So the other day my blogging friend The Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess and I were talking about vajayjays (uhhh, totally normal conversation, right?) and we decided that gynecologists (I shit you not, I had to spell this word like 9 times to get it right) need to change a few things around the office. Here are a few of our thoughts.
Dear Dr. Hoo-Ha,
Yeah, we know that’s not really your name, but this is a generic letter to all vajayjay doctors out there. So here’s the thing, as much as we like you, visiting you once a year pretty much SUCKS ASS and is yet one more way women got the short end of the stick. It’s bullshit. Men don’t have to go to the F’ing penis doctor once a year, do they?
But as long as we have to do it, we think it’s high time you made a few changes around your office. And we don’t mean to your stupid computer system. Nope, we’re talking about some changes that our ginas can appreciate. So here goes. Ten things that will make spreading our legs for you a whole lot better. Not fun. But better.
1. When I call your receptionist, there are only two things she should ask. A. Do you need to schedule a routine appointment? Or B. Don’t tell me what’s wrong but does your hoo-ha need an appointment for something out of the ordinary? Because you know what sucks? When I call and the receptionist asks me why I’m calling and I go into great detail about some embarrassing shit like itchy discharge (not that I’ve EVER had THAT problem) and then she’s like ewww gross, that’s totally TMI, let me pass you through to the nurse.
2. Okay, so here’s what I want to happen when I walk up to the front desk. Acknowledge me. I know I’m signing in on a stupid piece of paper, but do you know what’s going through my head? Does she see me signing in? And wait, I also want you to tell me whether I’m going to have to give a urine sample or not because my bladder is about to explode but I don’t want to pee right now if I’m going to have to pee in a cup in like fifteen minutes. It’s F’ing amazing, if I sneeze like a whole Dixie cup sneaks out but for some reason shove a sterile cup under my hoo-ha and I can barely squeeze out a drop. Okay, and last but not least, I would like two water fountains in your waiting area. One should spit out chocolate and one should spit out wine. Of course, they should be well-labeled so those pregnant bitties don’t accidentally drink the wrong one. Wait, no they shouldn’t. Because if you drink it accidentally it doesn’t count, right?
3. Okay, do you know what the worst part of going to the gynie is? Nope, not the random person you see for 5 minutes a year who sticks his/her hand up your crevasse. It’s the part before that. The scale. Because unless you’re Allison Sweeney and I’m on the Biggest Loser about to win $250,000, I kinda seriously have a thing against letting people see me step on a scale. But as long as I have to succumb to your torture, please give me a second to take off my shoes. I know you say, “It doesn’t really matter,” but yes, it does F’ing matter. And for the love of God, please slide the metal thing all the way to the right and then tap it backwards to figure out how many pounds I weigh. Sliding it to the left and watching it move up the numbers is torture. Please don’t let it go past twenty-five, past thirty, past thirty-five, awww fuck it, just kill me now.
4. Okay, you know what I would really appreciate? When you leave me in my itty-bitty exam room and you say the doctor will be right in, I would appreciate if you could be just a tad more specific. WTF is “right in?” Two minutes? Ten minutes? Because I’m trying to get ready as fast as humanly possible because I’m scared shitless the doctor is really going to be “right in” and see my ass as I’m bent over taking off my underwear, which is hysterical since she’s about to literally look inside me so who gives a shit if she sees it nekked.
5. So you know what I’d like to know. Who designed the stupid gynie office gowns? Hellllllo, what idiot thought that paper might make a good dress? Well, maybe some skinny Goth kid on Project Runway, but besides him. Sure, paper is handy because it’s disposable, but it does not bend with your body and it makes a lot of noise when you shift around, especially since you’re already sitting on paper. And it’s not like the other option is any better. In fact, it’s worse. Yup, those ratty, polka dotted pale blue gowns that are crazy faded because of the number of times they’ve been washed after naked bodies were being pap-smeared in them. I don't care what kind of industrial strength cleaner you used. And what is up with the stupid ties? A. They never line up. And B. As soon as you sit, it gaps in the front to show off your stupid muffin top. As if it’s not bad enough you have to stare at my vajayjay, you also have to stare at my muffin top. Why can’t someone come out with a normal gown that DOESN’T MAKE ME FEEL LIKE SHIT???!!! If the Marriott can put a stupid terrycloth robe in my room, why can’t you? Or what if we started a BYOR movement—Bring Your Own Robe. I think we’d all be down with that.
6. Speaking of shit in the room, this one’s easy. PUT THE F’ING TOOLS AWAY LIKE IN A DRAWER OR SOMETHING BEFORE I COME IN!!! I don’t care if they’re laid out all nicely on a paper towel or a tray. NO ONE wants to walk into her appointment and see a speculum or a huge tube of lube or those giant Q-tips all ready to go. It’s like in Criminal Minds when the tied-down victim opens her eyes only to see a bunch of rusty knives and saws all laid out waiting for her. ‘Cause when you walk in and see that stuff, here’s what goes through your head. Awww shit, I’m F’ed.
7. So here’s the thing, I do not want to hear the Muzak version of Soul Provider by Michael Bolton while I’m waiting. In fact, as long as you’re playing something, how about a play-by-play announcement of where the doctor’s at? “She’s feeling another patient’s breasts right now, she’s on the second breast, look at the dexterity, the speed. She’s finishing up, she’s saying goodbye, she’s walking down the hallway, annnnnnd, she’s opening the door to your room in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” Because right now all I’m doing is straining to hear the muffled voices on the other side of the wall. Does it sound like they’re saying goodbye? I can’t tell. I think so. Yes, that was a door opening and closing. Oooh, I hear footsteps coming closer down the hall. And someone’s taking my chart off the door. Please be the doctor, please be the doctor. And then the footsteps just walked away. WTF?
8. Don’t shake my hand. I don’t care if a glove was on it. It was just in someone else’s vajayjay.
9. Can we discuss the stirrups? Okay, I F’ing get it. You need my legs propped up to get a proper view. But two things. A. Can we pleeeeease call them something different? I’m not riding a horse for F’s sake. I’m getting a pap smear. And B. Can we pleeeeease cover them with something disposable. I mean, right now they’re covered with those little felt jewelry bags or some shit like that, but I seriously question how often those things are washed. Hell, even if they’re washed at the end of every day, if my appointment is at 3:00 they’ve already been touched by like 20 gross feet. I went to the gynie and caught a fungal infection. How F’ing gross does that sound?!
10. WTF is up with the wall décor? Take those ridiculous reproductive system posters down and replace them with scenes from Bali on the beach by the blue water with someone drinking a fruity drink. Or better yet, a life-sized poster of Channing Tatum or Bradley Cooper. If I’m gonna spread my legs for you, the least I can do is fantasize that it’s for someone else.
Baby Sideburns and the Underachiever’s Guide to Being a Domestic Goddess
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