Dear Hair Stylist Gerard,

So, we’re officially fighting. And by fighting I mean I want to stab you repeatedly with those little swords they use for cocktail onions. I would sincerely like to know what part of “I’d like a trim” in English translates into “fashion mullet” in Hipster. I walked in with beautiful layers that oh-so-hotly rested on my breasts and now the longest lonely layer is almost above my shoulders – and there’s nothing hot about it.

Are you insane? Have you taken the pot smoking a little too far? Your girlfriend TOLD you not to get that vaporizer, fuck-wad.

More importantly, do I LOOK like the kind of girl who has the wardrobe to rock a fashion mullet? Come on now, work with me here, Gerard. I came in wearing a black wife-beater, frayed Sevens, flip-flops, and gold hoops. Granted my jeans were a little dirty but still! I play soccer on Saturdays and drink expensive wine. Get real. Low-maintenance hotness is my jam – not some bullshit haircut that I have to load up with $50 product and then SLEEP on to get the desired look. I’m just not that committed to looking cool, sorry.

I mean, I suppose it’s not entirely your fault. I blame myself really - and the intellectual curiosity that had me buried in an Economist while you were chopping away like a sushi chef after an eight-ball of Colombia’s finest.

Truthfully, I should have known the second I laid eyes on you - your skinny jeans, your oversized high top sneakers and the dirty bed-head that looked one hundred percent legit. You are a hipster. You are a VitaSoy drinking, anemically thin, black-hoodie wearing, fashionably dirty, Warhol-loving, cloyingly ironic, HIPSTER.

But, I am Irish and neurotic, so whatever. For the most part I enjoy hipsters, I have hipster friends, I even went so far as to buy those footless leggings (not that I’ve ever worn them), and I certainly don’t condone discrimination against hipsters in any way, shape, or form - BUT from this moment forward they are no longer allowed to cut my hair. So I hope you’re happy Gerard, you’ve really gone and ruined it for all your fixed-gear riding brethren – way to go.

Now they really can’t afford that six-pack of PBR.

Fuck You Very Much,
Lo

I like to think that as far as wives go I’m pretty stellar. Not Pamela Anderson or Jenna Jameson (or the chic in this pic stellar), but stellar in my own right.
1. I clean (rather good).
2. I cook (rather good).
3. I haven’t given up on my looks merely because I birthed a few spawn
4. I constantly make my husband laugh (both with and at me)
5. I love football.
6. I am a lover of sexuality.
(plus I’m good to him and thoughtful and blah, blah, blah….)

It is numero sex six that has prompted my post for today (inspired by Adrie’s post about porn, which subsequently took me to Meme’s post about Porncasting, which subsequently took me to the throws of joyous masturbation. Thanks ladies!!).

Like Meme and Adrie I do enjoy porn. LOVE it! But I am picky. I don’t like the scripted shitty acting porn where actresses wear too much make-up and cheap plastic stripper shoes. I love amateur porn. I tend to lean more towards lesbian porn, but if there is moaning, groaning and a good pounding by a man I’m certainly not going to turn it off. I think my husband was initially shocked by my pornication. Of the two of us he was the more sexually shy and morally sound. By the time he and I got married, I had had more than a handful of lovers, my first lesbian experience, a couple of threesomes, one groupie thing, marriage and a kid. More or less in that order. He, eh hem, was a virgin. Naturally, I scared the shit out of him with my wild ways.

In the beginning of our marriage, as is the case with most marriages, we fucked like bunnies. Only back then we called it “making love”. We were too impassioned by newly wedded bliss to dare trash up our love life by using the word “fuck” to describe sex. We grew out of that stage by the end of the first year.

It is surprising how long it took for me to get my husband to come out of his sexual shell. Lack of overall experience and a screwed up mentality brought on by some of the things his mother told him about sex really set him back, physically and emotionally with regards to sexual behavior. It’s been a slow journey, but he’s definitely come a long way. I’ve introduced porn and toys and fantasies. For years I’ve even told him that for his 30th birthday I would bring another girl into our bedroom so he could experience another woman. He adamantly refused to partake in such debauchery. But come on. He can’t go through life being with only one person, even if that person is me in all my awesomeness. Truth is, envisioning him with another woman while I watch is a huge turn on for me. Like a lot of fantasies, however, I’m not sure I could really go through with it (at least not while sober). I think I would always battle the self defeating wonder complex: I wonder if he liked her better than me? I wonder if she really was better than me? Did she make him feel things I can’t? Does he like her tits better because they’re still in the northern hemisphere? GAH!!! Did he fall in love with her? You know, all the typical female emotional bullshit. Still it’s nice to think about and since I have done such things in the past, who knows, maybe I will follow through. And notice I stated the he “had adamantly refused”. That’s right, “had”. He doesn’t outright refuse like he used to and in fact he often jokes around about it. Guess we’ll find out this one plays out come August 22.

I do think that for a married couple of nearly eight years and having kids we fair pretty well in the sex department. At the very least we still enjoy sex with one another. My (and likely his) only complaint would be that my libido has slowed drastically. I used to want it every day, all day, all the time, whereas he did not. It was a bizarre role reversal definitely. But, somehow, over the years, we’ve switched to the standard female/male libido driven roles.

Every so often we still like to spice things up. In fact, I think I may have hit a new benchmark in wife standards a couple of weeks ago. My husband is a tech guy and loves all things computer and/or gaming. In the past year his obsession has been playing Guitar Hero. I enjoy it, too, but he has bona fide love for the game. We’ve even held GH parties at our house. Yah, we’re geeks. Get over it. Anyway, one night when he was enjoying the intoxicated bliss brought on by his love of crown & coke he started playing Guitar Hero. He loves his crown. He loves his GH. He was truly in a happy spot. Being the gracious wife that I am I wondered what could possibly make his night any better. That’s when it hit me: I could give him head, while he played.

Oh yah. While the husband stood there rockin’ out to, of all things, the song “Cherry Pie”, I yanked down his pants and bestowed upon him yet another one of his loves. Before you ask, yes, I was in rhythm to the music and not only that, but for added oral bliss I hummed along. It was a truly magical moment for the guy and, in his eyes at least, it most definitely catapulted me into a whole new realm of “awesome wife”. He would never boast about it, though. He’s still too shy and in fact, will likely flip his shit when he sees that I’ve posted about it. In my defense, he knows me well enough to know that I keep very few sexual things to myself. I’ve never shied away from sexual and/or perverse subject matters. Unfortunately, that means that occasionally he’s subject to feeling exploited. But, please. He likes it. I know this because my being more liberated, even in just talking about sex, has definitely liberated him and introduced him to his naughty boy side. The naughty boy side rocks (we both agree to that)! Nevertheless, I do have a feeling that for the rest of his life he’ll probably turn twenty shades of red any time he hears that song. Either that or I’ll have to perform every time it’s played it because it’ll induce some sort of Pavlov like conditioning. And in the right company, that could turn very interesting.

I have a swollen foot and my ass appears to be flatter than ever. I blame Meme for this. Why? I’ll tell you why: she got me addicted to free porn - more so than I already was!

I read one of Meme’s posts over at Vibrator.com which happened to have a video with it. After being a little freaked by the video; the pervert in me followed the link to see what else I could get my chubby little fingers on - aside from my clit. What was only supposed to be one or two minutes became instead two hours! That was only the beginning. In less than a week I have managed to waste approximately 2 or 3 days worth of time sitting here in heat in front of my lap top. My fucken index finger is swollen for Pete’s sake!!

This time hasn’t all been a waste though, as I have actually seen all kinds of things that I didn’t even know existed and think that I finally have earned my title as a “sexpert” as I was so affectionately referred to on another site. I also learned a lot about myself, such as: I’m turned on by the art of Asian Naked Massage… or maybe just the way it always seems to end with a nice long oral session. I also seem to have acquired a taste for orgy and sex party videos as well as having a new appreciation for Girls Gone Wild style porn (possibly stemming from a longing to be on a permanent spring break).

I admit though that a good few hours was truly wasted watching some weird shit that I watched in the same way as one would a car wreck! For instance: a couple of girls riding car stick shifts - even the big bulbous ones that I would never think would even fit up there! There was a few minutes spent watching a “scat” video which made me feel the need to shower (masturbated again in there) and a couple of videos on lactation, bum-sex-gang-bangs and even a girl getting her cunt filled with some bubbly! Strange.

At risk of it interfering with my work and maybe driving me to do something in horny-haste; I have decided to quit cold turkey… until the weekend. It has been almost 12 hours since my last visit to PornCasting.tv and my finger is finally beginning to lose its shriveled-from-dampness appearance and the wet spots on my desk chair, sofa, bed and fur rug have dried. I’m very proud of myself and feel I should get some kind of chip or certificate for breaking my addiction!

It’s always nice to hear stories about other people’s mistakes.

Right?

Once I was dating this guy and I decided to surprise him one night. I put on a sexy little black corset and thigh-hi stockings with garters, and heels. I covered myself up with a long trench coat and headed out of my apartment to catch a cab to his West Village walk-up.

We had talked earlier in the evening and he said that he didn’t have any plans. He wanted me to come over and hang out. I was planning on going to a show with friends but it fell through so I reckoned that if I couldn’t be at the show I wanted to go to, I might as well have some fun sex.

So I hailed a cab and headed west. I buzzed his door and I was very excited walking up the stairs. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when I showed up.

He opens the door and I greet him with a coy smile. I then discover that he has three friends over and they are all smoking out of a bong . Billy Joel played in the background and I made a little note to self to start dating guys who weren’t born in the same decade as my father.

He welcomed me in and made introductions and then he tried to take my coat. Before I could stop him he’d slid it off my shoulders and I was standing in my sexy little outfit in front of four stoned middle aged guys.

“Oh, um, hi,” I said.

After a long silence one of the friends stood up and was like, “Well, I’m going to be going.” The other friends followed suit. And what does the guy I’m dating say?

“Guys–I thought we were going to watch a movie.”

I’m just standing here half naked the entire time. I look down at my fabulous outfit and then around the room at guys who were probably really hot before the second marriage and the cocaine.

“Yeah–you guys should watch a movie. I’m going to go. I actually just stopped by the say hello. I’m on my way to meet a friend.” I moved to get my coat.

“A friend?” One of the guys inquired.

“Yes. My pimp. Bye you guys.”

And I left.

I got out to the street and as I buttoned up my trench, I debated crying or laughing. I’d just shown up in a Fuck Me outfit and the man I’d been seeing almost exclusively for two months wanted to watch a movie with his friends instead of accepting what I’d just dropped into his lap.

He called about five minutes later, after I was already back in a cab and heading down Varick Street. Come back, he says, you looked great, I was kidding about the movie. The calls and texts continued for another hour or so and I didn’t pick up.

Unfortunately, I’m a one-strike kind of girl. I’ve tried the whole, “Let’s give them another chance” game. But I never give them another chance if I’m sensing they’re not that into me. And when a guy still wants to watch a movie with his friends after I show up with the clear intention of allowing him to put his penis into my vagina, I get a real big sense of “He’s not that into you Brandy.”

So that’s when you know when to break up.

I’m not a dumb girl. Quite intelligent, acutally. But there are so many things about this world that baffle me. I mean, I get it…this is a great big world that we’re not meant to fully comprehend. But, c’mon. Some things? Some things make me want to yell at people. Maybe it’s my lack of common sense; they say the book smarts create that see-saw effect after all, don’t they?

The thing is that I’m not talking about the obvious non-sensicals. Like why people listen to Eminem or why they wear socks with their Birkenstocks. I get it. Personal freedomk, yadda yadda yadda. What I’ve got is some monumental shit that very well may knock you off your axle for a mere moment. Brace yourselves (sure, grabbing your desk will do fine) and continue reading.

I’m bringing it to the proverbial table with the hopes that you can help me discern the existence of the following baffling phenomena. Thusly, here are my current top three, presented in glorious list format:

1. Why do men take so long to take a shit? Are they clogged up? Are they masturbating? Does it take a while to get things moving? Wouldn’t you rather spend that time doing something else? From my experience, I think it’s got something to do with an “alone time” that doesn’t equate to cranking one out. And, is it me or is it slightly disturbing to think that such alone time should take place not only in the bathroom, but while one is pantless and vulnerable.

2. When you’re dying your hair, there is a step that invariably–regardless of brand–appears toward the end of the process. Before you rinse all that gooped chemical from it’s neat pile on the top of your head, you’re supposed to add a little water and work into a lather. And then you rinse it. What the fuck is that supposed to do? Was the ammonia and other shit not effective enough? Pretending that you’re now simply using it as a potent shampoo product is going to trick it into, like, finishing it’s attack on your follicles or something? What?

3. Why do construction vehicles have gigantic, blaze-orange signs instructing everyone to its posterior that we should not follow it? I mean, we’re not retarded (well…most drivers aren’t) enough to follow a dump truck down a gravel road or some shit. Do they think that these trucks put people into trances or something? You don’t see us losing sight of what we’re doing and suddenly involved in a high speed chase because–oops!–we followed a state trooper, do you?

Just try to roll those over in your mouth a bit and see if the ceiling doesn’t cave in. Ok, maybe this really isn’t ceiling-caving material, but it bothers me, ok? It really, really bothers me.

Ok, so we’ve all done the online thing. And don’t lie and say you haven’t, because you know you’ve got that secret Match.com account…you know…just for browsing the pictures.

Now, while I don’t necessarily think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out the smart way of dating online, you should probably be relatively intelligent before you start up a website. Enter Online Dating Tips dot org. Oh, that’s right. Dot ORG. As in, it’s a philanthropic entity that’s here to make the world a better place. Sadly, there aren’t rocket scientists running this site, because after I wrapped my brain around the dot org thing, my eye spied a misspelling on the site’s major advertisement. Match.com is now Math.com…like sex candy for geeks who are into pi and shit.

So, we haven’t gotten off properly well, have we? But I keep reading…(I can try to be open minded at times)

I am compelled when I see the headline “Getting Started” and click on the first link: “Best Dating Websites” And while I won’t continue to nit-pick, there was yet another typo in the very first paragraph. But moving forward…They listed a bunch of sites that they claim are great. And after wondering momentarily why JDate wasn’t mentioned (I’ve heard of more marriages from that site than anywhere else) I finally saw something I liked. The philanthropists start talking about creating your online profile and suggest that the most important thing is honesty:

Also, there are many review and comparison sites out there, just like this one. Each of these online dating services has amazing features and hundreds of singles all looking for the same thing – a connection. Just remember that the key to developing a good, healthy relationship at any level is honesty. You want to present yourself as someone with integrity who is interested in learning about other people.

Halle-freaking-lujah. I mean, seriously, Online Dating Tips may be better off dedicating their entire site to just this aspect of online dating. If we could actually get people to start presenting themselves truthfully online, the world *would* be a better place and Online Dating Tips *would* qualify for it’s Dot Org status. I mean, the whole passing of oneself as a spring chicken to have irresponsible and carefree dialogue with people they’d normally never approach is, essentially, half of what’s wrong with the world today. Right, slightly dramatic, I know, but I’m sure you’re inclined to nod your head in agreement.

But I digress…this site slightly redeemed itself, but I wanted to find some juicy morsel that would either turn this into a glorious review of true Dot Org-ers (ogres?) or an abysmal trashing of some internets retards (a category in which I graciously fall from time to time).

Then…then, I found it…

There’s a section of the site that provides tips (duh) on how to flirt. Online style. Dear God. I’m not sure if I feel worse for the people that had to spell this shit out, or for those who actually need such spellings. It started with this chart:

…which I really can’t bring myself to discuss. No reply necessary? There’s just so much wrong there. I’m picturing old ladies hunting & pecking at their keyboards with little mischievous smiles. *shudder* But it gets better…

Another way to flirt is by hinting at something interesting without actually giving away too much information. Perhaps you could say something like, “After this last weekend, I had to buy a new pair of shoes.” Your comment leaves much to the imagination, drawing the person into the conversation and interested in learning what you did over the weekend that required the new shoes.

New shoes? Did you fucking piss yourself? Puke on them? Step in a massive mound of elephant shit? I mean, any of the plausible reasons for needing new shoes don’t sound too appealing to me…

I kind of had to stop there. Bottom line? If you need tips on dating online, you probably shouldn’t be dating, online or otherwise. And if you do seek such advice, try not to get it from an online source that’s just as apt as yourself.

*This shit was paid for, bitches. I make ‘em as entertaining as possible. Join in the fun by continuing the floggings in the comments section! I’ll even have a go on the dunk-tank plank!

People grow big balls on the internet. The social bashing that we can get away with here, in the confines of our comfy chairs, would likely insight riots in certain face to face encounters. You know, as well as I do, that’s why we do it. Ahh, the sweet protection that can be found with the little x in the upper right corner. We don’t have to read that which ruffles our feathers. Most of us do, though, because it’s one of the only places where we feel we can be 100% honest without serious repercussions and we’ll retaliate and defend and criticize until our fingers go numb. The day that a machine is invented that allows users to punch other users in the face over the internet is the day that all will change. Until then, the ball growing goes on.

At the risk of being flogged I say, people, get the fuck over your issues with other groups of people. Seriously. Who gives a shit that Joe Blow thinks I’m a crap mom because I have tattoos and still love Guns-N-Roses (or that I wear Elvis Costello black rimmed glasses, *wink*)? And who gives a shit that your last boyfriend was lying sack of shit, therefore confirming your standpoint that all men suck royal ass? No one really. What perpetuates the repetitive generalizations against a particular sect of society boils down to the old adage, misery loves company. I get that. When my significant other causes my blood to boil and flames to shoot from my eyes I want to vent and release my frustrations with someone who understands. I sure as hell don’t want to hear about how good some other bitch has it with her man because he’s Prince Charming in a three piece pin-striped suit. That only necessitates my urge to punch her in the face repeatedly. So yah, fundamentally, I get jumping on that bashing bandwagon. However, just because my man might be behaving as a douche doesn’t mean I assume the entire male population to be the same. So when is it enough? When you’ve (or I’ve) single handedly criticized and hated on every person or group of persons who doesn’t think, act, look or dress like you (or me)? How very Hitler.

Bear in mind that I’m not speaking of individual bashing in this, my little soapbox moment. Clearly there are certain people (Paris Hilton, Osama Bin Laden, or Ann Coulter for example) who agitate social antipathy and rightfully so. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ll jump in the hater-parade with bells on when a deserving idiot comes along. But establishing an entire group of people as this way or that is just not cool (except in the case of extremist vegans, naturally, who are a bunch of crazed crackpots, eh hem).

Man bashing.
Woman bashing.
Hipster parent bashing.
Liberal bashing.
Conservative bashing.
Christian bashing.
Military bashing.
Gay bashing.
Racial bashing.
(the list goes on and on of course)

It is not socially acceptable to denounce an entire race or nationality. We can all agree that doing so is bigoted, hateful and morally wrong. Why then do we make exceptions to suit our own particular hate driven stereotypes against certain social circles/people? Why is it acceptable for a scorned woman to proclaim that all men are cheating douche bags or a man to suggest that all women are money hungry leeches? Why was David Brook compelled to write a NY Times piece last month declaring that parents who still go to rock concerts or, god forbid, dress their infants in Ramones onesies are somehow doing their children an injustice? Are people like Mr. Brook becoming so enamored with faultfinding that they’re actually suggesting that good child rearing boils down to whether a parent wears ripped jeans & dingy chucks while listening to indie tunes on a pink iPod versus the more conservative L.L. Bean catalog shopping Amy Grant lover?

For the record (really it’s more of a preemptive defense), I am not a peace lovin’, tree lovin’ hippie. Nor am I a so-called hipster parent (I had no idea this classification even existed until a fellow blogger professed her right to relish in hipster-dom last month). I am not a Christian or a Jew or a person of color or gay or a man. And apparently, I’m neither liberal or conservative. Therefore, besides being a woman and being lumped into the tattooed freak category I’m not typically categorized in the popular negative generalizations. Scratch that. I forgot. I am a stay at home mom and as you may have heard we’re all lazy, unintelligent, fat slobs who’ve let ourselves go in lieu of having children. Oh and lets not even get started on the gross generalizations made because I’m ::gasp:: a military spouse.

Opting to think for ourselves instead up tagging along with the judgmental hierarchy would mean people would have to drop the inclination to prophesize in opposition to anyone who, for any reason, didn’t fit within their social standards. Unfortunately, we’re more likely to see the Pope giving Dan Brown a blowjob than overall human decency in letting people live however they see fit.

The hater diatribe is so over done. Making such a statement, I realize, leaves me wide open to public slandering. Why? Well for one, obviously I’ve missed the “cool and with it” mark because I don’t hate the same things the “cool and with it” crowd hates. And two, clearly I think I’m too good to bash people with my holier-than-thou mentality. I’m sure there’s a three (I’m scorned by recent rants) and a four (I’m a whiny crybaby), but I respectively decline to give a shit. My point is this: get the fuck over your issues with the other groups of people who aren’t like you or who don’t fit into your misconceived ideals. I won’t go so far as to say give peace a chance, but it wouldn’t kill some of us to turn down the hate-o-meter.

::Cough, Cough:: So as not to enforce some sort of the hypocrite of the week award upon myself, I’m off to get the fuck over my issue of being pissed at all the people who can’t get the fuck over their issue of being pissed.

Now that I have had to say goodbye to my crush of the last few years, I realize what a big part crushes play in your life—even long past adolescence.

I had spent the last three years totally burning for this man (no longer referring to him as “The Dick”). During that time; he was the inspiration to an endless amount of stories and poems (I can only do poetry when in the throws of teen-like angst that can only be felt when crushing on someone that you can’t have). He was also the cause of some of my happiest moods, most miserable and heartbreaking lows and many days; the only reason I bothered to show up at work. But now, even sadder than lying in bed wanting him more than ever after a night of hanging out with him, is the loss of the sweet hope that accompanies a crush.

What keeps you crushing is that glimmer of hope that comes from the belief that you two should be together, so when you find out that he has taken off to another country and gotten married—no matter how silly you think the marriage is; there is nothing left to be hopeful of when it comes to him. Sure, you can hope that one of them comes to their senses and opts for an annulment, or even hope that something heavy—like an anvil—falls from a window and crushes him so he too can understand the pain and hurt of being crushed, but you somehow finally know not to waste another moment wanting him.

I spoke to my crush yesterday and though I didn’t verbalize it; finally said goodbye and ended an era. I wanted to wish him well and mean it, because after all, my love for this guy was sincere, as was my concern for his happiness, but I guess I am just not that mature or evolved yet. Of course I want to see him happy, but certainly would have preferred to see him happy with me!

So, after all the tears and the many nights spent alone in bed feeling the female equivalent of blue-balls and a good cry, (my first since finding out that he got married) I have finally exorcized my crush—for real this time.

Love’s a bitch.

Now, I’m no neat freak but I do feel strongly about proper hygiene. So this morning while having a lively banter with my coworkers it was brought up that one of them spotted Cynthia Nixon (Miranda from Sex and the City) at Tequila Sunrise (corner of Steinway and Northern Blvd. in Long Island City, New York). It didn’t shock me that she was surrounded by a group of somewhat un-feminine ladies but what troubled me was that she reportedly did NOT wash her hands before exiting the restroom.

Shame on you Cynthia. Dirty hands. Tsk tsk. That’s the last time I offer to lick her fingers at a fondue party.

Once upon a time, I was 23 years old and I got my first real job in New York City. With this job, I received the best thing a boss can give an employee–company paid health insurance.

Having not been to a doctor in months because of my lack of medial insurance I began lining up appointments right and left–dentist, eye doctor, general practice, I was going to be one healthy girl.

I picked my doctor the way I pick most things. I went through the list provided to me by my insurance and chose the name that I felt was nicest. I can’t remember her last name but her first name was Eileen. When I came upon it in the list, I felt that she sounded very nice.

So I made an appointment for a check up with Dr. Eileen.

Her office was located in what I term NYU-ville, just off University Place near Washington Square Park. It was in a residential building but so are most doctors’ offices in New York, so I didn’t think that was odd.

There was no receptionist. In fact, there was no one in the waiting room. I sat down and leafed through an old Watchtower and then something from AARP Monthly. Then finally, Dr. Eileen came out.

Imagine Dr. Ruth mixed in with that drawf lady who’s always a psychic in movies–she was in Poltergiest and Teen Witch. That’s what this lady looked like–tiny and impossibly ancient.

She stared me down with her little beady eyes and said nothing.

“Um….Hi, I’m Brandy.”

“Come on back.” She sounded like she’d been smoking for at least 60 of her 75 years.

I entered into her office. There was a desk and an office chair, a computer and a fax machine, all in a corner. And off to the side, an examination table and a tray covered in various doctors’ tools beside it. I decided to tell myself that I wouldn’t be examined on that incredibly UNSTERILE table. There must be another room, one that’s nice and white and sterile and doesn’t have a Diet Coke can sitting amongst the scalpel and blood pressure cuff.

“Put this on, dear,” she said and preceded to hand me hospital gown that I saw her yank out of a drawer that seemed to be stuck in her desk.

“I’m only having a check up,” I said.

“You still need to put this on.” She turned her back but did not leave the room as I stripped to my undies and out on the hospital gown. It was cotton and worn and felt like it came straight from a slummy thrift store.

“Lie down on the table,” she instructed.

“What table?” I asked. She couldn’t possibly mean the uncovered, unsterilized exam table upholstered in cracked tan colored fake leather. The yellow foam was poking through one of the rips on the corner of table.

“That table,” she said with a tone that implied maybe I should be seeing a psychiatrist instead of her.

I hoisted myself up to the table and shuddered as my bare thigh touched unpleasantly warm fake leather. Everything was normal at first. She took my blood pressure. She checked my heart beat. I breathed in deep, breathed out deep. She knocked my knee with a mallet. Then she said,

“All right lie down. Time for the EKG.”

“The what?”

“The EKG.” She was a real fan of speaking to me as if I’d only recently learned English.

I wasn’t completely aware of what an EKG was but when she started attaching me to wires I figured it out. Just as I was about to voice my concerns, the phone rang. Dr. Eileen was in the middle of sticking a wire on my torso. There were wires all around me, stuck to various places. The phone rang again. Dr. Eileen stopped in the middle of attaching another wire to my leg and went to answer it.

So here I was, half naked and covered in wires while she answered to phone.

“Hello?” she says. “Ruth? Ruth that you? No, no, no! I wanted the tuna. The tuna, Ruth! On rye. Okay then. Yes, that’s right. Just a Diet Coke. I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget–tuna!!”

I heard her hang up the phone and then amazingly enough, I heard her typing away on her computer. Five minutes later she came back over to finish up with no explanation of what she’d been doing on the computer.

Then the phone rang again and again she answered it. This time it must have been her son or grandson or something because all I heard was, “Both the baseball bats are in the hall closet for the game. I put them there myself.”

She continued this conversation for another ten minutes and then came back over to me. “Well I guess we don’t really need to do the EKG today.”

Relieved, I sat up and began to help her unstick the wires that encircled me, making me feel like the Bionic Woman.

“Is there anything else that’s been bothering you?”

I really just wanted to give her my $10 co-pay and get the fuck out of her office but she looked so old and lonely for a minute there that I decided to chat for a moment.

“Well, since you ask, I have put on some weight. I mean I was way too thin when I moved to the city and I wanted to put on a little more weight but…as long as I’m healthy I guess it’s okay. I just wanted to make sure that it doens’t have anything to do with the meds I was taking for a kidney infection I had last year.”

“Hmm. Well let’s see. You look pretty healthy to me. Thin, too. But I’ve got something that should help you.”

She went to the window sill and brought over a basket that was sitting there. It was filled with what looked like tea packets. She grabbed a handful and gave them to me.

“These will really help. You can take three a day. Pair that with a eating a few bowls of oatmeal a day and you should be fine.”

I looked down at the packets and saw that Dr. Eileen had just given me a three month supply of laxatives. Was this a joke? Surely she wasn’t…..but as I looked at her give me a smile that said, “I’m a doctor, I know what’s best for you,” I couldn’t just say, “Excuse me Dr Eileen, but are you encouraging me to be a bulimic?”

I stuffed them in my purse and quickly pulled out my money. “Well, here you go, I have to be going now, Dr. Eileen. Thanks so much!”

She pocketed my money and walked me to the door. “I hope Ruth is here soon with my sandwich. Bye now.”

She began to close the door behind me and just before it shut I heard her say chirpily,

“Stay thin!!”