Don Juannabe Part II: The Library

Ok. So. Yeah.

I mean. The library. I love the library. It’s pretty much quiet time for adults. Amiright? Apparently, I am not.

Apparently, libraries are just another place to get hit on by creepers. Listen up here, dudes. If I’m in the library with a coffee in one hand and a book in the other and I’m scouring the shelves for all the things to read, DO NOT INTERRUPT ME.

Especially, if your go-to pick up is “you don’t look like you’re from here.” Um, really? What do you mean by ‘from here’? Are you suggesting I’m from another planet? What makes me look so different that I couldn’t possibly be from the city I was born and raised? My glasses? Maybe it was the mere fact that I was wearing clothes and looked put together for once in my life. My normal outfit is yoga pants and a sweater or a slight version of that.

Anyways, if I awkwardly giggle and walk away, please do no proceed to follow me around. This whole shenanigans started on the 3rd floor and ended on the main floor. Somehow, by a stroke of pure magic, dudeman exited the library at the same time I was trying to skedaddle out of there. He approached me again and said, “excuse me, can I talk to you for a minute?” I thought he was going to hand me a pamphlet about Jesus or something.

Nope. He asked if “I gots a man”. You best believe I told him I was happily girlfriended up. Then he asked if I was sure. I was as sure as I am that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

I mean, I guess I get that it might take a lot for a guy to be all, “what’s your sign” and all that jazz. But just do it to someone else. When I’m in my zone that’s a big Do Not Disturb time.

I thought my RBF would’ve taken care of that but I guess not.

I think I’ll knit a sweater that says “I’m really not interested. Yes, that means you”

If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.

Over and out,

mg

It’s That Time of the Year Again..

gyno
Yeah, NO.

Nope, not Thanksgiving. Or any other holiday for that matter.

It’s that reoccurring, perennial, once-a-year, ‘go or die’ doctor check up.

Annual check ups. Let’s see how awkward I can make it.

Had mine on Monday. It was such a wonderful, lovely, perfect weather kind of day. But 2:30 came rolling around toting with it a cloud of impending doom.

Seriously, I don’t know why I still hate these appointments. It takes maybe 48 seconds of poking and prodding but still, the mere thought sends a cold chill down my spine.

I started writing this when I was sitting in the waiting room:

Any doctor visit has to be, quite possibly, the greatest lie you will ever tell in your entire life. You stack lie upon lie so your doctor doesn’t think you are a horrendous human being who deserves some tormented level of punishment. I think I’ll take perdition than endure another doctor visit.

Think about it. You have to fill out a 1,285 (give or take a couple of pages) page questionnaire on your family’s history, your history, your past, etc.

Do you drink? Water. Of course. Oh, err…1-2 glasses of wine per week TOPS.

Do you smoke? Smoke what? No, of course not. [side note: I really do not smoke anything, just trying to make a point]

Have you had any surgeries? If you don’t count harvesting my ovaries* for some dollars, then no. Or do you count the time I had eye surgery to fix my cross-eyed face when I was five? No? Ok.

How many sexual partners have you had? Um, let me do the math in my head (X / 3 – 5 = Y)** Yep, sounds about right.

Do you work out? Do you count walking to the refrigerator to the cabinet then back to the fridge? Then yes. All the time.

Yeah, there are definitely a bajillion more questions that you will not answer truthfully.

Thank the man upstairs that I was mailed this questionnaire or I would’ve been sitting in the waiting room til those cows come home. But to start the appointment off on the right foot, I proceeded to arrive 30 minutes early. Only to find myself in the wrong building. So now, I’m not only sweating because I’m nervous as all get out but I’m lost as all get out. I ask some random lady person so pointed me in the general way of ‘that way’. Thanks, you were a lot of help, really. A couple of elevator rides later, I found myself in the correct doctor’s office. Sorry, Sleep Med, maybe next time.

I turn in my folder and the front desk female shows me all the areas I didn’t fill out correctly. She asks for my ID and insurance card. Dang it, knew I had forgotten something. ‘Twas the insurance card. Not to worry, we resolved that issue rather swimmingly.

Then I must sit in the waiting room silently squirming, for what seems like hours.

A nurse emerges through an intricately locked door, calls for you by your last name and you follow her like a sad puppy. First up: the scale. The scale always, always adds ten pounds. Hold up, nurse. Pretty sure my shoes weigh 4 pounds. Oh, um and this watch, too. Oh and my glasses. Those things are so heavy. Hell, just let me remove every article of clothing because we all know that shit weighs at least 8 pounds, right?

She’s making small talk. You’re awkwardly giggling along. Then it’s the blood pressure test followed by the finger prick which in my option is the worst form of skin puncturing there is. Then it’s the ‘pee-in-a-cup’ challenge. I call it a challenge because it is very difficult. To make matters worse, someone left their pee cup on the bathroom sink. HOW? How do you forget about the ONE thing you were tasked with doing, on the sink? It’s supposed to go in that silver trap door thing in the wall. Good job, Chelsea. I now know your birth date and your last name.

After all is finito, I’m escorted to another waiting hall/corridor thing where I sit by a model of a uterus. Learned what the endometrium is, so there’s that.

After another 13 minutes of tortuous waiting, I was led into the exam room in all its fluorescent glory. The nurse gave me a robe made of CLOTH not paper. I was shocked and appalled, in a good way. They had music playing. And not elevator music. Good music. I started jamming out. Singing along & dancing, shoot, anything to pass the extra 29 minutes (I timed it) of waiting bucky nakie in that room. I was starting to go stir crazy when the doc finally arrived.

I don’t know about you but I make sure my doctors are ladies. Most of my friends go to male doctors but I just can not do it. Men, I love you but scraping the endometrium is not something I want you to be doing to me.

The whole thing was over and done with before I could read one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Quick, in and out. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. She spent more time trying to convince me to change birth controls than she did exploring. I said no, no, I’m perfectly fine with mine, I don’t need you slicing open my arm to insert some plastic GPS locator.

I redressed and beelined it for the exit.

See you 363 days from now. Have fun feeling up your next agonizing soul.

He’s the only doctor I need:
10th Doctor

* Definitely have not harvested eggs. Also, not hating if you have. You do you, ladies of the world.
** Don’t try to figure out some number that’ll work, I made that equation up.

25 Years & Nothing to Show for it

10:03 pm: A week ago, I turned 25.

10:13 pm: I’ve been blankly staring at that statement.

I’ve just wasted 10 minutes of my life. But 10 minutes is nothing compared to 25 years of wastefulness.

Tick, tock goes the clock. Tick, tock
tick, tock. that’s the sound of my life passing before me.

I just spent another 9 minutes trying to get that damn GIF to work properly.

So however much I dreaded turning 25, and still do, for some God-forsaken reason, I have a good feeling about this year. Maybe, it’s because I’ve been doing some growing up, righting my wrongs and trying to be a fairly decent person (when I want to be).

I’ve still quite the medley of wrongs to right but I’m growing the balls and soon enough I should be debt-free, metaphorically. I’m going to drown in the more literal sense for at least the next quarter of a century. Thank you, college edumucation.

Let’s see. I’m excellent at: writing research papers, speaking French, utilizing the Dewey decimal system, reading things.
I’m not so excellent at: organization of other people’s things, social interactions, public speaking.

So pretty much, I need to work in the back corner on a lower level of a library that no one knows exists, right? I’ll take museum as well.

If I ever produce offsprings, they will not pursuit their dreams. He or she or they will become engineers or lawyers or orthodontists. Something profitable. None of this “shoot for the stars” bullshit. Because that just isn’t ever going to happen. Also, those stars are dead. They are reflecting the sun’s beams of light. You shoot for the stars? Have fun watching the world crush your hopes and dreams because you were told you’ll land on some other star or whatnot. Good luck trying, champ. But really, call me and tell me how wrong I am if that ever happens.

End of my whining. My bad.

On a lighter note, hopefully, there will be some good to come out of this 25 year rut I seem to be stuck in. Fingers crossed. Maybe just maybe, end of April or May 2015, I will have my ducks in a row and be making a rather life-altering move. Stay tuned and watch me fail miserably at all the things along the way. It’ll be entertaining if nothing else.

There is a light at the end of the never-ending tunnel.

Cheerio,

MGB

***I went to the grocery store yesterday and made a grocery list. Here is my list:

I needed white wine. Obviously, I wrote it 'wwhine'.

I needed white wine. Obviously, I wrote it ‘wwhine’.

I also may be the only person who thinks that is remotely funny. Whatever, give me a large glass of whine, please and thank you.***