I pushed it out

Christmas night.

10:30 pm.

Becky and her family are sitting around the table playing the board game Clue, and discussing the irrelevance of placing the plastic weapons in each "room" as the directions instruct.

***

Step-brother: I just think that if the directions say we should lay out the weapons, we should lay out the weapons.

Mom: It's pointless and distracting though. It's just extra clutter in the rooms!

Brother: Well, what else are we gonna do with them. They're nice little props. Look at this little revolver. Pew! Pew!

Mom: Fine, I'll just put them back in the rooms, I don't care, it's just that...

Becky: *FAARRRTTT*

(silence)

...

(Becky sighs, takes her personal awkward silence cricket out of her pocket. Places it on table. Do your thing, cricket.)

...*ahem*.....chirp...

(family members lower their heads to silently analyze their playing cards, making copious notes regarding strategy, very very busy all the sudden, concentratey faces everywhere)

Becky: I...I pushed it out.

(............chirp........(infinity minutes)...........chirp.............)

Brother: You....you what?

Becky: I pushed it out.

Brother: What a weird thing to say. "I pushed it out." Are you drunk?

Becky: No.

Brother: Why are you telling us that you pushed it out?

Becky: Well you guys got all quiet like you were pretending you didn't hear it. I farted. Don't ignore it. You don't have to pretend for me. I wanted you to know that I pushed it out. It didn't sneak out or anything. I was just letting everyone know.

Brother: That you pushed it out?

Becky: Yeah. It was on purpose, so...not embarrassing, see?

Mom: No, honey. When you put it that way, not embarrassing at all.

Becky: I just feel really comfortable here. I love you guys. Merry Christmas.

...

chirp.

...

Becky: I pushed it out.

Mom: We know, honey. You're the boss of your farts.

Becky: I am.

...

....chirpchirp....

...

Brother: Your turn. Go.

Becky: Ok, um....Professor Plum?...with a candlestick?...in the....

*face turns red*

Becky: in the........urghhh

*neck veins bulge*

Mom: Honey, we believe you. It was on purpose. You don't have to prove it.

Brother: What are you doing? You're trying to fart on cue now?

Becky: No, I'm just thinking very hard. Hmm. I'll guess....Professorrrrnghh

Mom: Don't push too hard honey, you'll break a vein somewhere.

Becky: I just feel like my honor's been insulted here. I don't want your pity, any of you. Your pity is what's embarrassing, not the actual fart. I pushed it out.

Brother: Oh my God. I should go, it's getting late. I think we're all a little tired.

Becky: No. Let's play. Professor Plum.....with the candlestick....in...themmmph....

Brother: Really?

Becky: iiinnnn theeeeeeeee....

Mom: Honey. If you have to force it, maybe it's not meant to be.

Becky: I'm not pushing. Shh. Wait. Seriously you guys, shutupshutup.

....

...um, chirp?...

Becky: No, not now, cricket. This isn't awkward. This is poignant and suspenseful.

Brother: Actually, it is a little awkward.

....chirp!!...

Becky: Hey how bout you not confuse my cricket? Please?? That's weeks of training down the drain.

Brother: I'm gonna go home.

Becky: ...with a candlestick......in the.......*EEYEERRRPP????*

....

....cricket falls over dead....

...

Brother: That was actually...wow...that was....did you do that on purpose? That thing where it goes up at the end and sounds like a question?

Mom: That was nice, honey. You're in the conservatory, so I think we can assume that's your guess. Does anyone have Professor Plum, candlestick, conservatory? No? Anyone?

Brother: *face turns red* *intense focus eyes*

Mom: Oh no, not you too. Listen, just because she has a special talent doesn't mean you don't have your own special talents. Like, you're good at basketball and drawing apples. She's a great cake decorator and she asks questions with her butt. You guys are both special in your own ways. No competition today, please? Now...Professor Plum? Candlestick? Conserva....

Brother: I can...*veins bulge*...do it. I can make the question noise too.

Becky: You can! You can do it! Think of a question in your mind. Think really hard. Make your whole body feel inquisitive. I believe in you.

Mom: Oh, what a rare treat! I love watching you guys work together like this. There's nothing that makes me happier as a mother. This is the best Christmas ever. God bless us every one.

CURTAIN CLOSES.

APPLAUSE.

CIDER AND COCOA IN THE LOBBY.

Baby it's moderate outside

I have to say, I feel a little left out of all this winter weather complaining. You people, with your snow, and your blizzards, and your shovels...you think you're so big.

Los Angeles in December is no picnic either, just so you know. Just this past weekend, it dropped below 60 and all the roses in the neighborhood were clipped for the winter. That's right, no more roses until March. What the hell am I supposed to smell now? Other types of flowers?? No thanks. 

Also, the temperature in my house when I woke up this morning was 63 degrees. I quickly dug out my winter parka and turned the heat to 72. I'm okay now. We're all okay, by the grace of God. There is some condensation on my car windshield, so I will likely have to turn on the wipers before I drive anywhere, but it's not a big deal. Check in with me later maybe, just to be safe. 

It rained last Tuesday, so there were sirens and emergency helicopters buzzing overhead late into the night, rushing around to rescue all the victims of rain, like the guy whose Prius got stuck in a nasty gutter current and the lady who noticed the clouds gathering and so decided to go for a hike in a storm drain. Winter in Los Angeles would not be winter in Los Angeles without Lady Hiker in the Storm Drain. This particular hiker left her horse at home, though. I'm a little sentimental for Lady Hiker With Horse in Storm Drain, I must admit. There's always January though. 

The nightly news had a special report about how best to survive. In a breaking news bulletin, a spokesman from the Sheriff's department advised everyone to slow down while driving. Los Angeles when it rains is just a giant oil slick apparently, which makes it pretty difficult to drive while talking on a cell phone. In other words, Mother Nature is a total cockblock, where "chit-chat" is the proverbial "cock" in this expression. Best just to stay inside, authorities advise. Also, it seems, even though rain is transparent, it can obscure one's otherwise clear vision through the windshield, and did you know that wipers have various speeds to accommodate such circumstances?  

The Sheriff's department also taught me that puddles next to the curb can grow up to 7 inches deep, and when this happens, people crossing the street can get splashed by passing cars. Everyone in LA knows that rain burns like acid and once it gets deep into the fibers of your clothes it's impossible to dry out. Nobody likes to get splashed, said the official spokesman. Then, they showed footage of a woman getting splashed, and they were right about the extent of terribleness. The woman's Ugg© boots got wet, and she looked horrified. For the love of God, drivers, slow down!!!! How many Uggs must we ruin before this madness stops??!

We are all forced to adapt when winter rages its way through our city. I have noticed that James Belushi, who usually drives through Santa Monica with his convertible top down, is now driving through Santa Monica with his convertible top up, forcing him to drive with his cigar-smoking hand out his window. We could all learn a thing or two from Mr. Belushi about adapting to difficult circumstances.

Another fine example of rolling with the punches can be seen in my neighborhood's resident elderly bulimic jogger. Her usual attire consists of a black sweatsuit, clanking bejeweled fingers, a surgical mask, a long blonde wig, and a sun visor. Last week, she unveiled her new synthetic wig, the same gorgeous blonde butt-length hair, now rain-proof. Not even rain can come between Goldiwig and her 11-hour jog. Now that's perseverance! She'll reach her goal weight or die trying, I'm sure of it!

So there you have it, people of the snow. Let this be a lesson to you next time you think you have it so hard. Remember the roses (gone!) and the puddles (ouch! it burns!!) and the Uggs© (real suede!! Why, GOD??) next time you feel like complaining. This winter's rough for everyone. Thanks for your support. 

Miss Yvonne. It's what's for dinner.

Dear Miss Yvonne,

I know how much you like boobies, because you told me, and also because after careful scrutiny of the photos on your blog, I've learned that you've assembled an impressive collection of boob, and that you hoard your collection close to your chest at all times, probably in case of robbers. That's a good plan. I keep my boob collection under my armpits most of the time for the same reason. So anyway, because Kurt and Vic and I decided that today is Miss Yvonne Appreciation Day, I've decorated my blog with tits, just for you. You like? 

Here are a few reasons why we love you, and also why everyone who reads our blogs should read yours:

1) A few months ago, I made you an award from a photo of my dog's stainy anus after you used the word "stainy" in my comments section one time and hijacked my thunder made everyone laugh that day. I only half expected you to post the award on your sidebar, but you did, and you've had a brown, stainy asshole on your sidebar ever since. That's awesome. 

2) You won these tiny penis straws with lopsided testicles from a blog contest, and hid them around your house in very creative ways.

Oral B INDEED!! 

Oh heavens! My spoon appears to be buried under a teeny tiny cock pile this morning! 

Wherever will I find another one??

Ah, maize.

Just like the Indians served it up to the Pilgrims, probably.

3) Nobody at your work will ever catch on when you've been drinking.

Best drunk face ever.

4) You offer sage advice to your friends. For example, here's Miss Yvonne on how to get back at the man who has just fired you from your job:

"Well this is just off the cuff here, but how about you knock very very lightly on the guy's door late one night so he'll think 'huh, did someone just knock or am I hearing things?' and then when he opens the door, you're just standing there and not saying anything but you have a huge creepy smile on your face and the words 'Ya Mo Be There' written in sharpie on your forehead and maybe you could be holding something random like half a banana or a lawn chair and then when the guy asks you what you're doing there, just keep smiling and then walk off but keep looking back over your shoulder and maybe point at him a few times as you're walking and then when you get around the corner, peek back around it only now you're wearing a clown mask."

5) You are president and co-founder of the Public Restroom Diarrhea Club. I'm jealous, because I've never been a member of ANY club with the word "Diarrhea" in the title. The closest I've ever come to the prestige of the Diarrhea Club was when I served as treasurer of the Public Diorama of Rhea Pearlman's Restroom Association. No, I'm kidding, I just made that up because it sounded similar. I did read the Diarrhea Anne Frank twice though. <---worst joke I've ever made     

In closing, to sum it up, in the immortal words of Emily Dickinson or Thomas Jefferson or some kid I went to elementary school with: I like you. You like me. Homosexuality.

*wink*

Love,

Becky

YO MAMA'S BLOG

Grumpy Lick Nazi and Champion of Equal Thigh Rights

Sometimes hours, fractions of days even, pass by, and the only things I've said out loud in that whole time are

1) Shhht! SHHHT!

2) Stop licking!

3) You better shut it! YOU BETTER SHUT IT!

4) Hey! Bzzt! Ffft!! KAW!! *slams arm down on armrest* 

That last one is for the deaf dog who can only hear sharp noises. Or maybe he can hear all noises and is making a fucking ass out of me. Note to self: Investigate claims of deafness.

I just can not tolerate the sound of licking. Some of you remember this about me, as I've referred to the mnyuh mnyuh sound as "the frenching of a tub of cream cheese".

Right now I'm looking through the door to the other room and I can see just a small part of Farley's back. It's rocking back and forth rhythmically, masturbatorily even, and I have deduced that he is licking his penis. I can't hear the sound, but it's making me so angry because I know the sound exists, just feet away, just barely out of my range of hearing. 

If a dog licks his cock in the forest in the dining room, and nobody's there to hear it, does it even make a sound?

Answer: Yes, it makes the worst fucking sound in the world and it must be stopped. BZZT! KAW!! KAW!! *clapclapclap* STOP LICKING!

Also, I'm in a bad mood. I was up at 4am with Dolphinhead Seizuredog so I decided to take a late morning power nap because I was so tired and I ended up having that dream again where my mom is naked and wagging her giant cock at me in a taunting way, and I know this dream has something to do with how the gender roles were reversed in my family growing up, but rationalizing it doesn't make it any less disturbing. At least the dream didn't get to the part where she shoots Spidey web from her giant floppy donkey dick and traps me in a tangled web of glistening jizz-rope. I hate that part. The more you struggle, the more tangled you get in the jizz-rope. Aint that the truth, though? Metaphorically, somehow? Well, whatever, if Confucious had said it, you guys would all be shitting your pants with its brilliance, you know you would.

Can one qualify for a handicapped sticker on one's car because of one's ridiculously obtrusive inner thighs? Would insurance pay for one's motorized zoom-zoom seat for old people if that person's inner thighs made it more difficult for her to walk? Or if that person was occasionally made grumpy because of her inner thighs?

I've duct-taped them before, which kind of worked, until too many awesome karate kicks on the dance floor caused the tape on one inner thigh to peel off and fall out my pant leg and flap along on top of my high heel until I noticed it and kicked it off. Then the real decision-making began...do I carry on with just the one thin thigh? Or does the asymmetry of my svelteness negate any aesthetic benefit to the tape? 

I ended up peeling off the tape, not because of the asymmetric thinness, but because of me beginning to wonder, when you hold your fat in on one spot on your body...where does the fat go? The answer is not that it goes into your bones, which is what I really wanted to believe. So in search for the answer to this question, I checked myself out in a full-length mirror and found my answer: The fat goes behind you. 

Now, normally my philosophy about everything concerning the back of me is "If I can't see it, it's not my problem." Me from the back is like the hall closet where you put all the mess in your house that you don't ever have time to think about. This is why I don't do any ass exercises or check how jeans look from the back before I buy them. Not my problem.

This is also why people are always coming up to me when I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor and whispering, "Hey Becky, crack kills" in my ear. Thanks for the subtle and discreet heads-up, friends, but you know what? Not my problem. If you don't like my ass-crack, look away.

But anyhow, when you duct tape your inner thighs, your inner thighs move to the back. And normally this would not be my problem to deal with, but I felt sorry for my poor, bound, left inner thigh having to be relocated from its home, while just over the hill its twin got to flounce around all free-range in its natural habitat. This is how evil twins happen. Bitter jealousy and resentment. So I freed it.

Now you are probably thinking, "Becky, why don't you just repost during the month of December? Clearly, you're stressed, and when you're stressed, focus and linear thought become even more of an issue." And I would like to respond with gratitude that you care so much about my well-being, but I would also like to inform you that my "Not my problem" philosophy is not limited to the physical world, but also the temporal. 

In other words, this post is not my problem. It's the "visible ass-crack" of posts. You sort it out.

 

Nana, Smasher of Dreams

Once again, Nana has failed me.

I arrived at her house and followed the smell of baby powder and Ensure up the stairs, past the motorized stair-seat, hung a right at the wheelchair and followed the sounds of oxygen tank. And what I discovered when I peeked around the La-Z-Boy was that the past couple months of year 102 have not treated her too kindly. Ahmahgah. WhahappatoNana. 

I put my hand on hers and bent down to look into her eyes and whispered, "Hi Nana! It's me Becky!

Her Nigerian nurse rubbed her arm vigorously then and shouted, "LOOK WHO IT IS COME TO SEE YOU, NANA!! LOOK WHO IT IS!! IT IS BECKY!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA! LOOK WHO COME TO SEE YOU TODAY!!"

(Holy shit, lady. Let her sleep. It's cool. I'll catch up with her another time.)

But she continued, screaming now. "NANA YOU HAVE A SURPRISE VISITOR!! GUESS WHO IT IS!! OPEN YOUR EYES AND SEE FOR YOURSELF!! OPEN YOUR EYES NANA!! WOOWOOOWOOO!! (clapclapclap) SAY HELLO TO YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER BECKY!! SHE COME TO SAY MERRY CHRISTMAS TODAY!! YAYAYAYAWHOOOO!! (clapclapclap)"

Blog sidebar: Cmere a sec. Now before you go thinking negatively of Nana's Nigerian nurse for all the screaming, let me assure you that she's a good egg. For example, despite the fact that she's very proper and reserved, she uses the word "pussy" all the time to refer to her ladycrotch, because (I can only assume) some evil, mischievous person provided her with the wrong term when she was learning English. (Not me.) (For real, not me.) And she pronounces it "Poo-see" which is so oily and suggestive I can't help but shudder with glee.

Also, Nana's Nigerian nurse has a special friendship with my little dog Juanita. Here are some things I have heard her saying to Juanita when she thought nobody was listening:

"Oh, Juanita. You are so small, but you have the heart of a lion. You can move mountains, and you will one day. I am sure of it."

"Juanita, would you like to go to see the Miley Cyrus movie with me? We will sit in the front row together. We will have a wonderful time."

"Oh Juanita, we are both single ladies. Will you do the single ladies dance with me? (tambourine hands) All the single ladies. All the single ladies dance with their hands up. Go to the club! Let us put a ring on it!"

See? I told you. She's a good egg. Now, back to Nana...  

"NANA LOOK WITH YOUR EYES!! THERE YOU GO NANA!! OPEN YOUR EYES!!"

And she did! Her eyes scanned from left to right and landed on me, and then, hold on, here it comes...I think...I think she's gonna do it...yes here it comes...

*wink*

Booya. A wink from Nana is like a zerbert from God. 

Exhausted from all the activity, she fell back asleep.

So...standing there with my bag full of blogger names written on post-its and folded in quarters, I realized that, once again, Nana will not be able to pick a contest winner for me. And seeing as how she's never alone anymore, it's not even possible for me to attach a piece of double-sided tape to the tip of her index finger, hang her arm over the side of her chair, and dip her hand into my bag of names hoping one sticks. This is bullshit. 

So...contest winner is TBA, as soon as I come up with a plan B. 

In the meantime, I'm reposting below. I have to do it now because, well, you know...*taps watch* if you catch my drift. In other words, to quote a great poet and a master of metaphor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives, and Nana's just about out of sand." 

***

You've changed, Nana.

There, I've said it. You have this silent, haughty air about you lately. At first I thought it was a temporary ego thing after Willard Scott announced your 100th birthday on air, but a couple of years have passed and nothing's changed. It's so easy for people to get caught up in your grammy sweaters and your Captain Kangaroo 'do and think aw, she's so cute. But I'm not buying it anymore. Seriously, I'm so done.

I don't care how old you are. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. You're acting like a dick.

Don't give me that confused look. Alright, let me lay it all out on the table:

1) Listen up, you. I'm 34 years old. A five spot in a birthday card isn't gonna cut it anymore. I realize in your day five dollars would have bought you a log cabin, or a parasol, or whatever you people spent your money on before there was good stuff, but welcome to the future, Nana. Shit's expensive. And the way you so carelessly scrawl your name at the bottom of the card, I can't read a word of it. I don't care how bad your hand shakes, you better find a way to pull yourself together and eek out something resembling a legible signature. Put some effort into it. Take a pill, ask your home health care worker to hold your wrist steady, whatever you gotta do, just make it happen.

2) Is there something wrong with our air? It suits me just fine, same with everyone else you know. But apparently our stupid old atmosphere isn't up to your standards. Don't think it's gone unnoticed that you keep your own private stash (the good stuff, no doubt) in a tank nearby so you don't have to breathe the generic brand. We are literally not fit to breathe the same air, are we. This is elitism at its worst. It's AIR, Nana, it's free, and look around...it's freakin everywhere!

3) Sleeping 23 hours a day is for cats and hobos, so wake the hell up. Come on, up and at 'em! Days a wastin'! It's not like the other waking hour of your day is so exhausting. I mean, you have not one, but TWO people holding you by your armpits every time you go anywhere, so how tiring can your life possibly be? I wish I had it that good, I wish people would carry ME around everywhere by my armpits. I work hard, blogging and texting and thinking all the time, but I manage to walk to the bathroom from my seat in front of the tv and back like everyone else. People are starting to talk about how lazy you are, and frankly, I'm tired of defending you.

4) I, too, get tired of chewing sometimes. I know, food can be so damn chunky. But I get through it, and so should you. The fact that you demand that your food be pureed to a pulp is just such diva behavior. Listen Ms. Ross, use the teeth your periodontist gave you, open up, and get to work. Eat your eggplant parmesan whole and unblended like everyone else, because you're really no better than the rest of us.

5) My name is Becky. BECKY. Here, I'll help you out. You know a neat trick to remember it? It's the same as your name. Which is also BECKY. I know, it's tricky. But in any case my name's not "Howdi-li-do!," or "Don't you look festive today!" And winking at me with your twinkly eye and bright grandmotherly smile does not a greeting make.

6) Woman, we get it. You've been around for over a century, and in that time you have acquired an impressive collection of jewelry. But really, there is no need to flaunt it in our faces every day. What statement are you trying to make with this endless parade of bedazzled hummingbird broaches and gold rope chain necklaces adorned with cardinals, honeybees, and sparrows? Are you trying to make everyone jealous? Well, guess what. It worked. Happy?

7) The drama. Oh Lord, the drama you bring with you everywhere you go. These "Petite Mal Seizures" and "Temporary Comatose States" you seem to miraculously fade in and out of, it's barely funny anymore. You realize you almost ruined Thanksgiving when we had to remove you from the table and lay you out on the floor to check your breathing? There never was a bigger attention whore, ever. If I faked a coma or a seizure every time I felt neglected, I'd never get up. Deal with it.

Pull yourself together, Nana. Really. What would Jesus say?

Lessons in object permanence with Farley the senile dog

Farley jumps around in the passenger seat of the car, barking out the window and scratching at the door.

Me: What are you doing?

Farley: Barking! I need to get your attention! Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!

Me: You're barking out the window. How will that get my attention?

Farley: I'm barking at YOU, the you in the car next to us! Yarp! Yarp!

Me: But I'm right here next to you! There's no other me, pup. That's just a lady that looks kind of like me.

Farley: But I see you in that car...see, look! Yellowhair girl, that's you, and I love you. Don't leave me, Yellowhair girl! Yarp!

Me: There's only one of me, dog. I'm right here. See?

Farley: You are here, that is true. Then I turn my head and you are there too, with your yellow hair. You are so quick! I don't want any of you to leave me. Look, you're getting away! Follow you!

Me: (covers Farley's eyes with my cupped right hand)

Farley: Oh no. The lights went out. I will wait.

......

pant pant pant...

.....

turn signal, click, click, click...

.....

Me: (removes hand)

Farley: Ok! lights on! Where is it??

Me: Where is what?

Farley: What I was looking at just now?? I forget. Remind me.

Me: Mmmmnope. Nothing.

Farley: I feel awfully excited. Are you sure? Was it a bird? A bicycle man?

Me: Before the lights went out, you were just looking out the window, quietly enjoying the breeze.

Farley: Yes, I do enjoy breeze. Wait! What's that? It's your car over there! I see your car! Let's go for a ride! I wanna go for a ride!!

Me: You are IN my car, we are riding in the car right this very second.

Farley: Where? I don't see the car we are in?!

Me: Because you are IN it.

Farley: If I cannot see the car, how can I be IN it? If I cannot see the car, it doesn't exist, and it is impossible to be IN a car that doesn't exist. Listen to me now. The car is there. I want to get in the car because I love rides. Let me out of this little house.

Me: The car is right here. That is a car that looks like my car, which you are in right now.

Farley: Okay fine, the car is here. But it is there. Mostly, your car is there, I can see it. Wait, pull over, I see Yellowhair girl again walking down the street, I need to tell her something real quick. Please, Yellowhair girl, let me out so I can go greet Yellowhair girl!!

Me: There is only one Yellowhair girl, dog, and she is me. Turn around, I'm right here!

Farley: WANNA GO FOR RIDE! YARPYARPYARP! DON'T LEAVE ME, YELLOWHAIR GIRL!!

Me: (cups hand over his eyes)

Farley: Uh Oh. Lights out. I will wait.

She fingered my butt, and insurance paid for it all. Everyone wins.

There is only one rule in the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. 

And it is this: There is no waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health. If you find yourself there, you were never there. Neither was I. 

But just in case you forget that rule and find yourself in this non-existent waiting room in the Center for Colorectal Health, there's a second rule, which is: 

In the waiting room of the Center for Colorectal Health, keep your eyes down at all times.

Lots of ass-shame in that room. So much ass-shame.

I couldn't quite see too well on account of following rule 2, so the memory is sketchy due to my weak peripheral vision and tendency to imagine things that might or might not have been real, but I'm pretty sure everyone there but me was in disguise. There was Guy in Black Unitard Wearing a Monocle and a Beret, who sat in the corner and twisted his fake handlebar mustache while mumbling things like "Sacre Bleu!" and "Vive la revolution!!" and "Croissant? Eh huh-huh-huh-huh? Oui?" behind his People magazine. I wasn't buying it.

There was Guy in Polo Shirt who brought his own set of golf clubs and kept practicing his swing and yelling, "Yes!! Nailed it!" and asking the receptionist in a loud, obvious voice, "Do you happen to know when my best pal the other doctor in this office besides me, his friend and esteemed colleague, will be ready for our GOLF GAME that we are having after he's done with these *dismissive wave* people with problems?" to which she'd reply, "Has your butt donut deflated again, sir? Please have a seat."

There was a patient who crept into the office holding an empty refrigerator box over his body, quietly accompanied by plinky cartoon secret-tiptoe music in an attempt to throw us all off, quickly setting his disguise down on the floor and playing the old "abandoned refrigerator box" trick every time somebody looked up. He didn't fool me though, I could see him looking around behind the eyeholes he had cut out. Good ruse, though, box guy.

I didn't wear a costume because I didn't know about the ass-shame ahead of time, but I did pose as "The busiest and most important texter in the universe" and "Woman who misplaced the cure for cancer in her wallet" and "Woman whose thoughtful introspection has transported her to a realm of inner peace that few mortals have ever known."

It bothered me that I was the only woman in there. I'm pretty sure they all assumed I'd been having shitloads of anal sex, which I haven't by the way. So to prove it I cleared my throat and said "Hey you guys, quick poll! Raise your hand if you hate anal sex!" and raised my hand, so crisis averted, ass-virtue preserved.

But just in case, to make my point clear, I borrowed a post-it pad from the receptionist and made some signs for my ass, and then sauntered casually around the room for a bit.

They brought me into an exam room early. 

Inside the exam room was a plastic model of a cross-section of an asshole, which happened to have been afflicted with every possible ailment known to ass. 

Finally the doctor arrived.

Doctor: Hi, I'm Dr. Beth. (Holds out hand to shake)

Me: Ah...Oh...you know what? (Holding hands up) Wet hands. (Oh well)

Doctor: So...tell me a little about why you're here.

Me: Um...really? I think that's for me to know and you to find out. 

Doctor: ...

Me: *intimidating fake-out shoulder thrust*

Doctor: You're not going to tell me why you're here?

Me: I'll tell you to mind your own fucking business is what I'll tell you.

Doctor: Don't be embarrassed! Come on, how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me what's wrong?

Me: 20 questions?

Doctor: You want me to guess?

Me: I'll say hot or cold.

Doctor: How about you just tell me.

Me: Two truths and a lie?

Doctor: One truth, no lies.

Me: Split the difference? One truth, one lie, and one lie of omission?

Doctor: You've never been to a colorectal specialist before, have you?

Me: Hey! I'm thinking of an even number between 1 and 100...

Doctor: 82.

Me: Yes. That's right. (Sigh.) Please don't stick your finger up my ass.

Doctor: You know what? Let's just talk for a bit, get to know each other. 

Me: I'm scared. I've never...done this before.

Doctor: Don't worry, you're safe here. (snaps on rubber gloves)

The thing is...the thing that gets me...the thing about this experience that haunts me...is that...what you don't expect is that...

*lip tremble*

*bravely wipes eyes with forearm*

You know how in movies, they bend you over the table? I was ready for that. 

And you know how at the gyno, they put your legs up in stirrups? I could've handled that.

But what she did was...she rolled me onto my side and told me to pull my legs up to my chest. Then she stuck her jellied finger up my butt while I lay in the fetal position, which is like tucking someone into bed with their teddy bear and a cup of hot cider and nestling them in the arms of the tooth fairy as Santa sits at the foot of the bed making his list and checking it twice and telling you that you've been a good girl and then surprise! Look over there! It's your Nana giving a donkey a hand job! Yeah, see? Confused feelings is right!

Once I was able to calm down and stop shrieking "Oh my God! I'm pooping right now! Poop coming out I can feel it for real this time!!" every time she got her fingertip half an inch in, her finger was only up there long enough for me to groan, "I don't liiiike this one little biiiiiittttttt...." and then it was done, but fetal position is forever ruined.

Sorry, yoga cooldown. 

Sorry, restful catnaps.

Sorry, in utero soothing night sounds CD.

Doctor's orders involved buying lots of things at the drug store that are usually reserved for old people, and lots of things that are usually reserved for babies, and basically confusing the hell out of my asshole to the point that it just settles the fuck down. Break it down with harsh words, and then build it back up with compliments until I've got it wrapped around my little finger, so to speak. I'm gonna be my asshole's Ike Turner, giving it the back of my hand and screaming, "I'll TELL you what's love got to do with it, bitch!!" *SMACK!* And then giving it a diamond tennis bracelet and cooing, "You know you're my best asshole. My ONLY asshole. You know you shouldn't make me mad like that, baby." This Ike and Tina thing isn't part of the doctor's orders, but I can read between the lines. It's what she DIDN'T prescribe that counts.

But she did say I need to chew my almonds better. That makes sense I guess.