[Every once in a while, we have to go something that blows. Something we’re not prepared for. Something, that at least, makes a good story…]

I took my off clothes slowly, placing them in the plastic hospital bag and eyeing the hospital johnny with intense trepidation. Intense, fearful, trepidation. I was in the hospital for a biopsy – a biopsy that had been scheduled the day before – so there really hadn’t been any time to prepare for what was about to happen. And when it comes to hospitals, I need to prepare.

After clothing myself in a paper thin gown and crawling underneath a paper thin blanket, I made small talk with a nurse as she prepared vials for the blood she was about to take, and an IV she was about to shove into my arm. Apparently, when you get a biopsy of something hanging around your rib, lots of things are included; vials of your blood, IVs, a few needles of Novocain, “conscious sedation”, and some kind of giant, hand-cranked needle to do the actual biopsying.

The hand-cranked needle was the thing I was least happy about.

I sat underneath the blanket and wiggled my feet, squinting as the nurse flicked the inside of my elbow, the same place that had been flicked only a few days before, and squinted even more as she stuck the needle in. “Looks like someone already got you right here!” she said cheerily, and I nodded as I bit my tongue, wondering if she knew how painful it was to puncture an already bruised patch of skin.

Once the IV was taped securely to my arm, I began the always taxing process of sitting and waiting. People in scrubs padded in and out of the room, my parents stood over the bed and made some strange jokes, and my nurse checked my blood pressure, pulse, and asked me thousands of questions – including if I was in “spiritual distress” (a question I considered answering yes to, because, isn’t every twenty-something in spiritual distress?). Read More »

So the other day I woke up at 7:30 in the morning to have a little date with a speculum. That’s right, ladies! A gyno appointment! Vajayjay invasion before most people were sitting in their cubicles! Nothing says good morning like lubed-up metal and poking fingers.

The only thing that was worse than realizing some lady in pink scrubs got more intimate with me than a dude has in months was realizing just how many months it’s been — and having to say it out loud. See, for us single gals, going for your annual pap is a big, giant reminder of your past transgressions…or lack thereof. Have you slept with too many losers? Haven’t slept with anyone since the last full moon? Were you so drunk you can’t really remember if you used a condom or not? And how about your pubes…when was the last time you shaved or waxed?

I mean, all of those questions and more are answered when a girl goes to the gyno, and the answers aren’t always awesome. For instance, I realized I’ve been without sexy time for enough months to basically compile a year, and when the doc asked me when me last sexual encounter was, I let out this weird half-laugh, half-moan and cut my celibacy in half. I was embarrassed to tell my gynecologist about my empty sex life! Who am I? Read More »

It’s a good time to be a TV fan, girls. Other than the incredibly disappointing resurfacing of Britney in How I Met Your Mother, things are going well. A couple television tidbits for your perusing pleasure:

* Renewals for shows I love: How I Met Your Mother and Reaper. YAY! People, this is good comedy right here. If you aren’t already tuning in, you should be.

*Speaking of How I Met Your Mother, the websites mentioned on this week’s episode are real and functioning. You can buy set pieces and items from Lily’s ridiculously cute wardrobe at this auction site. All proceeds go to the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. In addition, www.GuyForcesHisWifeToDressInAGarbageBagForTheNextThreeYears.com is not only the longest URL ever, it is bizarre and wonderful. Details like this make me love this show.

*Season finales are upon us, with Scrubs and 30 Rock ending last week, and the majority of other shows finishing up this week. And while I mourn the passing of some of my favorites, I’m distracted by the awesomeness that I’m sure The Office will deliver this Thursday. My predictions? Cliffhangers galore: including a Dwight/Angela coupling behind Andy’s back, Jan using a possibly fake pregnancy to reel Michael back in, and a Jim/Pam proposal. Too far fetched? Maybe. But if I’m right you’ll bow down to my fabulous and mystical clairvoyance. Post your own predictions in the comments! Read More »

Skies are blue, trees are blooming, and temperatures are rising, which can only mean one thing – it’s time to take your godd*mn pants off.

My roommate and I have been experimenting with the pants-free lifestyle for many months now. It began in January when one early Friday evening we were sitting on the couch watching Scrubs reruns, harnessing our chi for a night out on the town.

Me: I don’t wanna wear pants tonight, dude.
My roommate: Yeah man, f*ck pants.

Half an hour later, we emerged from our respective bedrooms, me in a tank top and some sort of shorts/panties half-breed, her in what can best be described as beach loungewear. We threw on our jackets and headed out to the club, where we proceeded to drink whiskey and diets and shake what our mammas gave us until we were so pleasantly exhausted and sweaty we could barely stand any longer and had to call it a night.

The point of this little anecdote? By choosing to forego pants, my roommate and I ensured that we would have a fun evneing. If we had been so foolish as to wear, say, skinny jeans or perhaps high-waisted wide-leg trousers or some other wintry-style clothing garment out that evening, there’s no way we could have enjoyed ourselves to the degree we did. We would have felt restricted and gotten sweaty and would have never stayed until the late-night DJ came on and started busting out old-school James Brown jams. Instead of having a glorious evening, we would have had a low-key, mediocre evening, because pants ruin fun. Period. Read More »