Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Whoremones

As you may have figured out by now, I’m not a blogger that posts every day. The reason for this is because not all of my life’s events relate to the theme of my blog. But, if I am patient, eventually something surfaces that fits right in there. Such is the case with my daughter’s trip to the doctor this past Sunday.

My daughter had spent the night with her best friend the Saturday evening before. That Sunday afternoon, after returning from her friend's house, my daughter came to me and said, “Mom, I think I have a urinary tract infection.”

Like any good mom woud do, I asked her about her symptoms. When she told me she felt like she had to pee every five seconds, had blood in her pee, and it felt like she was peeing fire, I agreed that it did, indeed, sound like a urinary tract infection. So off to the doctor we went.

Now, before I go any further with this story, it's important you know a little bit about my daughter. First off, my daughter is a good kid. She is a straight A student and very mature and responsible. The two of us are very close and I have always made it a point to talk to her about sex and female issues. Sometimes I tell her more than she even wants to hear, but that’s just because I want to make sure she knows that I’m not stupid and also hope that it will help her to feel more comfortable to talk to me about such topics on her own (and so far, so good).

On the other hand, my daughter is also a teenager, and even at the young age of 14, there are lots of hormones running through her body. I know there are girls her age, and even younger, who are having sex already. I think it is horrifying, but they are not my daughters. However, when it comes to my daughter and sex, I am 100% certain that my daughter is not sexually active right now. And as for her urinary tract infection, I was 100% certain the cause of her urinary tract infection was not related to sex. So back to the story....

As I was driving my daughter to the doctor's (a 45-minute drive), she remained fairly quiet. I knew this was because she was trying her best to concentrate on not having to pee, because she did not want to have to stop and pee on the side of the freeway.

During the ride, I took the opportunity to talk to my daughter about how the doctor would probably ask her some personal questions about sex and whether or not she was sexually active. I told her that if she wanted me to, I would leave the room if she was not comfortable talking about something in front of me, but she insisted she wanted me there and that she had nothing to hide—she was not having sex. I then brought up the subject of what I figured was the real cause of her urinary tract infection (eh-hem...improper wiping). Her response was, “I know, Mom.”

After arriving at the doctor’s office, we got sent down to the lab so my daughter could give a urine sample. She had the grimmest of grim looks on her face as she entered the bathroom. Although she was relieved to be able to pee, she was not looking forward to the fiery inferno she knew she would experience. When she came out of the bathroom, she looked as if she was ready to hand her vagina to me and say, “Here! Take it! I don’t want it anymore!”

As soon as we returned to the waiting room, the nurse called my daughter’s name. She took her weight and temperature and then set us up in a room and asked about the reason for today’s visit.

My daughter went through her symptoms and the nurse entered them into the computer. The nurse then kindly shared the name of an over-the-counter medication, called Azo, that quickly eliminates that feeling of having to pee every five seconds. She told us if she ever got an infection in the future and could not get to the doctor right away, that medicine would be a big help in the meantime. She shared her own UTI story, letting my daughter know she knew her pain, then told us the doctor would be in after the lab results returned from the urine sample.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, the doctor entered the room. He was an elderly man with a bit of an Asian accent. He introduced himself then started asking my daughter various questions about her symptoms. I gave my input every now and then. The doctor took in all the information.

After a long pause, he finally asked, “Do you ever talk about sex with your daughter?” Knowing where he was going with this, I gave a little smirk and answered, “Yes, we talk about all kinds of stuff when it comes to sex and do so quite often. I can assure you she is not sexually active right now.” He looked at my daughter, she gave him a look as if to say, “You heard the lady.” He then typed something into his computer.

After another long pause, the doctor said, “Well, it does look like she has some type of infection going on based on the urine sample. However, it is not very common for girls her age to get urinary tract infections.” He then continued on with his medical knowledge.

Now, this is right about the time when I began searching through my own medical knowledge. Having worked as a medical transcriptionist for over ten years, having two urinary tract infections of my own over the years, knowing many other females, both young and old alike, who have had urinary tract infections, and recalling the nurse’s story about her own experiences with urinary tract infections, I told myself, “This bozo has no idea what he’s talking about!”

I sat there quietly though as the doctor continued with his sterotypical assumptions about my daughter. He then finally asked my daughter, “Are you sexually active?” and she answered in her best annoyed voice, “No, I’m not,” and stared him right in the eye. The doctor looked at her and then typed something in his computer again.

Finally, he came over and felt her neck and had her open her mouth wide and say, “Awweeeee.” Of course, I’m thinking, “Wrong end, Doc,” but I knew there was no need for him to examine her down below for a urinary tract infection. Even if he suggested it, I would have told him no, because she had never been examined down there by a male doctor before and I was not going to let him be the first.

After the doctor finished examining my daughter, he began to explain what the urine sample results showed so far. He said although it showed evidence of an infection, he would not know if it was due to the more common bacteria that cause urinary tract infections or if it was due to some other bacteria, like the ones found in various STDs. It would take three days to get the culture results back.

After his speech, the doc looked at me and asked, “Would you mind if I talk to your daughter in private?” I said, “No problem!” As I got up to leave the room, I gave my daughter a look that she knows very well—the one that says, “I told you so!” then left the room.

While I waited outside the room, the nurse who checked us in looked over at me as if she was puzzled. I smiled and said, “He wanted to talk to her in private.” She just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

After a minute or two, the door opened and the doctor said, “You can come back in now.” When I entered the room, I looked over at my poor daughter. She gave me a look that I knew had the words, “I HATE THIS F’ING DOCTOR!” behind it.

The doctor proceeded to tell me that he was going to go ahead and prescribe the antibiotic for the typical bacteria known to cause urinary tract infections, along with something to help with the burning sensation. But he warned us that the antibiotic might not work if the culture were to show some other type of bacteria, like the ones that cause STDs. I nodded in agreement, told him I understood, then we got our prescription slip and left.

My daughter and I walked out of the doctor’s office and back out past the waiting room without saying a word. It wasn’t until we were far enough away from everyone that I said to my daughter, “You know…I think the doctor thinks you’re a dirty, little whore.”

At that very moment, my daughter said, “I know! My GOD! He must have asked me at least five different times if I have had sex! I kept telling him NO! I even swore on my life!” I started laughing and my daughter, still in disbelief and trying to get over it all, finally began to crack a smile.

As we waited in the pharmacy for the prescription to be filled, we began to joke back and forth about everything. I thought up new names for her, like Princess Sluts-A-Lot and Whorezilla. One lady looked over at me as if mortified that I was saying those things to my daughter, but it just made us laugh more.

I then text my husband (her step dad) and said, “Apparently, your stepdaughter is a whore…at least that’s what the doctor thinks.” Having no idea what I was talking about, his response was, “What?” I then sent another text explaining what had happened and he text back, “What an ASS! How about improper wiping, or one of the other many possible causes…jerk!”

After getting the prescription filled, my daughter and I headed back home, contining to joke about the doctor's visit the entire way. Just as we were turning into our neighborhood, I told her to try not to be such a whore next time. She then smiled at me and said, “I’ll do my best, but you know...I have a lot of uncontrollable ‘whore-mones’ in me.” I busted up laughing and thought, “That’s my girl!”

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Saturday, January 2, 2010

Out With the Old, In With the New

At the start of each new year, many people, just like myself, make resolutions. Some start the new year off with a goal to lose weight, others vow to quit smoking, spend less money or eliminate debt, while a few promise never to drink again (at least not until the following weekend).

As for my own resolutions for 2010, I have many. But I thought I’d share one in particular with you, as it is one that I feel many women can relate to. It is actually more of a quest, a search for something new, in hopes to have it replace something I loved so very much but recently had to bid farewell to.

What is it, you ask? Well, it would be best if I start from the beginning.

About a week ago, last Sunday to be exact, I had piles of laundry to put away, and all my own clothes. Now, when I say piles, imagine the entire ladies clothing department in a JC Penney store. I never realized I had so many clothes! It took me so long to put the piles of clothes away, I could actually feel myself aging during the process.

Now, although it sucked to have to put away all those clothes, the benefit was that I now had clean clothes to wear again. What was even better was I once again had clothes that I “love” to wear (you know…the ones that hide the little bulge here and the little bulge there). It was a wonderful feeling!

Well, the next day, after my morning routine of working, yelling at the dog to get back downstairs, and talking to myself (yes, I answer myself too), I took my usual break and jumped in the shower to get cleaned up. After I got out of the shower, I dried off and headed over to my dresser.

Like always, I slid open the drawer that I keep my panties in and selected a nice comfy pair and put them on. I then opened the drawer above my panty drawer and pulled out my most treasured piece of clothing—my favorite bra.

As I started to do the magical bra maneuver that most of us do (where we put the cups on our back and the straps under our boobs, fasten the hooks and clasps together, spin the cups around to the front, then slide our arms into the straps and neatly tuck our boobs into the cups), something went wrong—very wrong!

As I had the straps in the front and was trying to fasten the hooks into the clasps, the hooks would not fasten. I tried several times over, tilting and twisting, shoving and pulling, but my favorite bra would not fasten.

It was then that I held the bra out in front of me at arms length (because that’s the only way I can see anything smaller than my thumb these days) and discovered that the two hooks were no longer bent, but instead had been pulled back to the point where they were both completely straight.

Now, I am always very careful about my laundry. I separate the whites from the colors, make sure not to wash sweaters with jeans, or towels with clothes, and ALWAYS wash my bras and delicate undies by themselves. I even go as far as to fasten my bras together before throwing them in the wash, as I have found that this lessens the likelihood of the hooks catching onto something.

But it was obvious by the looks of things, that my most favorite bra had somehow gotten thrown into a load of wash where it did not belong. How, I do not know, but I assure you it was a tragic accident. I assumed it must have collided with a load of jeans, as it had to be something sturdy that got hooked onto my bra and pulled and tugged at it until the hooks were mangled and rearranged into two flattened prongs.

Of course, I was in denial. This was my most favorite bra in the whole wide world. It had been there for me for years, providing me with comfort and support right where I needed it, hugging and lifting my breasts into perfect form each and every time. I had to save it! So I wrapped myself in my white robe, threw on my ugly blue slippers, and headed to the garage, wet hair and all.

While in the garage, I placed my bra onto the workbench and perused the nearby tools. After selecting the ones I felt were just right for the repair—a hammer, pliers and a flathead screwdriver—I went straight to work.

As I gently hammered, twisted and bent at the wire prongs, trying to recreate two perfectly formed bra hooks, I noticed another problem. There was a rip in the bra strap about an inch or two below the hooks. I told myself I could sew it, but I admit, I began to feel worried and nervous about my bra's chances of survival.

After performing the delicate surgery, I eyed my newly deformed bra hooks that I managed to create. I then tested them out by hooking them onto their clasps. When they hooked together, I said, “That’ll do it,” and off I went back to my bedroom.

Although I knew I still had a rip to repair, I had no idea where the sewing kit was and I had no time to go looking for it. So instead, I pinned the defect together with a safety pin to hold me over in the meantime.

The moment finally arrived. I disrobed, did the magical bra maneuver, fastened the crippled hooks into the clasps, spun the bra around, slid my arms through the straps, and neatly tucked my boobs into the cups. I then stood there for a moment. I shrugged my shoulders up and down, twirled my arms around in circles a few times, and waved my hands in the air. I then walked over to the bathroom to see how the girls felt about the repair. After walking back to where I first stood, I slid my arms out of the bra, spun it around, wrestled to get the deformed hooks out of the clasps, and made the dreaded call--time of death, 12:32 p.m.

Yes, my most favorite bra was destroyed in a tragic laundry accident. So I did what any woman would do. I let out a huge sigh and threw it in the trash.

So, my quest for the new year is to find a new bra to replace the most favorite bra I ever had. One that will not only provide comfort and support, but one that will also hold me in all the right places, just like my most favorite bra used to do. Needless to say, it will certainly have some big cups to fill.

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