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.