Jeepers Peepers

Not even 24 hours after being in a dentist's office, I find myself in a doctor's office. All I can say is this: I feel ashamed for ever mocking the traditions of dentists, for it is the ones of doctors that are much more scandalous. I warn you now, this post is rated R for vulgar language and me talking about my breasts, so if you are under the age of 18, you better keep reading. A sheltered life is NOT the way to go, my under aged friend. This is coming from a girl who saw "Striptease" and "American Pie" when she was 8 years old. And besides the insomnia, occasional panic attack, history of depression, random bouts of fury involving kicking and screaming like a toddler, and the 3-year-boycott of socks, I turned out damn fine.

In order to fully understand this particular doctor's visit, I'll have to lead you through a mini-bio of yours truly. I was born Natasha Lee Ferrier; I was awesome, and I had a freckle on my back which I would later name Fupa. And by "later" I mean 19 years later. As in just now. Because I have fupas on the mind and I really wish I had one so I would know what that thing feels like. (Is it mushy? Is it hard? Does it still look like a giant fanny pack underneath the pants when the pants come off? Oh, the mystery of the F.U.P.A...) (That, too. Is it capitalized? 'Cause it should be. In fact, it is. I just declared. The Fat Upper-Pussy Area MUST be capitalized whenever written or said. How you're going to capitalize a spoken word is for me to act like I know how to do, and you to actually figure out. I suggest yelling it.) However, over time, this freckle grew into a mole. A big, black mole. A mole that belongs on the chin of The Wicked Witch of the West's wicked chin, not on the Innocent Non-Witch of the East's innocent back.

This was 10 years ago that my freckle gained 50 pounds and became an Aborigine. I went to the doctor, like any normal 4th grader with a beauty mark that looked like an ape in the fetal position would do. After 15 minutes of the nurse scarping it as I cried, it came off. Then the doctor came in and denied it ever existed since there was nothing there. Since his nurse is a fucking idiot. And he believes fucking idiots over his patients. Ten years after that, and Fupa makes a back-attack. (Yes, that was an attempt at a pun.) Of course I didn't realize it was back until I walked into the kitchen and my dad grabbed my shoulders from behind, exclaiming,

"OH MY GOSH WHEN DID YOUR GIANT BLACK MOLE COME BACK."

...then booked a doctor's appointment that very day.

I'd never been to this doctor, which meant that I immediately knew I would be roaming around some giant building looking for the office. There I was, strolling from hallway to hallway, whistling to make it seem like I stroll hallways of office buildings on a regular basis, when I hear a woman speak behind me.

"Are you looking for me?"

I turn around, relieved that this had been so easy.

"Yes! Dr. Salt?"

"Oh, I wasn't talking to you."

I turn back around, realizing how idiotic it was to think it would have been that easy. As I turn, I also realize that there is no one else in the hallway. Then the woman opens a door and walks in, disappearing from sight. So basically, it was solely me and her in that hallway, and she tries and tells me she wasn't talking to me. So as I'm feeling crazy for thinking she had been, it hits me that she's the crazy bitch for talking to thin air. I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, I begin to think, but then I think of poor, giant Fupa, and I continue on my way.

So I'm sitting in the waiting room, being forced to not only listen to the most disturbing country music I've ever heard in my life, but the kind that gets stuck in your head. For the rest of the day, I will have this chorus playing in my mind:

"Rain is a good thang, rain makes corn,
corn makes whiskey,
whiskey makes my baby
feel a lil frisky."

You know, had I known it was that easy to put a single on the country charts, I would have gotten into the music business when I was 3 years old.

"Food is a good thang, you eat it,
it stuffs your belly,
then you shit,
and the food is smelly."

CMT Music Awards, here I'm a-comin!

While I am being brainwashed by lyrical ballads regarding the things that water is capable of, I am filling out a sheet. This, I didn't mind at all, for I love filling out sheets. It makes me think of "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion," because there was this one scene where they filled out a sheet. (I'm sure there are others, but the sheet-filling-scenes were obviously not as emotionally moving.) It's all the things I know are necessary for a doctor to know: my name, age, insurance company, why I'm there...until I get to the bottom of the sheet, which is where they completely lost me.

Have you ever had dry eyes?
Have you ever been depressed?
Where do you work?

If my eyes have ever been dry, does that mean they cannot glance at the mole on my back? Did they used to ask all these questions? The more time progresses, the more questions at the doctor's office. Sixty years from now, I'll go in to have my earlobes shortened, and I'll be answering questions like:

Have you ever smiled before?
Do you have friends?
Please list below your sexual fantasies.

There's no such thing as privacy anymore. But that's one Froot Loop compared to a whole bowl of Froot Loops for the invasion of privacy that came next.

"So, Natasha, you have a mole on your back."

"Yes, Nurse."

"Can I take a look at it?"

"Sure, sure."

"I can't seem to...um...where is it...can you lift this...um..."

"Errr yeah, sorry, I went running before I came here so I didn't have time to change..."

You have no idea how many times doctors have told me to not wear sports bras to the doctor's office. They are the most awkward things to remove from behind. Of course I always forget since when I think of the doctor, I think of shots and finger pricks, not them taking my clothes off for me.

"Yeah, sports bras are tight..."

"Yeah, um...here, I can do it...uh....no, no I can't...."

But I CAN make this situation incredibly awkward by not being able to figure out how to take off my own clothes!

"Here, why don't I just give you a gown."

"A...gown?"

"Here you go, now I'll step out while you change."

She leaves. I hold the "gown," which looks less like Princess Diana's dinner party dress and more like Cotton Eyed Joe's potato sack dress. But it's fine. I'm not here for fashion. I am here for Fupa. I am doing this for Fupa. Don't be selfish, Natasha! Put on the potato sack! As I put it on, a question strikes me: Why do they bother to design hospital gowns? The gown I was holding had green and white pinstripes and little paintbrush-strokes all over it. My, how creative. Paintbrush strokes! Who designed this masterpiece?! So creative, so unique! Someone actually got paid to not only design a giant piece of cloth with a tie at the top to only be worn by naked, sick people, but they got paid for their brilliant idea of doing something that everyone else in the world is capable of doing. Dipping a paintbrush in paint and swiping it horizontally for less than a millisecond. You don't even have to have your eyes open to do that. You don't even have to have hands to do that. And besides, it's not like naked, sick people are thinking of how fashion-forward they look when they're lying in a cot for days. And if they did, no matter WHAT was on that gown, it's not going to be stylish. Because one, hospital gowns are ugly, and two, no matter what is on the front, it doesn't change the fact that there is no back to that gown. Oh? Vera Wang exclusively designed your hospital gown? Well that's cool and all, but I can still see your ass.

But there was another problem with taking off my clothes to put on the gown. You see, when you take off your clothes, boy and girls, it means you have no clothes on, which means you are naked. And being naked is only acceptable in certain situations. At this moment, I was in a situation where I did not find nakedness being acceptable, for when I looked to my right, I found that there was no wall. Just windows. A wall made...purely...of windows. Windows with no curtains, no blinds, and no obese people to stand in front of it. On top of all that, these WIDE OPEN WINDOWS faced the office building's parking lot and one of the busiest roads I know.

WHAT KIND OF SICK PLACE IS THIS.

After looking back to the windows and forth to the door (window glance to check for passersby; door glance to see if I could make a run for it), I finally come to the conclusion that no one could see me if I crouch behind the doctor's chair and change on the floor. But the floor was freezing. So I then come to the conclusion that I am over thinking this whole debacle, and I put on the gown faster than Ricky Bobby can shake and bake. Once my arms had traveled faster than the speed of light, I look to my right. Only 8 people in the parking lot. Okay. Good. The chances of one out of 8 of those people seeing me naked is pretty slim, right?

NO. NO THOSE CHANCES ARE NOT SLIM. CHANCES ARE HIGH THAT I JUST GAVE A PEEP SHOW TO A KID IN A CAR SEAT.

After 20 minutes of waiting, the occasional jot-down in my handy-dandy notebook of how fucked up doctor's offices are, and finding that the TV refused to go to any channel except "THE FACE OF FEAR: STOCKS AND BONDS," which was in no way interesting, no matter how many times I stroked my chin, the doctor arrived. She was a nice woman, a friendly woman, a woman who got straight to the point.

"So, you have a mole on your back?"

"Yes."

Whoa! That is NOT my back! Notmybacknotmybacknotmyback WINDOWS ARE OPEN WINDOWS ARE OPEN WINDOWS ARE WIDE OPEN peoplepeoplepeoplepeople FLASHING THE CHILDREN FLASHING THE CHILDREN FLASHING THE CHILDREN!

Without one word of warning, she had taken down my gown and started to examine the area known as the "torso," which could more specifically be categorized as "tits and nips."

"I'm just looking for bruises."

What? Look, lady, I did not sign on for a mammogram, nor did I come here to show you any potential hickey's you think I may have on my baby-feeders.

"Okay, so this mole! Tell me about it."

Well that was a quick subject change. THANK GOD.

So I tell her about it. Then she pokes it. And puts a band-aid on it. (My first band-aid to NOT have Daffy Duck or one of his cousins on it.)

"Well, Natasha. Around here, no news is good news."

"WHAT?!"

"Yes."

"WHY?!"

"Um...well...we just usually don't call our patient if we find that nothing is wrong..."

"Oh! Ha...ha...I thought you meant...ha...I thought you meant that NO NEWS. IS EVER. GOOD NEWS."

"Hahahahahahahahaha! No! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I had quickly become a laughing stock. A laughing stock in a backless gown. A double laughing stock. A double laughing stock who had just been exposed to two women, a parking lot of children, and Hillsboro Road. It was time for me to go. And I sure as hell was taking Fupa with me.

What was supposed to be an appointment for me to get my mole removed turned into a paintbrush-peepshow. Knowing that Fupa and I had just survived such emotional turmoil with one another, with him always having my back, we grew much closer together. We bonded like no woman and no mole had ever bonded before. Sure, he looks like the fly-version of Jeff Goldbloom, but he was always be right with me. I can't give Fupa up. Not when I know for a FACT, that he'll always have my back.

It Is I, The Master of Dental Mishaps

Well, this is it. I have finally been inspired. By what, you may ask? A life-changing moment? A near-death experience? Love? No, by something even better than finding my inner soul, jogging back and forth across the freeway just for kicks, and making sweet, passionate love by candlelight with me, my lover, and Marvin Gaye all in attendance. I have been inspired...by...

The dentist.

Hermey was right. Fuck Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, man. I could have made a much better best friend to ol' Hermey Boy. Sure, I probably would have been annoying, channeling my suppressed inner 13-year-old and always calling him names other than Hermey.

"Hey Germy!"

"I told you, it's HERMY!"

"Oh, my bad. Sorry, Wormy."

"HERMY!"

"Herpes?"

"Hermy! HER-MEEEEE."

"A HAHAHA! Your name sounds like Herpes!"

Rudolph would never do such a thing, true, true. But he's a self-centered freak of nature and I really don't care for him at all. GO JOIN THE CIRCUS, RUDE-JACK-OFF. See? His name isn't even pun-friendly. He just needs to go. But back to Hermy. After making oh-so-intelligent rhymes that have to do with disease, I would finally open up and show how much we actually have in common.

"So, you want to be a dentist?"

"Yeah...but I can't...I'm supposed to make toys...wah wah wah."

"Why not be a dermatologist instead? That'd be much better."

"Why would be being a dermatologist be better?"

"Because then you could go by Derm-y! A HAHAHA!"

"Furb you!"

"Furb?"

"Like, you know, Furby. Toys. I'm an elf."

"Oh, I see. Well right on, cube!"

"Cube?"

"You know, like dude. But cube. Like a Rubik's cube."

"No."

"Ah, okay. At least I tried...I'm not an elf."

"Then quit trying to be one."

"I know more about dentists, actually."

"Really?!"

"Oh yeah. OH-HO. OH-YEAH."

"I love dentist people!"

"First things first, Herm-Job, you don't have to say "people" at the end. Just plain old "dentist" is fine."

"Okay, okay...please. I beg you, Wise Human Woman, tell me more!"

"Okay Ignorant Elf Boy, I shall teach you all I know. Give you the best tips. The best advice. The best brand of floss to practice with. But on one condition..."

"Anything! Anything!"

"A lifetime supply...of troll dolls."

"Agreed, agreed!"

"WITH. COMBS."

"Of course! Of course!"

"Okay. So. You wanna be a dentist, do ya?"

"More than anything!"

"You wanna be the best there is, do ya?"

"Oh my...why, that would be a dream come true!"

"I'll make you the most bad-ass-mutha-fuckin-dentist there is, boy. And to do that, you have to know these few simple rules. Now shut your claymation mouth and listen up.

Rule #1

Do NOT try and make conversation as you're jabbing your fingers into the patient's mouth. Now, a lot of dentists don't realize this, but it's actually difficult to talk with someone's hand in your mouth. I don't know what it is, but dentists are oblivious to this. When a girl is giving you head, do you ask her how her day was? NO HERMY, YOU DON'T. So if your hands are in someone's mouth, does it make it any better? No. It makes it even worse. One, that doesn't feel nearly as good to you, and two, that's retarded. Human dentists have obviously been brainwashed for centuries. I don't know who teaches these people, but I wish it was me. Because I would not say, "Now, as soon as you stick your fingers around in your patient's mouth, filling their entire mouth with your phalanges, you MUST start asking them questions. The more you tell your patient to open their mouth wide, the more questions you must ask. And the questions HAVE TO...and I mean HAVE TO...be. Utterly. Pointless." All dentists have been taught this, Hermy. But I'm here to tell you that that method is fucked up. Warped. And needs to be challenged."

"Well, what if I didn't ask utterly pointless questions? Like, I could ask questions such as, "How was your day today? Where are you working now? How has your [insert present season, i.e. winter] been so far?"

"NO HERMY, NO! THOSE ARE THE POINTLESS QUESTIONS I SPEAK OF!"

"But those are nice; they show that I really care about my patient!"

"NO. Those are the epidemy of small talk! And small talk SUCKS because it's impossible to disguise and once you start small talk everyone knows you're just making small talk and then they either don't want to talk to you anymore, or they make small talk BACK because they feel obligated to not say anything that's actually interesting since you're obviously boring as shit and then YOU'RE the one who is bored even though it's your own damn fault!"

"Natasha, you are so wise and badass."

"Hermy, we are wasting much time with you telling me things I already know, when there is much I must tell you that you do not know."

"I'm so sorry. Please continue."

"Don't tell me what to do, minion.

Rule #2

When you give your patient some water, and you tell them to gurgle and spit, do not watch them as they spit. You can watch them as they gurgle, if you really don't mind looking like a creepy ass with an uvula-fetish. But when it comes to spit-time, unless you want your patient to feel awkward, uncomfortable, and self-conscious, DO NOT STARE AS THEY SPIT."

"I would never want my patient to feel awkward, uncomfortable, and self-conscious!"

"Well Hermy, 93% of patients feel that way when their dentist watches them as they spit. Because, a lot of the time, they will spit out some phlegm. And that phlegm will stretch as they sit back in their seat after leaning over to the notorious spit cup. And then they will do something weird to get rid of it. I, personally, like to swipe it with my hand, which means I have phlegm on my hand for the next 30 minutes, but that's a lot better than the ones who think that shaking their head back and forth vigorously will do the trick. Sure, it breaks the Phlegm Bridge, but then the Phlegm Bridge is on both of their cheeks. And that's just gross. Have you ever had phlegm on your face, Hermy?"

"No...I don't think so..."

"Well it's gross."

"If it's gross, then why do dentists sit and watch as it happens?"

"Oh, Hermy...I didn't want it to come to this...but I guess now I have no choice but to tell you. The truth is, Hermy, dentists are sick, twisted fucks."

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

"Yes. They ask you if you want to watch TV, as if they're giving you a choice. HA! You obviously HAVE to watch TV, because if you don't watch TV, where the hell else can you look? The only other i is right into your dentist's little dental eyeballs, and they never look back, which is just plain rude. And then you feel ignored. So you must watch TV, but THEN, they stick their whole head in front of you since they can't possibly SWIVEL their SWIVEL chair, giving the SWIVEL chair no purpose whatsoever because apparently it can't SWIVEL, and then you HAVE to look into their eyeballs, unless you want to close your eyes the whole time. And if you do that, you're in a dark and scary place, and then you see the light...and you think you're dying...and you realize Heaven really does exist! But then you open your eyes and it hits you that it was really just that huge light right over your head and your religious beliefs are once again in question. And even worse than THAT is that your gums are sore."

"NOOOOOOOO!"

"YES. Your gums are really, really sore."

"No, I mean NOOOOOOO to dentists being sick, twisted fucks! Oh, the deception!"

"Don't lose hope, Hermy! YOU will be the first dentist to not make pathetic small talk! YOU will be the first dentist to not pretend to understand your patient's response of "Euhhhhhhblehhhhruuuuuplehhhh!" YOU will be the first dentist to not watch your patient spit! YOU will be the one to give them complete and total privacy as they figure out a way to get rid of the phlegm! YOU will not be a sick, twisted fuck!"

"You have hope in me?!"

"Knowing that my wisdom is in you, yes."

"I'm about to cry...this is so touching..."

"Don't be a pansy, Hermy, for there is one more rule."

"TELL ME, MASTER OF DENTAL MISHAPS!"

"Rule #3...

When filling a cavity, give your patient AS MUCH LAUGHING GAS AS POSSIBLE."

"What? Why?"

"Because that stuff is awesome."

"But....there was that kid...on youtube..."

"Yes. And I wish I had his dentist."

"Well...you have taught me well so far...I believe you, Natasha. And I will follow your guidance. And be the best dentist there ever was!"

"Yes. Now give me my troll dolls."

The Borrower

If I were to be honest, which, quite honestly, I'm usually not, I would tell you that I like to borrow things. Which, by the way, is entirely my un-fault. As in, not my fault. As in, I have no faults. Except for the borrowing, that is. Which still isn't my fault, because whether I decide to borrow something or not, I get accused of borrowing it to begin with.

(It just hit me that "borrow" is one of those words that starts to look really fucking weird the more you write it. I keep thinking whatever awesome person is reading this post right now is thinking that I'm talking about burrowing things. Which is completely different from borrowing. I don't dig holes and throw my belongings in the holes. Pardon my opinion, but I would call that weird and disturbing and one of those things that Freddy Krueger might have done as a child. If Freddy Krueger ever had a childhood. Man he'd be an ugly kid. Little Melted-Candle-Cock! I bet they called him that. "They" being the cute, little dream children with cotton candy for hair and bubble gum balls for toes, skipping around and humming and holding hands and chewing each other's toes because they're just that happy. Which is exactly why Freddy grew up to wear Christmas-striped sweaters and murder people. Because he just doesn't give a fuck.)

Now, I fully understand my tendency to borrow things (some of which include: my 3-year-old brother's fruit snacks, my father's toothpaste, and the toys from inside the cereal box that apparently my 6-year-old sister was really looking forward to finding, which all crashed and burned when she found the box empty, as I sat in my room trying to figure out how to fill the rubber Shrek up with water so I could squirt it at people. What. WHAT. Who wouldn't want a rubber Shrek thingy? Come on. COME ON. You know you'd want it. You know every other 19-year-old loves rubber thingies. Mine just happened to be Shrek-shaped. I would call that a much more responsible collection). However, some things I would never borrow. And some people. Do not realize this.

"Hey, Natasha?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Did you take my scissors?"

"Your scissors?"

"Yeah, my scissors."

"Your scissors?"

"Yeah, my little scissors."

"Your little scissors?"

"Yeah, my grooming scissors."

"Your grooming scissors?"

"Yeah, you know, for trimming chest hair."

"Your chest hair scissors?"

"Yeah, did you take them?"

"No, Dad, I did not take your chest hair scissors."

"But you know what I'm talking about, right?"

"No, Dad, I've never used scissors specifically for chest hair. I do not have chest hair. I do not need to trim my chest. It is hair-free."

"Well shoot. Okay, thanks."

On top of my family seeming to think I have monkey-tits, my sister seems to think I rob her on a regular basis.

"Natasha, where's my 40 dollars."

"What? I don't know!"

"Yes you do."

"What!"

"I know you do, Natasha."

"This is ridiculous."

"You're what's ridiculous. Give me my fucking 40 dollars."

"I didn't take your 40 dollars! I don't even know where you keep your money!"

"How'd you know I keep my money somewhere then."

"This is absurd. Obviously I didn't take 40 dollars from you. I'm broke."

"Broke 'cause you stole my 40 dollars."

"No. I wouldn't take anything from you. You know that."

"Is that my shirt on your floor?"

"Uhhh...I can explain..."

So there you have it. I get accused of stealing, when really, it's borrowing. And it's things like a squirt of toothpaste and Buzz Lightyear-shaped gummies. NOT scissors to trim my hairy pecks. If I did have man boobs, then yes, it is probable that I would, in fact, borrow the grooming scissors. But I don't. So I didn't. Whoever did, though, lives in my household and is obviously harboring a deadly secret, because the only other male in my family is three years old. His chest is less hairy than mine. Not that mine's hairy. His is just very clean and soft. Not that mine isn't clean and soft. Not that I even need to be discussing this.

Of course, I'm guilty of it, too. The accusing thing. But my accusations are LEGIT, thank you very much. Like the time back in '98. I went to bed and woke up. Only to find that my hair was a good two inches shorter.

"WHO CUT MY HAIR?"

"What?"

"ONE OF YOU CUT MY HAIR I KNOW YOU DID IT."

"Natasha, what are you talking about?"

"SOMEONE CUT MY HAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT."

"Natasha, you are making no sense whatsoever. Calm down and explain."

"THIS IS NOT A TIME TO BE CALM! I WENT TO BED WITH LONG HAIR AND WOKE UP WITH SHORT HAIR! WHO DID IT! TELL ME! TELL ME! TELL---"

"Natasha. Your hair is exactly the same length as it was yesterday."

"LIES!"

"Natasha."

"ALL LIES!"

"You really think someone cut your hair while you were sleeping."

"NO! I'M SAYING SOMEONE SNUCK. INTO. MY ROOM. IN THE MIDDLE. OF THE NIGHT. WHILE I WAS DEAD. ASLEEP. AND CHOPPED. IT OFF!"

"Why would we do that, Natasha?"

"YOU SAID JUST YESTERDAY THAT I NEED A HAIRCUT!"

"When I say you need a haircut, I mean that I will schedule an appointment for you to get it cut, Natasha."

"BUT YOU KNOW I DON'T WANT A HAIRCUT! SO YOU WENT AND TOOK MATTERS INTO YOUR OWN HANDS!"

That's when they all just started laughing at me. No one takes 8-year-olds seriously. All I know is someone cut my hair that night. And it was probably with the grooming scissors.