Let me begin this post by clarifying that I am not self-absorbed enough to think that what I'm about to talk about is really that important. It comes nowhere near the importance of Michelle's worries about her upcoming surgery, for instance, or getupgrrl's ovarian saga.
HOWEVER:
I cannot for the life of me figure out how Dr. Smooth is going to pull this lovely item
out of my uterus and through my undilated cervix while I remain fully awake and coherent. Seriously. What the eff?
He told me to take some Motrin before coming in to take the edge off of the pain. Gee, really? Motrin? How 'bout you inflate on of those in your bladder, then I'll deflate it and yank it out of your urethra like so much lawnmower cord while I wax philosophical about the weather we're having today. Not so fun is it, Mr. Smoothy-Smooth?
Okay. I had to get that out of my system. The picture just keeps popping up in my head, so I've decided to take my frustration out on my mental image of Dr. Smooth until it's all over simply because he's convenient. In real life, I'm thoroughly impressed with him.
So I think I'll take some Motrin, a few Percocet, and a bottle of Stoli's before heading over there on Friday. And I'll make my husband wear welder's gloves to buffer the knuckle-crunch he'll get from me while they yank.