DNA: Waiting is a Bitch

Jp and I have steadily been building our sibling relationship. We treat our text chain as if it were social media; sharing photos of food, memes, gifs and whatever else that pops into our heads. There’s been a few times over the past two years that we’ve been able to meet up and hang out for short periods of time. The last time we hung out we met in Gatlinburg, TN. It’s basically our half way point. They were there celebrating his wife’s birthday weekend while we were down in Chimney Rock, NC. hanging out with my family. I wanted to see JP since I was so close so we drove back up.

JP and I did a bourbon tasting. That was fun. We had maybe 8 mini shots of different kinds of bourbon, whisky, and moonshine. I’m petite; short with a small frame. It doesn’t take much 😂 Needless to say I got a little tipsy. It was a good moment for me: The first time I got buzzed with my maybe little brother.

The more Jp and I talk and share our lives the closer I feel to him, his wife and kids. I’ve started to really feel like he’s my little brother. Getting closer to Jp has started to frightened me. The, “what if’s” have kicked in. What if he isn’t my brother? What if … what if… what if???

My youngest daughter wanted to do Ancestry to see how much Japanese she was. Her dad is Japanese, born and raised in Hiroshima. I’ve heard great stories about their family name from its samurai bloodline to its kamikaze pilots. Naturally my youngest feels a sense of pride and would like to know how much of this blood pulses her veins. I bought the AncestryDNA kit for her and while I was already shopping, I bought one for Jp.

Within a week the kits showed up to my house. My daughter did hers and sent it off the following morning. I mailed JPs kit to him and a week later he had sent it in. Now we all wait.

I’ve been teasing my daughter that her DNA kit will show she was switched at birth and she’s not really Japanese but probably Chinese or Korean or maybe even Mexican. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of the mentioned ethnicities; it’s just teasing. Calm down.


My daughters DNA sample was received. They have processed her information and have begun extracting her DNA from her saliva. They have given an estimated completion date for May 24th. JP sent his in almost a week later so just going with the natural flow of the timeline, I should know if I have found my biological family in early June. Today JP and I were exchanging texts. I told him that we should have the results by Fathers Day. If I am in fact my BCF’s child then I maybe I will send him a birth announcement saying, “Congratulations on your late arrival! She is 60” long and weighs 115lbs, 4oz.”

Hahahahaha how funny would that shit be?

FBI: Facebook Investigating

On my last post I left off with telling you that in connecting with a 3rd cousin on fathers side there’s be another chapter to write about. Well here it is. If you haven’t read the previous post then this one will make no sense to you. Hell, it barely makes sense to me and I lived it all. 🤣

I don’t remember exactly how it went down but I somehow ended up messaging back and forth with a dna connection from Ancestry.com. She is my 2nd-3rd cousin on my fathers side which sounds kinda cool except I don’t know who my biological father is. It went from a cool connection to a, “wtf..now what?”

After meeting online, Leanne and I worked meticulously for weeks on narrowing down exactly how we’re connected. We know that it’s through my fathers, and then her mother’s dna. You would think 2nd-3rd cousins would be easy to trace back to a common grandparent. Wrong. It’s been two years and we still have no fucking clue. Somehow the name of the man on my birth certificate came up which led to overthinking and an ocd level investigation. What better way to find out everything you want to know: Facebook.

I got on my FB, typed John’s name into the search bar and began my investigation. I wasn’t shocked when several people with the same name popped up. I already had a plan to send the same message to every single one. A quick copy/paste of a simple paragraph stating who I was, when and where I was born and who I was looking for. I listed my potential grandmothers name as well and her last known residence. The same day I got a couple of responses back saying, “I’m not that John,” which was fine by me. As I said, I expected many profiles to pop up and I already knew it was going to take awhile to weed through them.

To my surprise, because I wasn’t really expecting a real hit, the next day I got a message, “…blah blah blah.. that’s my dad and my grandmother and you’re my sister.” I say, “blah blah blah..” not because whatever else the man said didn’t matter, it’s just that the last part is the only part I remember. As it turns out, my birth certificate fathers’ name (from now on it’s BCF) is also the name of my maybe brother. Matter of fact there are 6 of them; a name that’s been handed down over the generations. They gave my maybe brother a middle name so I call him, “JP.”

Jp and I hit it off immediately. It was almost as if we’d always known one another. Jp told me that he was raised to know that he had a big sister out there somewhere and that he had tried to find me once but had little to zilch to go on. (Yeah, no shit. Been there, done that, still here and doing it!)

A day or so later I got a message from my BCF. He confirmed that he was in fact my father and he was glad to finally have a chance to get to know me. The crazy thing for me is how little reaction I had to it. You know how when you see long-lost-given-up-for-adoption, switched-at-birth, “you are the father!,” moments on talk shows… when the reunited family members cry and snot-bubble and do that tight-held, rocking back and forth bear hug all while proclaiming how much they love each other and have been waiting their whole lives for this moment? And you cry and snot-bubble on your couch because you’re all happy and shit? Yeah, none of that happened. I felt nothing different than I did in the moments before I opened the message. That still bothers me. I wanted crying and snot-bubbling and the, “I can’t believe I finally found you,” moment.

Several weeks passed before my boyfriend, (I hate being almost 50 and saying I have a boyfriend like I’m in high school. It’s definitely not cute. We will talk about this in a later post), and I drove down to Alabama to meet my BCF. It was a fun trip; I’d never been to Alabama before. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen cotton fields but it was the first time I’d seen them as an adult and it was certainly the first time that anyone gave it to me as a gesture of love. Hahaha that’s right. My boyfriend parked his blue truck and ran into the field to pick break me off a branch. Oh and when I say blue, I don’t mean a type of blue that might blend in with its surroundings at night as one trespasses and steals. I’m talking about Wildcat blue (as in the KY Wildcats). It is a bright blue that sticks out everywhere it goes, especially in a cotton field on a clear sunny day!! The whole time I was sitting there waiting for my boyfriend to get back, I felt like then truck was attempting to get us locked up, like she was waving and pointing her big blue hand while screaming, “heyyyy they’re stealin’! Heyyyy!!” It was the funniest shit ever. Most guys give you roses or something. Not my baby. He stole fresh cotton which is aggressively controlled due to the boll weevil bug. You can’t even plant cotton without permission. That’s true love right there.

I got sidetracked. Let’s back up.

So we get to BCF’s house and I knock on the door. I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous. When the door opened I was like, “Hey,” as I walked in. It was like I’d been there many times before, nothing new. My boyfriend and I spent the weekend getting to know my BCF and my maybe brother. It was never really awkward until my BCF gave me personal items that belonged to him: An album full or deployment and war photos, military ID’s, a military ring. It was a very sweet gesture and I graciously accepted the items as not to be rude. Later, during another visit I met up with JP and gave the items to him and asked him not to tell. I guess that was our first “sibling secret” ever shared.

…. more to come.

Ancestry: To be or Not to Be.

For 47 years I have wondered if the man listed on my birth certificate was my biological father or not. Now thanks to AncestryDNA I’ll find out in 4-6 weeks.

I don’t know how I feel about this whole thing. If I’m being honest, the feelings are mixed. In some ways I’ll be glad to finally have some sort of closure.. a true identity, more roots, medical history, two brothers, nieces and nephews…. but in some other ways all of those listed things bring resentment, anxiety, and anger.

My mother was young and she married a young soldier. Both came from large families with many siblings. I truly believe she was tired of playing “mother” to all of her younger siblings while my grandparents worked. After my aunt married a soldier and moved away, all of the responsibilities of the at-home family life fell into my mother’s lap.

My mama was a pretty girl; petite with milky skin, blue eyes and long, straight, red hair. She was curvy (big boobs) and had perfect teeth. My mama was a “looker,” and could have any man eating from the palm of her hand. Ive always considered my mama a people person. She’s was always smiling, joking around, and flirting. I always thought that was just her personality but I now know it was all to cover a painful childhood; one of neglect and sexual abuse. I get it because I too lived it.

I grew up believing that my biological father was someone other than the man who is named on my birth certificate. My mama told me that she was married to a dark and handsome man named Johnny. He was deployed to Germany, leaving her behind with his mother in South Carolina. Supposedly he phoned her to tell her he had met someone and wasn’t coming back. She moved back to Kentucky, met someone herself, and got knocked. Then Johnny came home, wanted to amend his marriage. She told him about the pregnancy, he accepted it and they moved to Ft. Knox where I was born in August 1974.

I don’t know what happened exactly from this point. I was told by my mama that Johnny’s mother offered her money to take me and move away. Eventually they did divorce and in court she said I was conceived out of wedlock but born into a reconciled marriage, therefore taking Johnny’s last name although not his heir. The judge granted the divorce stating just that.

From here my mama told me how she met and fell head over ass for Glenn. She told me how wonderful he was; painting him handsome, charming, and intelligent. I was told how much I looked like him, acted like him.. how I took after him with his creativity and intelligence. We both loved music and the sky. I had his jawline, his dreamy blue eyes, his charm.

I found Glenn when I was 20. We spoke over the phone and he told me that I was not his child and that I belonged to my mother’s husband who was in the army. Wtf? I didn’t believe him because why would my mother stand in court and look like an adulteress if she wasn’t? Who puts themselves through that kind of humiliation on purpose?

For many years I was convinced that Glenn was my biological father. I built my family tree on Ancestry with all of his information just to have some sort of connection to “my” family. Every photo, every story, every single new added name was cherished.

One day I got a call from my son who had just done the 23 and Me dna kit. I don’t know how he came across it but he found an obituary belonging to Glenn. Instantly my heart was saddened and I mourned for the father who wanted nothing to do with me but I had grown to love regardless. Figuring it was all over now, I had nothing left to lose, I reached out to his wife to ask her questions about him. What a shocker that was!

I found Pam’s email first and left my contact information, to my surprise she called me the next day. She not only confirming his death she also filled me in on how much of a piece of shit he truly was. Pam told me all of the selfish and bad ways he acted. I didn’t believe her because she was telling me something completely opposite from my mamas description. The only thing Pam told me that was the same as my mother was that he was very handsome and charming.

I ended up reaching out to his sister Nina. She agreed to meet with me at Panera. We had lunch and shared in good conversation. Nina also told me how selfish and awful Glenn was. I left her and eventually made my way to his grave where I sat for a long time in the sun, crying and talking to this asshole father of mine. I had decided that even though he was an asshole, he was my asshole and I’d love him anyway: That was until Nina did the AncestryDNA and we didn’t connect.

It was over. I silently cried my last tears in the bottom of my shower where no one could see them fall. I was done with all of it. I no longer cared who my biological father was or wasn’t. I deleted my family tree and stopped looking at Ancestry. Then one day I met Leanne; a 3rd cousin connection on my fathers dna side. My interest peaked and well… now there’s another chapter to write about.

Boards of Death pt.1

I’m not an athlete. I do not watch sports nor do I take part in such things. It’s not that I don’t have good eye-hand coordination, I just do not find pleasure in any activity in which I may become sweaty or require muscle relaxers with bourbon chasers for three days afterward.

When I was like 11 or 12 someone thought it would be a good idea to sign me up for a kids co-ed baseball team. Perhaps it was my mother who also thought making me an only child was a good idea. That being said, I do not feel that it was my fault that I was kicked off of the team. I mean yeah, I bit some kid on the arm but he deserved it. At least that’s the story I’m sticking to.

You see what happened was…. I was fighting with a little blonde-haired tomboy named Cindy. Her brother, who was also on the team, wanted to separate us. Somehow he thought it’d be a good idea to grab me from behind and pull us apart, but I disagreed and I did what all good only children do – I bit his arm. Maybe I shouldn’t have laid into him like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. But listen, because I am an only child I never learned how to fight. I never had to fight. Everything was mine and everything was always my way. Now I can agree that ripping the meat from that boys forearm was a tiny bit too much. I’m pretty sure getting the wound washed out and sutured up wasn’t very fun for him and I know for DAMN sure my mother didn’t appreciate the ER bill. But hey… it’s not myyyyy fault it happened. Who puts an only child on a team?? I rest my case. 😗☕️

About 6 years ago I bought two tennis racquets and a bucket o’ balls. I don’t know how I got it into my head that I’d enjoy chasing after and smacking a little green ball over a net. That probably happened because I didn’t think it all the way through. I don’t think I considered the “chasing” part and one thing is for sure- I’m not chasing a ball: That’s why I have three dogs. Needless to say, the two racquets have been in the bottom of my bedroom closet ever sense. And the bucket o’ balls…chewed up all over the backyard.

A couple of weekends ago I gave in to the constant asking if I’d go snow skiing. I was repeatedly told how “fun” it was and how I’d love it if I’d just give it a try. Love what, physical activity? Snow? Listen… I make bread. I paint, I write, I make things with wood, I knit, I keep crazies out of the hospital (we will talk about that later!) As we’ve already discussed, I don’t like sports nor I do like snow so what makes anyone think combining the two would be something I’d love? My boyfriend even bought us new helmets and snow goggles so we didn’t have to rent them; because you know lice thrive in cold weather. SMH.

Eventually I gave in. I went with my boyfriend, my daughter and her boyfriend; all of which love skiing. Fucking psychos. My daughter is a snowboarder and is quiet good at it. Her boyfriend is European; his ass was born with skis for feet. Those two just got back from a ski trip at Big Sky, Montana. They were on fire for the snow!!

Anyway.. after an hour of driving we get to the slopes. The parking lot was already bustling with folks frantically searching for a place to settle in. Half of the parking lot was littered with people standing outside of their vehicles donning ski clothing and gathering equipment. Inside the lodge was no different. It looked like we kicked a hornets nest. People were buzzing about in every direction. I went with my daughter to the snowboard area while the guys went toward the skis. I’d never seen the inside of a ski lodge before, it was nothing like I had imagined. There were so many people crammed shoulder to shoulder; some were standing in long lines waiting for boards or skis while other were sitting on benches between the several rows of drippy ski boots. Many others were shoving their personal items into or on top of lockers, under benches, and anywhere else they could. I did see several, “Please keep 6’ distance between you,” signs but lemme tell you.. NO ONE was more that 6” apart. Did I mention the smell? It was a combination of wet rubber, four day old gym socks, dirty kid hair, and ass.

Ski boots. This is something I’d not given much thought to. In selecting the appropriate size I asked how they fit, meaning did they run big or small compared to your regular shoes. I was told that my toes should touch but not curl at the end of the boot. Umm ok seems easy enough. (Insert eye roll) I grabbed my regular shoe size and had a seat on the bench.

First of all, lemme just say donning ski boots is total bullshit. I actually broke a sweat sitting there looking like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister when she was trying to force her yabba-dabba’s into that glass slipper. Not kidding. Seriously.. I had to forcefully push and wiggle my foot down into the boots; at one point I was standing up and using all of my body weight. I felt my ankles beginning to break. I’ll never again laugh at those people who use shoehorns. I get it.

Finally I had both boots on and damnit—- curled toes. Putting the boots on was hard enough but that didn’t hold a candle to the workout I got when taking them off!!! In my defense, it would have helped to know HOW to take them off because they don’t just pull off. Apparently after loosening the knob you have to push the middle of the boot forward to kinda open them up for easier foot removal. But wait… how do you undo the knob?? It righty-tighted on but it didn’t just lefty-loosey off. You know, because that would make too much sense. Who knew I’d need a YouTube tutorial on how to don and doff foot apparel? After 15 minutes of the ski-boot workout I was steaming hot, exhausted and ready to call it a day! One would think that it would be easy from here. Nope. Ski boots are not only heavy but they are weird to walk in. The only way I can think of to describe it is perhaps wearing ice skates on the sidewalk while dragging a toddler who’s hanging onto each ankle. Fuck.

We have discussed how I don’t like snow and how I don’t like sports and how this is my first time doing both at the same time, right? So someone please tell me why I thought listening to my snowboarding kid was a good idea when she said, “Snowboarding is much easier than skiing.” It was easy to get it on. It was easy to carry it around. It was NOT easy to “skateboard” that fucker around in the snow with one foot when you’re old and out of shape and already tired from the whole boot fiasco. We didn’t scoot along too far before I took it off and carried it. My calves and thighs were on fire. My boyfriend kept telling me, “I don’t think this is a green,” as we crept closer to the lift. But the girl-child was telling me, “This is a green!! …. (in Montana).” The Montana part was whispered. I didn’t hear that part as I followed her evil ass to the lift.

THE LIFT!!! I mean, how hard could it be? All ya gotta do is ride it up and then get off. Nawwwww. Ya gotta snowboard up, (which is hard) wait for the lift to slam into your knee pits, sit down and dangle a snowboard on one foot all while praying you don’t fall off or lose any of your shit as you swing over trees. Just as you settle in and start to feel comfortable you see the exit part. Yeah. The girl-child tells me to just set the snowboard down and put my loose foot in the middle of it and ride it down the snow ramp and out of the way. Here I am thinking they were gonna slow the lift down and let me stand up and get balanced. Nope. Ya gotta stand up and go! FML. Needless to say, I did it. I made it up to the top of green slope and off of the lift without dying. Yay me!

Just so you know, green marked slopes are supposed to be for beginners, you know, the “Bunny Slopes.” I assumed they’d be like, flat or only mildly hilly. I got over to where my daughter was strapping in her loose foot and I noticed that this bitch had me on K12 or something. She had to have made some sort of a mistake because bunnies don’t live on ice covered slopes of death, they live in low areas down in holes! Holes. Death. Omg it’s all starting to make make sense now. Bunny slopes mean immabout to die. Nope. Nope. Hell nope!!! I asked if I could ride the lift back down but apparently that’s against some kind of rules. The only way down was, well…. down. I had no choice but to strap on the board o’ death and ride that bitch down the devil’s backbone.

I watched my daughter excitedly popped over the edge without fear. She made it look so easy as she whizzed over the soft snow. She stopped part way down to wait for me but I was still teetering on the edge between life and death. Listen. Even when I go swimming, I’m not a jump-right-in kinda person. I wade. This shit was no different. I had to figure out how to “wade” down and I’d be just fine. That’s what I told myself. “Just go slow.”

Over the edge I went.

I fell, got up. Fell. Got up. Fell again. Got back up. Over and over and over until I was at the bottom of the slope. First of all, snowboarding is NOT as easy as it looks. Second, snow is not soft!! I was hot, sweaty, beat up, and absolutely spent! I was done with snowboarding. I took that thing back and got skis instead because you know, having two boards of death hooked to your feet are way better than one.

….. to be continued

Jaaaames …

I was laid off the first time back in April 2019. I ain’t gonna lie; I welcomed the time off. I filed for unemployment and made zero effort to do anything outside of what I wanted. A month later I was back at work. Damn.

Listen, I get along with everyone once they get past my face. Truth. Seems that everyone thinks I’m cunty until they meet me then they love me! All of my friends have eventually told me how they thought I was a bitch when they first met me. I mean, I get it. My face tells on me. If I’m thinking you’re an idiot, it’s gonna show. I even had Botox a few times to control it…. it didn’t work. 😂 Truthfully if you leave me alone and mind ya business, we’re all good. But if you piss me off, or hurt one of mine, I will attack you like an Asian murder hornet and I won’t stop stinging until there’s nothing left of you. I guess it can be considered a character flaw hahahaha I mean, who’s perfect? 🤷🏻‍♀️

Anywayyyy…. James… that’s his real name. I didn’t change it to protect his identity because why would I? He wanted to make sure everyone knew, “I’m James the General Manager,” so shout out to James the General Manger. Jaaaames probably wished he an Asian murder hornet but he was more like what was left over after a swarm of murder hornets attacked. Jaaaames was a blob fish. (Google it). So lemme tell you about the day I whipped my stinger out on Blob fish.

There was this attractive, 55ish, seemingly wealthy woman that came into our shop. She was driving a $100k SL Roadster. It was a custom pearl white convertible with camel interior that had been scraped down the side. A car like that brings a lot of money into a body shop. Blob fish, seeing her pull into the lot, blobbed out the front door and splatted about the parking lot like he had something to offer Ms. Benz.

Blob fish was out in the direct sunlight, on black top for quite a long time. He took all the photos and jotted down all the crap he needed to remember, then he came back in to write the estimate up for Ms Benz – while she sat talking to me. I learned about the accident that landed her in our shop, all about her job and her wife. (Wife. Poor blob fish. Hee hee.)

After a short time, Blob fish and Ms Benz walked back outside and I watched as the sun have zero mercy on him. He was all sweaty and pink. You see, blob fish is a red head with skin the color of milk. The sun is NOT his friend. Very entertaining to watch.

Once Ms Benz left, Blob fish decided it would be a good idea to open his mouth and let words come out. He said he wondered what her husband did and did we see the rock on her finger? He made it seem like she couldn’t possibly have those things by her own hard work. I decided then that his attempt at words was not a good idea. I PVA’d Ms Benz’s $500k house. I googled her employer and a photo of her wife.

Once I had all of my venom perfectly packed up, I did what all good murder hornets do … I attacked. I matter of factly explained that Ms Benz didn’t need a husband because she had a wife and they lived in a $500 house that’s in Ms Benz name. She was an executive at an oil company and I’m sure that’s how she paid for everything including that rock on her finger.

Blob fish and I didn’t get along after that. We weren’t of the same species. I was clearly an Asian murder hornet and he was clearly a … blob fish. Gross.

Ms Benz did her her Roadster repaired with us. The repair took longer than expected and many times I had to act as a liaison between her, the insurance company and parts vendors. We had many conversations over the 6 weeks. At the end of it all she called to speak to Jaaaaaames the General Manager …. so that she could tell him how helpful I had been through the whole process. He HAAAATED THAT!!! (Insert belly laughs here)

The moral of the story. Don’t be a blob fish.

I found it!!!

But what did I lose?

About 6 months ago I took a break from all social media. I no longer wanted to see the same gif, meme, recipe, political ad. I was tired of all the bitching, complaining and the attacks on others. I was definitely over all the filtered, cropped, stupid looking, duck-lip selfies. And please don’t get me started on all the photo of others peoples food. Everyday, no matter what time I took a peek, it was the same horseshit over and over. No thanks. I quit.

It’s now 2021 and this year I’m doing things differently. Taking the time away from all social media has given me the chance to declutter and find the things I lost.

I lost spending real time with real people. I lost building things in my workshop. I lost knitting. I lost shopping for real books in real bookstores. I lost blogging. I lost being in nature. I lost myself. I knew it was time for a change when I thought capturing a photo took priority over being in the moment. SMH.

Truthfully when I hit all of the, “deactivate” buttons I felt a little nervous. That’s because I’ve had some sort of online social interaction since AOL chat rooms were a thing. I wasn’t sure I knew how to interact in the “real” anymore. I’ve had MySpace then Facebook. Vine, Instagram and Snapchat and I can’t even tell you all of the apps and time-wasters I’ve had in between. I seriously thought giving it all up cold-turkey was going to be difficult especially since I was laid off at the same time. I didn’t know what I’d do with my time. But guess what? It’s been really.. REALLY great! Learning that social media didn’t make me happy was “it” for me. I allowed true joy, my real friends, and time with family to be stolen away each time I was forehead deep in my phone. Minutes turned in hours. What a waste.

Since my social media purge I have learned to make breads. Not one kind but a few, and I have mastered them! I have learned (and still learning) a new language. I have taken classes in EKG, Phlebotomy and Medical Assisting. I have spent more quality time with family and friends. We hang out and play actual board games. We have our own “sip and paint” sessions. I even taught my youngest daughter to crochet and I am excited to say she has completed her first blanket! I found “it.”

I’m proud to say that I’ve grown a lot. I’ve been able to reprioritize, reorganize, and restructure my entire life. I am now ready to re-enter the social world but on a much softer scale. I will never again have FB or any site where my person is felt to be validated by a “like” or a “❤️.” Even with this blog site you should know it’s not about you. Your opinions are welcome however, I do not care whether you like me or not. And just let me put this out there..I absolutely don’t care if things are spelled wrong or if I use the wrong punctuation. I can promise you that you will find all the errors because I refuse to proofread. So I tell ya what, don’t like what you see here? Well there is a little button somewhere around your screen that you can click on at anytime and you never have to see my name pop up again. Trust me, I won’t be offended. But if you chose to stick around, I think you’ll see I’m just like you. I’m here to say what’s on my mind and read the thoughts of others. I’m here to be free with my words and embrace yours (even if I disagree). I found “it.”

Do yourself a favor and take a break. Learn something new. Be happy. Find your “it.”


Swiffer pads and Leggings

About a month and a half ago I was having a lot of pain in my back; where my kidneys are located. I did what any normal person would do, I called my general practitioner and made an appointment. The receptionist couldn’t find any open appointments but said she could “squeeze me in” right after lunch if I could get there. Ugh. I knew exactly what that meant… a long wait. I was right. After waiting forever in a large room with disease-riddled people, (and y’all know how I am about germs) my name was called. The nurse hurried me from the vitals area to the bathroom for a piss sample and then into a patient room. Ok, let me esssplain something to y’all. I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, but on this day I was somewhere between the sad face and the “talk to me and you might die” face on that stupid pain chart hanging on the wall next to the otoscope. Out of curiosity, why in the hell do they use a pain chart of smiley faces anyway? Who comes in to the doctor feeling like a happy face? NO ONE! No one comes to the doctor feeling like a happy face. I think I need to come up with a new type of pain scale chart- one with real pain indicators, like maybe the sad face, the crying face, the punching fist, a bus with a bam, a gun, and definitely a skull and crossbones. Anyway, little Miss. In-a-Hurry asks me 50 million questions, types a lot and says, “Doc will be with you in a few minutes,” and she leaves the room.

Y’all I am not good at waiting. Patience is not my strong suit and when I’m left alone in a room too long unattended I get antsy and start touching things that I have no business touching. I was playing with the bp cuff, the otoscope, hammering my own knee with that little rubber mallet… I made a rubber glove cow utter, stole some bandaids, and opened every drawer to see what was inside. (That was a fun 5 minutes. Now what? Oh look… a display of a flaccid penis!!) Normally this type of thing would be an educational tool but during this visit is was for pure entertainment.. that is until a testis popped out of the scrotum and rolled under the exam table. (damnit) There I am on the nasty floor peering under the table looking for a testicle that I eventually find but can’t reach. Then it occurs to me that I could use grabbed a swab, and put the lid back on. Trying to hurry before Doc came in, I turned carelessly and my jacket sleeve not caught the top of the jar causing the ginormous q-tips to spill everywhere. (I’ll get those picked up and thrown away in a second.. have to get that nut under the table!!) So there I am, face down, ass up, trying to scrape the AWOL nut out from under the exam table with 2000 q-tip pick-up-sticks surrounding me when Doc walks in. I just smiled at the concerned look on his face, handed him the egg- shaped ball and said… “You see what happened was…” I’m really glad he has gotten to know me and my personality over the last 14 years.

After answering the same 50 million questions I had previously answered, he made a professional guess that it was a kidney stone and sent me for a CT scan. A few days later the results were in and instead of a kidney stone, it was a huge freaking cyst on my right ovary. If you’ve never had one of these little bastards, lemme just tell you… they will bring you to your knees when they pop. Good lord. Who would have ever thought that a tiny water-balloon could cause so much pain in random places? Makes no sense to me whatsoever. Just to make sure everything was kosher, Doc asked me to make a follow-up appointment with my OB/GYN.

A couple of weeks pass before I was able to get in to see chooch doc, which was just fine by me: Not really a place I wanna be, knowutimsayin’? I mean really.. have you ever been inside one of these waiting rooms? Good night. The whole time I’m sitting there I’m looking about the room I’m wondering why anyone would want to look at vagina’s all day. You know not all vagina owners are good vagina owners.. How do gyno’s handle the funky ones? Do you think they just ignore them, or do you think they have a nonchalant chat with the owner like, “Um so it’s a nice day out today isn’t it? I hear that Summers Eve is on sale at Kroger..” Can you even imagine coming across some hairy beast that smells like it was hit by a dump truck two weeks ago? OMG I would die. I’d lose my license to practice for sure.

Fast forward to the exam. The fast speaking nurse gave asked me a lot of questions then gave me instructions to get totally undressed and use the two paper items on the table to cover myself followed by- “The doc will be right in…” (Yeah yeah. I know. (insert eye roll here)) Ok, so there I am, naked except for my socks because why would I need to take my socks off, and I pick up the first folded paper square on the table. It appeared to be a sheet so I tossed it to the side and picked the other one up. It too appeared to be a sheet. (Hold up. One of these things is supposed to be some sort of gown, right?) Picking up the first square again I unfold it, apparently a little too aggressively because now I have two rectangles with weird moon shapes on the edges. (Mother of all things holy, are you serious right now?) Knowing I didn’t have time to look around for a new paper shirt, I sat on the bed, covered myself with the paper blanket and finagled the ripped paper shirt pieces onto my body right as there was a knock on the door. “Are you ready?” came a voice from the already opening door. (What if I wasn’t ready? Damn.) In walks the 12-year-old doctor and her 15-year-old assistant. I’m sitting there holding the two pieces of my paper shirt together in the front while the back is all the way open and flapping to the rhythm of the ac that is blasting down on me from the ceiling- they both smile, which led me to believe I was not the first to lose the paper clothing battle. whatever.

Moving forward about a week this time. I get a call from the nurse who tells me that my pap came back and I had “abnormal cells” and I needed to come back in. (Ok, biatch… imma need you to bring it down a couple of notches and esssplain to me exactly what, “abnormal cells” means.) Of course, I didn’t say it that way but I think she could tell by my tone what I needed her to do. Little Miss. Thang tells me that I have cancer cells on my cervix and they needed to be biopsied. (Well shit.)

Fast, fast forward to today. I went in, gave my urine sample and got shuffled into a room where I am greeted with all kinna crazy stuff on the counter… a shoe-stretcher, a few jars with clear liquid, a jar of honey-mustard, some of those ginormous q-tips, a microscope and a paper square on the table. (Good grief) Just so you know, I tackled that paper square like a boss! Of course this time it was just the paper blanket to cover my lower half but still. Doc lady comes in and doesn’t say “good morning.” or “Hey how are you today?”… nope.. she just blurts out, “Go ahead and place your feet up in the stirrups and scoot down.” So I did. Then she sits down on her little stool and raises the bed so she’s at eye-level with my vag and she tells me to, “Scoot down more…” so I do and it’s at this point I feel as though I am going to fall o? the end of the table. “Scoot down a little more.” So I say, “Really? Because if I scoot down one mo’ gin you and I are gonna be best good frannns.” She laughed, I didn’t.

Doc lady pops in the duck-billed shoe stretcher, cranks it open, then uses ginormous q-tips to apply a solution to “dry the cells.” Next I see her scoot the microscope up to my body to peek inside. Her face was a little too close to my junk for my comfort. I say this because I could feel her breathing on me. I thought about asking her if she’d like a tic-tac, or perhaps some gum; a nice minty sensation would be a great substitute for her hot-ass breath. Just sayin. I just kept my mouth shut and continued to stare at the blank ceiling. And that bothers me too; an empty ceiling. Why didn’t she have some sort of scenery painted up there, or maybe a few clever posters to look at? Her ceiling didn’t even have a texture to it where I could find hidden things.. like faces. (I know I’m not the only one). Ok, so there I am just minding my own business when I hear her say, “Ohhh.. well it looks like I’m going to punch out a few places.” (Wait. What? Did she say “punch out?” What does that even mean?) “Ok so on the count of three you’re going to feel a little pressure.” (Pressure?) Last time I heard a gyno say that they were referring to my child’s body through my love tunnel which felt like anything other than “pressure.” She begins to

count, “1- 2-3… CLICK” (WHOOOOOOAAAA hold the hell up! did she just hole-punch my cervix? I did not see a hole-punch on that counter. Sad face. ) “1, 2, 3… click!” (omg SAD FACE! SAD FACE!!) “1,2,3..click..click..” (AHHH!!! BUS BAM… BUS BAM!!!) You know I felt like? I felt like one of those frequent flyer cards, those cards businesses hand out where you get something free on the fifth punch “Click!” (what the… she didn’t even count on that one!! SKULL AND CROSSBONES because she’s aboutta die!) Just when I think the worst is over, Doc lady holds up one of those monstrous q-tips with what looks like honey-mustard goop’ed on it and says, “I’m just going to fill all the little holes in with this. It promotes healing and keeps you from bleeding.” I heard what she said but I got stuck on, “all the little holes,” part. All I could think about now was swiss cheese. Swiss cheese and honey-mustard… and ham. (yeah I went there) I guess on that fifth punch I won myself a vagina sandwich. Gross. Just gross. I’m never eating any of those food items again. Ever.

After all was said and done, she lowers the table and tells me, “Ok so, you might be a little sore, I’ll call you in a few days to let you know what we’re dealing with. Oh and nothing inside your vagina for a few days, no intercourse,” then adds a cheerful, “Have a good weekend, and help yourself to the items in the drawer.,” as she bounced out of the room. (Biiiiiitch, what?) I wanted to esssplain to her a few things like how “we’re” not dealing with anything, I am; and how there’s no room for anything else inside my personal delicatessen!! So no worries there, but instead I just smiled and waited for her to leave the room so I could get into the drawer where cheap, paper-thin tissues for cleaning off the goo.I know for a fact she said “panty liners” which to me suggested something small and very thin but lemme tell you this, the only thing those things were lining was the bottom of a Swiffer mop!! Ain’t no body got time for Swiffer pads and leggings.