What I did: went to the doctor for the yearly lady parts inspection.
Is there any stronger I-don't-wanna-get-up-&-get-dressed than I-have-to-go-to-the-gynecologist-today?— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 30, 2016
What I did beforehand: dreamed.
I dreamed someone tried to serve me a half-eaten sandwich named for Hannah Arendt's book about totalitarianism. The chicken looked uncooked.— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 30, 2016
Woke.
Captain woke me up before my alarm this morning with REAL EMERGENCY BARKING.— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 30, 2016
It was a squirrel.
Baked.
The best part of bread baking is when you pull off the top to see what the fuck you got #ragecook pic.twitter.com/CONvh5nOH7— Hamsteria d'Relish (@hamsterRelish) November 30, 2016
What I wore: the jeans I found on my closet floor, collapsed into a pair of conjoined denim rings; enormous gray-brown I-can't-even sweater.
Who went with me: my iPhone, which is a SE, which is like 6 guts in a 5 case, which I got because I broke my 6.
How I got on the schedule: every year they have you address a postcard to your future self, which they mail in 11 months. I am often perplexed by the arrival of a postcard addressed in my own girlish printing. The postcard is a reminder to call for my next appointment. The calendar in my phone could also do the reminding. Like, I have an entry on November 16th of every year to order a 16 lb. turkey.
Why I saw this show: I would like to think that submitting to the yearly lady parts inspection will keep me from succumbing to a preventable lady parts illnesses.
Where I sat: on the table, with the paper dress opening to the front.
Things that were sad: I had to put a couple of 1s on the questionnaire (pictured below), but when my doctor and I discussed it, she said a lot of her patients are reporting all 3s. And canceling appointments because they can't bring themselves to show up.
Things that were funny: when I'm at the doctor I always take off my clothes in a very bizarre order like my bra before my shirt like I'm changing into my swimsuit in the car or something and then I snap out of it and feel obliged to try to tidy my clothes on the chair like oh you know I can't leave them in a weird inside-out heap like I'm at home because the doctor might think I'm a nut job and but so I'm rolling clothes like that's actually folding. The only reason my shoes come off first is because they always weigh you. Everything seems new and unusual every year, even though I've been around since the 60s and this visit was awkward but entirely predictable. I managed to make it like I'm 8 years old at my first sleepover or something. Also, I attempted to exert my will on the situation and kept my socks on even though the nurse said to take everything off.
Things that were not funny: last year at this appointment, the doctor ordered an ultrasound and I had a very memorable and unpleasant experience involving a tired technician who couldn't get anything to save, an impatient and imperious doctor stuffed into a three-piece suit with a lavender shirt and enormous gold cufflinks who was not my regular doctor, a discussion of things in my body as if I weren't a sentient being present in the room, and an unanticipated and abrupt encounter with Vice President-elect Mike Pence's favorite government mandated, medically unnecessary ultrasound device.
Something I ate: the second to last bagel when I got home. There's a strip mall near Bedhead Hills with a decent bagel place with a Jewish name and flirty Latina women behind the counter who call me "Sweetie" and make me glad I stopped by.
What it is: probably too much information already.
Who should see it: no, actually. I took a selfie in that pink paper gown and it's so very remarkably terrible I'm not including it.
What I saw on the way home: it started to rain again.
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