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My Personal Peep Show
Wheee.jpg

 Due to my body's delightful timing, I get to go to the doctor on Friday for a little procedure called an HSG test. That's where they inject my uterus and tubes with a concoction, take a bunch of x-ray snaps - and lo! my girlie bits light up like peep-show neon. The purported goal is that they will be able to tell if the tubes are open or closed, how the uterus looks, and if there are any further physical issues with my ability to produce offspring.

I know modern medicine is amazing, but it also seems a little medieval sometimes: You just know that in 30 years, healthcare professionals are going to look back at this procedure and snicker, "Can you BELIEVE what they made women go through back then?! Thank god we know what we're doing now." I'll try not to think about that.

Here's the deal: I'm not a wussie with medical stuff. I've got a high tolerance for pain, and have had gobs of invasive surgeries, mostly related to my being born with a club foot and prone to skin cancer. (That's what happens to ignorant honkies who grew up in '70s Southern California.)

My girle bits, however, are a different story. I remember just one line in The Vagina Monologues, and that's where the rape victim talks about her reproductive organs as "the place where I live."

Yeah, I could relate to that. Somehow, in The Terrain of My Innards, the chick-chunks constitute coastal real estate. If I don't live there year-round - I at least have a summer home, know what I mean?

It also doesn't help that this whole deal is a bit of a surprise. My thought was that now that we've got the hormone balance-thing identified, can't me 'n' The Varmint just hump like weasels and see what happens? How come I never get prescribed the fun solution? Why can't it be: Grab your delicious husband, drink a bottle of wine, light some candles - and pull on a French Maid's outfit?

Then there are the usual questions of why's it always the girl who gets the crap jobs. I wonder how popular this procedure would be if men were doing it? How many fewer babies would there be in the world if it was a nutsack getting shot full of dye and x-rayed? They're always talking about whose balls are bigger. Finally! A chance to prove it!

*sigh*

If I sounded a little bitter there, that would be because I am. But, like everything else, I'll get over it. I cope by over-preparing (wearing fuzzy socks and sucking Sour Apple Jolly Ranchers work great) and using creative visualization. As a matter of fact, I've got my Happy Place under construction as I write this. I plan to go there during the procedure and knock back a couple of imaginary margaritas til it's over.

If that doesn't work, my real-life cocktail of 2-parts prescription-strength Motrin and 1-part Xanax oughta do the trick. I'm sure as hell not takin' any chances.

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >