Tag Archives: humor

Trying To Conceive: An OBGYN I’d Probably Marry

In my last blog post, Just Stare Into My Vagina and Tell Me It Will Be Okay, I wrote about how scared I am to have a baby. Or, how scared I am to try to have a baby, since I’m not actually pregnant, yet. As of then I couldn’t find an OBGYN, with higher ratings than a dominos pizza, that was in-network.

Well, cue the trumpets, I found someone. Two people, actually, and I want both of them to be my best friends. Best friends who have both been elbows deep into my birth canal.

I’m one of those weirdos who Googles everything. Especially healthcare providers and anyone who could potentially kill me or maim me but also pretty much anything because I have entirely too much time on my hands and am addicted to unlimited information. Like six months ago I stumbled on this one OBGYN that has like the highest rating in the state and I was like, I NEED HER. But she was out of network. Well, I checked again recently and she was IN NETWORK! So I made the appointment and was more excited than I’ve ever been to have my cervix aggressively raked. Usually my lady exams are super weird so I’ve written about them way more than a normal person would. Do normal people write about their vagina exams? I don’t know. Anyway.

At the appointment, I was shown to a chair and told to wait for the doctor. After five minutes or so she came flying in, apologized for being late, and proceeded to ask me a zillion questions. But, not in a normal doctor way.

” Do you drink?”

“Yes, wine”

“GOOD! Good for you! And you can continue to do that until your pregnancy test says you’re pregnant. However, that doesn’t mean you can put the test off for eight months.”

Throughout my appointment she was informative and funny. She made jokes about dressing up as a vagina for Halloween. During my pap smear she impersonated Trump, “No, really, nobody respects women more than I do.”

When I told her I was pro-choice she high-fived me and told me I was incredibly badass and responsible. I live in Utah where like 98% of the doctors are Mormon and super republican. And while I have many friends and family who are both of those things, I am neither. And I was pretty excited about having a doctor who I didn’t feel like I had to pretend for. I also really liked her because when I told her about my experience with an Italian gynecologist she said, “That’s horrifying. Do you know how many women are sexually assaulted? That would be traumatic.” She also explained absolutely everything that she was doing, why she was doing it, and gave me a forty minute explanation of why they do a pap smear (cervical cancer screening, caused by the HPV virus). Seriously, it was the most thorough, thoughtful, kind, and hilarious appointment I’d ever had. She’s exactly who I’d want by my side while I pushed a giant baby out of my lady garden.

However. I’d just discovered, the day before, that while she is in my network, the clinic she works in, is not. Therefore, she couldn’t be my OBGYN without my having to shell out a lot of money for the out of network stuff. Sigh. I told her all of this and she listened and said, “Oh, don’t you worry! I’ve got you! One of my best friends is an OBGYN in your network! You’ll love her. She’s super progressive and funny!”


I haven’t met her yet but I have talked with her nurse a few times on the phone and she is amazing. When I told her who referred me she laughed, “Oh, she’s awesome. Yeah, her and Dr. So and So are like best friends. You’re going to love her, she’s so great.” So, I’m actually excited about my doctor now. Sounds super trivial for most of you, I know, but for me it’s a huge relief. Which is good because I can’t be over here chugging entire bottles of wine.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Oh my God what am I doing?


Does This Cup Make My Vagina Look Huge?

My friend K just moved back from France. So, it made sense for us to catch up over a FOUR HOUR phone call (it actually flew by). During this conversation, we talked about work. K is a former journalist turned evil copywriter, like me. Only, replace “journalist” with “literature major,” and “pimp.”

We talked about the ideal company to work for and fun parts of our job (like strategizing ways to take down competitors because marketing is an asshole industry), and I mentioned, about 400 times, that I would love to work with Thinx. They make period underwear. And as much as you’re probably thinking, “ew gross,” what you would be thinking after you used them is, “fuck yeah.” Anyway, I have five pairs, they’re amazing, and I’m obsessed with them. I was explaining the absolute badassery that is period panties, when K said, “I really want to try cups.”

“AH! Yeah! I’m trying!” I squealed like a teenager.

And I went into a long rant about how tampons are stupid because they dry out your lady garden, mess up your ph balance, and are also full of chemicals (unless you get organic ones).

“So, I’ve wanted to try cups forever,” I continued. “My sister gave me one to try from a pack of disposables she bought at Target. I tried it in Munich. And it got stuck. In. My. Vagina. And I spent one hour squatting on my bathroom floor like Gollum, trying to hook the fucking thing so I could get it out of my vagina. It was the WORST. I just kept wondering how I would explain to Francesco that I got some silicon doo-hicky permanently lodged up there.”

“That sounds terrible,” K laughed, “when I tried it,  the same thing happened. My boyfriend had to help me get it out.”

“AH! Jesus! REALLY? Awful. So, after that shitty experience, I still wanted to try a cup. I bought a Lena on Amazon. And it took three cycles to figure it out and I felt like a fourteen-year-old again, trying to figure out tampons. And to not freak out about how it might be sucking out my guts (note: It can’t suck out your guts, apparently). But on the fourth cycle, I finally figured it out. And, it’s awesome. Except, I think it might be too small because it leaks a little.”

Then it occurred to me that she might be all like, “she has a giant vagina.” So I quickly added that my lady cave is perfectly compact. And I don’t even know why because vaginas come in all sorts of sizes and it’s TOTALLY FINE. Still. I tried to overly explain.

“I mean, it’s not like my vagina is huge. My last gynecologist had to use the small speculum. She even waved it around and said, ‘I only use this small one for my special ladies,’ which was weird and kind of scary. And F was in the corner like, WTF is happening?”

K burst out laughing. “You have the WEIRDEST gynecologist stories. Seriously, who are these people you go to?”

“Right? I noted that I DO have weird gyno experiences,  “anyway, my vagina isn’t like enormous or anything.”

K paused, “I was just remembering one time when I was over at your house and you told Francesco to buy you Super tampons and he asked, ‘like extra large?’ and you were like, ‘Yes, extra large, for my EXTRA LARGE VAGINA.”

” And it’s not extra large. It’s just extra bleedy. But yeah, that conversation sounds like me and F.”

“It does.” She agreed.

I pulled up Amazon on my phone while we were talking, “So, I’m going to order the same cup but in a bigger size. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Thanks, yeah, definitely let me know how the HUGE one fits.”

And then I just glared at my phone while K laughed.

“This should be a blog post,” K said.

“Hmm. Yeah.” I agreed.






Going To The OBGYN Is A Lot Like Trying On Shoes Only Not At All

I sat in the pink gown with the scratchy paper draped over my lap waiting for the doctor to come in to give me my yearly checkup. My husband, Francesco sat awkwardly in the corner repeating, “200 dollars?” He was shell shocked that we had forgotten our insurance cards and were forced to pay for the visit up front. “The money will be reimbursed when  you call in with your policy number,” the receptionist told us while I handed her my forms of 3,564 questions that ranged from “Insurance provider,” to, “Is your spouse hitting you?” Francesco was suffering from some form of financial ptsd as he usually does in his day to day life. Because he’s responsible and cares about our savings in a way that I wish I could but know I never will.

On our drive to the clinic he had tried to convince me to, “Ask the doctor how much everything will cost. Maybe we can get it cheaper somewhere else.”

I turned, “Really, where do you think we can get a vaginal exam for cheaper? What makes you think I want a cheap exam? Maybe I don’t want a discount doctor to poke my ovaries.”

Rolling his eyes, “It’s fine to ask. Maybe your dad’s friend doctor could do it?”

I threw my hands up, “Are you insane!? Dr. Mandorlay is a family friend. I am not showing him my vagina! We have insurance you crazy person! And we’re not even that poor! What the hell is wrong with you!?”

He made a right into the parking lot of the clinic, “It’s never a bad idea to save money. We don’t know how much this might cost.”

“That’s kind of the point of insurance.”

I sat on the table swinging my legs anxiously. It’s kind of twisted but i’m less worried about someone seeing my vagina than displaying it. Going to the gyno for me is awkward because of that weird moment where you have to unveil your lady bits to someone sitting one foot away from it. Preparing to go to the doctor is like going on a date where you know you’re going to get lucky. I shave, rub my legs down with lotion so she doesn’t judge me for having dry skin. I spritz my thighs with a bit of rose oil perfume so the doctor can sit down to a nice fragrant mist. I bet she’ll appreciate that, I think, she probably wishes that more of her patience oiled their legs. Then I get dressed and stress about what I’m wearing. If I wear something too comfortable I might give the doctor anxiety about having to put her hand in my hoo-haw. When I see women in sweats outside their homes I don’t associate them with the cleanest vaginas. I mean, if you can’t even bother to put on real pants who knows what’s happening down under. Do I want to go business attire? Slacks and a button-down? Do I want her to think, Power Vagina? I settle on leggins, a t-shirt, and cardigan. I went with “Casual vagina.” I started to apply makeup than worried I might take it too far. I usually wear red lip which seems a little inappropriate considering the circumstances. Like I’d somehow overdressed and was expecting something more than a simple exam. I decided on minimal makeup to somehow make it less weird. 

Come On In, Everyone! Gif By: http://www.okmoviequotes.com/

The doctor came in and introduced herself. A Colorado native, she’s been an OBGYN for a decade or so. She married into a Sicilian family. She spoke with my husband a bit about his native country, Italy, and then moved onto me. In the usual fashion, she sat on a chair and rolled up to me.

“Scoot down, scoot down, scoooooot way down. Alright, great! Now straddle for me,” she yelled in between my legs like she was screaming into a tunnel. I heard her reached for something, “Great! Lookin’ good!” I took that as a personal compliment, “Thank you.” So all the lotions and shaving weren’t crazy. Something clanked loudly, “Hmm, gotta find the right one,” more clanking. I couldn’t see her over the scratchy paper blanket. My husband peered out of the window into the parking lot. He was either uncomfortable by what the doctor was doing or he was trying to find a back alley surgeon.

“Let’s see if this speculum works. Nope. This one? Nope. Hmm. It’s your lucky day. I only use more than one for my special ladies.” I felt like I was trying on shoes. Shoes for my vagina. “You’re cervix looks healthy.” I felt scraping with her tiny, evil mini broom that they use to test your cervical cells for abnormalities. ouch. ouch. OUCH. She was finished.

She stood up, “Go ahead and get dressed. So do you know if you’re close to your cycle?”

I sat up, “Uhm, well, I want to ax murder my husband so that’s a good indication that it’s near.”

“Uh-huh,” she wrote something in my chart, probably, “psycho.”

“Also, you see my sister and she said you said she has a tilted uterus or something. Is that me too?”

“No, you don’t have matchy vaginas in that sense.”

“Cool. Is it weird that we both come to you?” It had just occurred to me that it might be odd for us to both see the same doctor.

“No, a lot of family members see the same doctor.” She smiled, “I hope you’re doing okay. I hope I didn’t kill you.”

“Jesus, could it get any worse than ‘death by pap-smear?” I laughed.

She smiled, “No, it probably couldn’t. So, see you next time!” She left.

I hopped down from the chair and started to get dressed. The tile was cold on my bare feet. I wondered why doctors offices were always freezing, like a meat locker. I contemplated taking a picture of a giant plastic sculpture of a uterus. I noticed how much space it takes up in the body which totally made sense and explained why I had to pee so often. My bladder was being pushed around by my big ass uterus. And, who invented the weird table with the feet stirrups?

I turned to my husband who was now standing anxiously, “would it be weird to do it in here?”

His eyes bugged out of his face, “Yes, yes it would be weird. What the hell is wrong with you!? Get dressed!”

I pulled on my pants, “It was just a question. I wasn’t like hitting on you. Plus, I thought you might want to get as much bang for your buck as possible. Since, you know, you’re stressed about the cost of maintaining my lady bits.”

“I’m not stressed! I was just say…Please stop talking,” he ushered me towards the door.

“Fine, but can I at least have ice cream now?”

“What are you five?”

“I just had a metal duck head inside my guts. I think I’m entitled.”

“Fine-a. We can git gelato on the way home.”

I would be free for another year, given that my results come back as normal.

My Mom The Fascinating Creature

I went to Petco with my mom the other day to get some dog food for my poodle. I weaved through the aisles with her behind me when I heard:

“My neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack, heeeeey.” In my mother’s voice.

I turned around.

“Have you heard that song?” She asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately. But why have YOU heard that song?”

“Your aunt’s roommate listens to it.”


“My neck, my back, lick my….”

“MOM! Please! Help me find the food.”



“Hey! Come check out this shirt I bought your uncle!”

I run downstairs to see my mom holding a sweatshirt up. The shirt read, “If you  have to turn your head to read this you owe me a blow-job.”


“It’s hilarious! He’s gonna love it!”



“HEY! Your dog keeps putting his head near my crotch! Tell this damn dog that that area is for my husband only!”

“YEAH! MINE” My step-dad chimed in.



My mom is probably the most unhealthy person I’ve ever met in my entire life. She drinks nothing but coffee, coka cola, and beer (after five or six p.m., naturally), eats nothing but packaged foods and candy, chain smokes, and has probably not done any kind of cardiovascular work since her teenage years. She’s skinny though so in her mind she’s a shining pillar of health and wellness. I worry for her so it pisses me off that she doesn’t take her health seriously. My husband, who is Italian, finds the whole thing fascinating and studies her and giggles to himself. Yesterday I showed him that Kraft cheese spread that you spray out of the top onto crackers.

My husband: What the fuck is that!?

ME: Gross cheese

My husband: No!

My mom: Don’t be such a fucking wuss! It’s just cheese in a can!

My husband: BWAHAHAHAHAHAAH! [and he continued to laugh hysterically for about fifteen minutes]

My mom: What the hell is so damn funny? It’s just cheese! It comes in different flavors too. It’s good!


Me: Wow. I had no idea that you’re a sort of Kraft connoisseur. They got that sharp chedder. That bacon. That American. Mmmm.

My mom: Assholes. Shut up.

Book Excerpt: Yee Fucking Haw (unedited)


This picture has nothing at all to do with this post but it makes me laugh so I wanted to share it with you guys.


Now that we’ve talked about my mom and dad a little bit, we’re going to talk more about Kevin. Remember the jackass in the first story who wouldn’t bury me dog? Yeah, that dude. I’m taking you guys back to revisit the farm. I don’t tell anyone this, it’s embarrassing, and something that I think back to and go, “What the fuck Misty!?” but back in nine-teen-eighty-five, I was a rodeo princess. I was one of those little girls clad in Levi’s and flannel button-downs, cowgirl boots, and on occasion a little cowgirl hat, I was awesome and tough as nails. Or at least that’s what I thought. In reality I was one of those smelly little farm kids who swam in irrigation ditches with floating horse doody, slept in dog-houses, and was generally covered in filth. At that point my only aspiration in life was to grow up and be a professional barrel-racer, which in the eighties was basically a woman with a lot of blue eye-shadow, super tight pants and a massive belt-buckle which worked to accent her cavernous cowgirl camel-toe. 


This was all back when my mom and Kevin were still together, before the alcoholism and the continueous thirty-year decent into depression, hysterics and drug use. He must have been around twenty-three at the time, he was thin, and healthy, and he was a Rodeo cowboy who rode the bucking broncos in the Rodeo. I’d go watch him with my mom where we would sit on the sidelines so I could scream, “Go, go, go!” and he’d get up after being thrown off and wave to us and I’d worry that he was hurt. I’m not much of an outdoorsy type anymore so I know it’s hard for anyone to imagine me yee-hawing it up but I did, it happened, and because of it I can ride a horse which really doesn’t help my life in any way but it could if the world ended and cars stopped working and I needed to get away from zombies, or demons, really fast. Whatever.


I learned how to ride a horse by myself around four years old. Back in the eighties before human development classes, baby psychology, and coddling, I was raised the way most American kids were raised: I was told what to do and if I didn’t do it someone would kick the shit out of me. Children did as they were told, we were to be seen and not heard, and we respected authority or we were beat with something ranging from a belt to kitchen tools and once my mom, out of ideas, and unable to find another weapon, beat me with my little brother. I wasn’t abused, just spanked like everyone else. Children weren’t babied the way they are now. Nowadays parents talk to their children as though all of the children are severely mentally damaged. I’ve seen six year olds in strollers, their moms cautiously tip-toeing behind them, cooing, saying things like, “does wittle tommy want some wa-wa?” And I think to myself, I don’t care what little tommy wants, lady, what I want is for is for you to stop talking like an asshole. I have no idea how the shift in parenting happened, and in some ways it’s probably good to work on mother-child communication, and feelings and all that, but you don’t have to make your kid sucky in the process. Maybe I simply don’t understand it because it’s just not how I was raised and it’s certainly not how I was introduced to a massive one-thousand pound animal who I was supposed to dominate and ride about like fucking Sheera. 


There was a time in my life where I loved Kevin. He was a cowboy, and he was tough but I learned a lot from him in that period. There was even a point where I preferred him and the farm to my mother. Where I clung to him when the police came to take me and my brother away because he didn’t want to give us back and my mom had sole custody. My brother and I hid under the dinner table while the flashing lights swirled outside and my mother stood on the porch arguing with Kevin, with her new boyfriend, a mean mexican man who beat her and once ripped my arm out of socket by yanking me from the car too forcefully. At this time Kevin’s house was a place of tough love but adventure. A place that helped shape my inquisitive, independent nature and taught me the importance of animal bonds because later in life I’d realize that humans are nuts. 


I helped saddle Polky, standing on a step-ladder, I brushed her mane, and cleaned out her hooves. Then, I was picked up and plopped on her back into the saddle. “Take the reigns,” Kevin said, “now, you’re probably going to fall off pretty quick and when you do it will hurt but remember when you fall off of a horse you get right back on it! So when you eat shit I’m going to pick you up and put you right back on. Okay?” I nodded and tried not to shit my pants. 

Only a few minutes into riding my confidence exponentially grew as I sat on top of the mountainous animal, rocking back and fourth as though we were one. I’d relaxed and released the horn with my left hand clutching only the reigns. If I’m being fair, Poky, the three year old Bay Quarter horse, was hardly walking. She was going at the pace of an elderly woman window shopping. She stopped once or twice to nibble some grass, another time to simply stare at the fence. Still, I felt like a professional and wanted to take things to the next level. It was my first time riding but not my first time watching, and I thought, I’m so fucking good at this I should probably take it up a notch and I mimicked the “bump the horses sides with your heels” move. Her pace increased and I still managed to stay on. Why not give it another go? I thought. So I did it again but this time she broke into a full apache attack gallop creating badly choreographed circles in the field. Finally she slowed down to a trot right before she ducked under a low area of the chicken coop, knocking me backwards into a mountain of sawdust. The adults ran over showing mild concern as they picked me up dusted me off, pinned me down and rinsed the debri from my face and eyes. Then Kevin, true to his word, picked me up and said, “I’m really proud of you frog-legs,” and then he plopped me right back on the horse despite my pleas for mercy. 


Recently I sat at a park with my husband where we watched a mother try to teach a seven or eight year old girl to ride a bike. The child was all but wrapped in bubble plastic with a helmet and knee pads, elbow pads, gloves, and special shoes. The mom walked with her and anytime the  bike leaned one way or another the child would cry hysterically. The mom would panic and lean down all guilt stricken, the face of a woman who is aware that she’s fucking up her kid at that very moment. “No, but seriously, that kid is a pansy, “I said after watching her cry for the fiftieth time though not once did she actually fall off. “How did you learn to ride a bike?” Francesco asked. “I didn’t. I found an adult bike, tried to ride it, fell down and racked my vagina on it. Bled everywhere. Ran to my mom who I tried to convince for ten minutes that it was from a random bike accident. Once my lady-business healed I just got back on and rode the fucking thing.” He raised his eyebrows as he normally does anytime I tell him anything about my life. “Did anyone teach you how to do anything?” He asked. I remembered Poky and the first time I rode a horse. “Yes, actually, I learned how to ride a horse with adult supervision though I’m not sure there was a lot of teaching involved.” I told him the story and the advice that Kevin gave me, “And that’s why, honey, I don’t fucking suck like that little girl over there.” Francesco shook his head disapprovingly and I’m pretty sure he second-guessed having children with me. 

Book Excerpt: Because At Nine I Thought I Was A Mafia Boss

Childhood is an incredibly confusing time, for both kids and adults. I, with flawed logic, see children as less sophisticated grown-ups, somewhat naive, but way more intelligent and aware than a lot of people give them credit for–except the dumb ones, they are probably just having the best time ever. I’m not entirely sure what it’s like to be a normal kid, not only because shit was kind of crazy when I was growing up, but also because I was simply different. Possibly a product of my environment but more likely my mom dropped me, causing some odd character traits. My weirdness really kicked in around age nine. Most kids my age were content being kids. They made mud-pies and hit each other with them. The boys were still picking their nose and eating it. I had slightly different goals. I was hell-bent on world domination, making money and obsessively head-over-heels for anything living from frogs, and the rainforest, to dogs and elephants. I spent a lot of time on my environmental group, and multiple business ventures. It could be genetic, I suppose, because my step-mother Jackie told me a few weeks ago that my sister has opened a lemonade stand.  “She’s making twelve bucks per day selling lemonade down the street,” she said. I should also clarify that my little sister is eight. Since I’m in my thirties, it would be normal for most people to assume that we’re in the same age group but the economy is not that bad, people. I don’t have a 30-something sister peddling cheap juice in my parents’ cul-de-sac. Anyhow, we were talking and sometimes J gets all braggy because ya know, she’s a mom, and I was all, ah lemonade, that’s cute.

My first business venture began in the late spring of like nineteen-ninety-one or something. My mother was still married to her second husband and we were living in Sunset, Utah. Oh and by the way, the name is a lie. The place doesn’t resemble a sunset at all, unless if by “sunset” you mean “poor and shitty.” During this time, I was best friends with a girl named Shelly. Actually, for the sake of accuracy, I think she was my only friend because most of the kids in our neighborhood were either Mormon or addicted to crack. The Mormons wouldn’t let their kids near me, afraid I’d give them some kind of sinning disease and in all honesty they were clearly right. And the one time I was allowed to hang out with the girl next door, I talked her into dressing up our siblings and marrying them with a Dr. Seuss book. I didn’t know that my actions would anger God, as her mother told me later that evening. And since when were Mormons so touchy about arranged, underage marriage? Shelly’s mom was a nurse and worked long hours, so we were probably allowed to be friends just because nobody was around to tell her we couldn’t. Shelly’s family lived in the house that angled from the right corner of my backyard. This is the path that we took to get to each other’s houses. I was heading there one day and I passed three coolers full of leftover alcohol from some booze-fest my mother had thrown the night before. I remember thinking so clearly that the alcohol didn’t need to go to waste. I knew someone who could steal cigarettes. If I only had a venue I could make money by opening a club. Super simple. Then it dawned on me while I was sprinting towards Shelly’s house that we didn’t need to find a venue we needed to build one. You see, there were three coolers full of leftover booze and Shelly’s backyard had no grass which is exactly what you need to open an underground establishment for children.

I’d been in a few bars when I was a toddler where I’d wait for my mom to finish her shift. I know what you’re thinking, but this was during the 80’s when nobody cared about children’s mental health. I didn’t know anything about alcohol except that it was lucrative, made adults creepy, and for whatever reason it was illegal for someone my age. If adults loved beer, obviously the only thing stopping all my peers from drinking Budweiser was the age limit and a proper venue. Totally untapped market….(Can’t post it all, but you can read the book that absolutely nobody will be drunk enough to publish)

Book Excerpt: Nice To Meet You, Dad

Meeting ones father is a strange concept for most people. One doesn’t meet ones father, one just knows him, don’t they? Not always. My father was introduced like a new neighbor. I was forced out of propriety, uninterested and slightly weary. Thanks to my mom I knew that a kind face could easily mask a fervor for homicide, or an obsession with quilting and scrapbooking both highly probable if one lives in Utah. Also, because she’s a dick, my mom made sure I was terrified of my father. The night before I met him, my mother made me watch, “Not Without My Daughter,” a film about an Iranian man who takes his American family for a “visit” to Iran and then essentially kidnaps them and holds them hostage after turning into an abusive lunatic. After the film was over I sat wide-eyed staring at the credit, feeling very confident about being left alone with this stranger for an entire weekend. She walked into the living room, “Oh, it’s over! Anyways, your dad is a nice person but this is your father’s people, so, you know, don’t get on a plane with him or whatever”…