way back, because at that moment, the only thing my Less Fat Than May ass wanted was a fricking toffee almond bar and some damned black iced tea. And the scruffy Lindsay From Angel barista winked at me. And then the toffee almond bar was the most perfect, quintessential toffee almond bar that ever was. Worth it? Totally not. But I don’t think the universe is ever going to make up for the squinchy awkward and kind of painful things we have to put up with in order to live in this world, so I guess I’ll take what I can get.
The planning for Journalcon is coming along swimmingly and the hotel is perfect (not to mention, attached to a damned Nordstrom). I’m excited for the events and panels and the awesome private karaoke that we’ll have all to ourselves right in the hotel, complete with munchies and a private bartender. The cool thing about this year is that it’s shaping up to be a very laid-back, intimate Journalcon, which should alleviate some of the fears of new folks getting lost in the crowd. I’ve booked my flight… flying out on Thursday, October 20, leaving on Monday, October 24. Hopefully I can alleviate the pre-trip panic attack this time. Well, if I can’t, there’s always vodka. Mom’s remedies always work the best, don’t they?
At least I’m not freaking out about this trip. I wonder why? Maybe it’s that the estimated chance of shopping and vodka: 100 percent.
