8 Mile? Try 8 Years!

Okay, I’m going to tell you something that you may not want to know. But, as we know, I am really open about my life* and only want to bring joy and laughter to your dreary days. This is my job as your Queen of the Universe. This following story will make you laugh. I promise. You wouldn’t think this would be funny but, unfortunately, it is.

*Except about my last name. My last name is not really Jones. But I am not quite ready to come out of the secret identity closet.

Anyway, you remember how I said I had gone to the doctor? So I come home on Wednesday and realize that there is a message for me. I play it and listen to my doctor tell me that she would like me to call her.

Hmm. Something tells me there might be a problem since, if your test results come back normal, you usually get something in the mail. It’s only when they want you to call them that there’s something to be concerned about.

On Thursday (yesterday), I call her. She is not available and I leave a message. She calls back while I am on the phone with a stock holder and leaves a message.

Deb: Hi. This is Deb. Please call me back as soon as possible. If I am with a patient, have me interrupted. I need to give you the results of your test.

Hmm. Again. Slight panic sets in. It is not good when the doctor says “If I am with a patient, have me interrupted.”

I call. I am placed on hold. A few minutes go by in which I decide to start biting my nails again (and I had been doing so well) since I’m a bit nervous.

This is our conversation:

Deb: Hi, Dana.
DM: Hi.
Deb: I got the results of your pap smear.

Let’s pause for a moment. At this point in time, I am freaked out. The last time I had a pap smear, over 2 years ago, it came back abnormal. This was during what I affectionately refer to as The Cancer Scare, Act Two. Act One was when, during the same physical that resulted in the abnormal pap smear, I heard Deb say “I found a lump.” So, having Deb say “I got the results of your pap smear” is a little frightening.

DM: Okay.
Deb: You have trichomonas. It’s a sexually transmitted disease.
DM: What?
Deb: It’s a sexually transmitted disease.
DM: I heard you! How? How is this even possible?
Deb: I don’t know.

Those of you who may not have read my blog very much may not be aware of the fact that I have been celibate for many years. Both my doctor and I are aware of this, however, so that’s why she said she didn’t know. Normally she would probably have said “It’s a sexually transmitted disease. That would mean it was transmitted by sex.”

Deb: I had to meet with my partners yesterday before I called you and asked them how it was possible that a woman who had not had sex for a long time…
DM (interrupting, a bit panicked): Eight years! Eight!
Deb: …Could have an STD. Apparently, this is very rare but there are cases of women in their 90’s getting this 20 years after their husbands died. It can take awhile to incubate.
DM (laughing hysterically): Well, I guess so. Eight years! Of course, there was the virgin birth.* Is it treatable?
Deb: Yes. Of course. You just take some antibiotics.
DM: Oh. Okay.

*Apparently God liked Mary better than me. She gets to carry his child. I get an STD. Gee, thanks, God. You shouldn’t have.

We spend the next few minutes talking about some other things, such as that I still have a mild case of anemia and then say goodbye.

I spend the rest of the day, shaking my head in disbelief and randomly saying “Eight! Eight years!”

Last night, Beth and I decided to go to karaoke. This is the first time that we’ve been able to go to karaoke on a night other than Sunday so it was very exciting (even though I am kicking myself this morning. Well, I would be kicking myself, if I wasn’t so damn tired). She had been having kind of a rough day so I told her my news in an attempt to cheer her up. It worked. She did laugh. Very hard. So did Bryan and Michael, when I told them.

This is my life, folks. Go ahead. Laugh. You know you want to. It is hard not to laugh over this and I guess I would rather laugh than cry. Because, honestly, the fact that I got an STD when I haven’t had sex in EIGHT YEARS could be extremely depressing, if it wasn’t so damn funny.*

*Or, as I told Johnny in an email yesterday, eight fucking years. Oh, wait, no, sorry. Eight NON fucking years!

Tattooed White Trash*

Yep, that's right. I have tattoos. And, according to my mother, some day I am going to be 80, in the doctor's office and really embarrassed when my doctor is examining me. This has actually happened, all except for the being 80 part. But the problem isn't that I'm ashamed of being tattooed, no, the problem is much more than that.

So I have three tattoos. #1 is on my right shoulder blade, it is a rose growing through a heart to symbolize that love, while beautiful, is also very painful. Because, I, Ms. Longest Relationship Ever Was 6 Months (and that's not the guy I was engaged to), have no clue what love is all about. #3 is a very cute, cartoon rendition of a baby dragon who is asleep (Let Sleeping Dragons Lie (I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, I just like to say it) on the swell of my right breast (which was a dumb place to put it because, hey, if I ever manage to have cleavage, I have to be careful of how much of it I show).

It's the second one that's the problem. So, I like smiley faces, or I used to, and so to symbolize my love for smiley faces, I got one tattooed on my left breast. And then, I saw Austin Powers and decided to turn the smiley face tattoo into my homage to Austin Powers by asking my tattoo artist to add some writing to the tattoo. Since a friend of mine and I are good repeat business, he agrees to throw in the writing when he does my 3rd tattoo, the dragon.

So, I'm sitting in the chair and explaining to him what I want the words to say. Why, oh, why didn't I write this down for him in big block letters?

DM: Over the top of the face it should read "Groovy." And around the bottom, it should say "Yeah, Baby!"
Tattoo Guy (TG): Okay. I can do that.

He proceeds to tattoo the dragon. I lean back and relax, completely at one with the world, getting my tattoo fix (they seriously are addictive). He finishes the tattoo and proceeds to start with the writing.

TG: Okay, so how do you spell groovy? Is it G R O O B Y?
DM: Uh, no, that would be grooby. And that's not a word. It's G R O O V Y.
TG: Oh. Okay.

He tattoos, I wince in pain. Certain ink colors can cause serious pain...for me, black ink is almost as painful as having a tattoo reworked. Ouch.

TG: Okay, how do you spell yeah? Is it Y A H?
DM: Uh, no, that would be yah (Is that even a word)? It's Y E A H.
TG: Oh. Okay.

More tattooing. More pain and wincing. Stupid black ink. Why didn't I say use green ink? Why? Oh, God, he's stopped again. Now what?

TG: Okay, how do you spell baby? Is it B A B B Y?
DM: Yes.
TG: Okay.

Yes, yes, I know. But in my defense, I was thinking "My God, can anyone really be that stupid? Quit asking me questions, Tattoo Guy and get to the tattooing!" In my defense, my stupid former friend Jake was sitting right there and could have said something! But, no, he thought it was funny.

TG: Okay, what do you think? How does it look?
DM: Great. Except that it says "Yeah Babby."
Jake: Hahahahahahaha! (Falls on the floor laughing. Damn him)

So a few years later, there I am, at the doctor's office, watching my really great Physician's Assistant freak out over the horrid rattling sound in my lungs. I am sitting there, flimsy paper robe around my waist, horribly sagging breasts horribly sagging with tattoos and nipple piercings weighting them down even more and in walks this extremely distinguished looking doctor in his late 50's, the kind of guy I'm going to want to marry when I'm in my late 70's. He begins to listen to my lungs and looks down. "Did you realize that baby was spelled wrong?" he asks in his distinguished "I'm a doctor, trust me" voice. I die of embarrassment. Because, even worse than baby being spelled wrong, I've also figured out that groovy was actually spelled G R O O E Y. What a mantra for our generation. Grooey! Yeah, Babby.

Yes, once again, my mother was right. God, I hate that.

The nipple rings are gone, removed during Act One of the great play of 2002, The Cancer Scare, where my PA found a lump and I had to get a mammogram. No way in hell were they squishing great lumps of my body with rings attached...and since I really only got the piercings to rebel against Mom and she was right, what was the point in repiercing?

*The title comes from Beth. She knew a guy who was convinced that everyone with a tattoo was the sterotypical trailer trash, white trash, hick. Stupid stereotypes. Fun title.