Giddy Up!

Let me just say this. I am a huge proponent of women taking responsibility for their own health. Get mammograms starting at 40, have safe sex, don't smoke, try to manage stress, all those things. And the one thing I'm a huge stickler for is the yearly exam. You know - that yearly exam. It is also, without a doubt, my least favourite thing ever. Well, okay, the time my cable went out and all I could watch was a fuzzy episode of "My Wife and Kids" was my least favourite thing ever, but it's my least favourite pantsless thing ever.

They always start with taking your blood pressure. Seems a little high. Really? I have no pants on and you're about to come at me with something that looks like Satan's salad tongs; I might be a little stressed.

And then, there's the stirrups. Some doctors use 'em, some don't. Mine does. So every year, I channel my inner Annie Oakley and saddle up. Did I mention my doctor's office is on a university campus, on the bottom floor of a residence? Every time, without fail, I've had the following thought: What if those goddamn frat boys have this place rigged with cameras ?

There are the etiquette issues. Do you have to shave your legs? Leave your socks on? Make polite conversation? And, if so, what is an appropriate topic while someone is spelunking around my lady business? In similar situations, or at least positions, I might be tempted to say I've never done this before, but she's been my doctor for 20 years - she knows all too well that I have.

But even though I hate them, even though I'm convinced that everyone in the waiting room knows what I'm there for ("she's not coughing, I don't see a rash, no visible injuries; must be the pap"), I'll keep doing it, because it's important. I'll just keep my eye out for a little blinking red light in the ceiling tiles. Goddamn frat boys.

"You're funny - you should write a blog..."

I get that alot. But here's the thing - I find the Swedish Chef hilarious, but I don't want to read his musings every day. Mostly because I don't speak Swedish.

I'm glad people think I'm funny, but really, I'm just doing it because I like to write. And every since the "Mom finding my diary" incident of 1981, I'm reluctant to commit anything to paper.

At least three days a week, I feel like such a cliche. Single. Lives with cats. Has too many shoes. Never missed an episode of Sex and the City. Hey look - overpriced coffee drinks - my favourite! And in some ways, I am.

But here's a better picture, my belief system if you will:

I believe...

...that women should not share clothes with their daughters. If it's in your sixteen year old's closet, leave it there. Possible exceptions - really nice jeans, ballet flats, vintage Chanel, and that mustard coloured bag you never use, Mom.

...that my cats can most likely talk, but they just don't feel I have anything to contribute to the conversation.

...cupcakes can make any day just a little bit better.

...a really good bottle of wine and some flirting will do more for your complexion than any microdermabrasion.

...you shouldn't lie about your age. Or about any procedures you've had done. However, it's perfectly fine to lie about the age at which you started having those procedures.

...a woman will always be a little in love with her first. Hey - John Taylor - call me. I know Duran Duran is probably recording again and stuff, but seriously, my Mom can't keep us apart anymore.