style="font-size:15px;"> Toward the end of my own exam, just before I was about to slide off the tissue paper–lined table, feeling as greasy as a Wesson-oiled turkey cavity, this doctor managed more questions without looking into my eyes.
“Are you using birth control?” he asked, removing his gloves. “I assume a smart woman like you would certainly—”
“Well, no, not exactly. I am fairly abstinent, like I told you. We are holiday humpers. Not much in between ’cept the—”
He wrote in his computer and made a strange face. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s fine with it. Makes him look forward to Christmas that much more. He’ll even hang lights in our bushes if he thinks he’ll also get to hang something in my bush.” Hee hee hee. The doctor didn’t laugh at all.
“Aren’t you concerned about birth control?”
“Doctor, I’m 44 years old. The only thing I’m concerned about is being able to survive this perimenopause without killing the man. Do you realize I planted an oleander bush at my house? What does THAT tell you? I ride by pawn shops and twitch at the gun displays. I really came here so that you’d tell me I needed to get my uterus and its sidekicks out ASAP. This is the main source of all my misery and misdeeds, I assure you.”
“No, it’s healthy and normal from what I could see,” he said, and I wanted to swat him. “You have a couple of small cysts, which are quite common. It’s probably all in your head from the many decades women over a certain age were all but guaranteed hysterectomies. A good number of those surgeries were never needed.”
“Four periods in six weeks?” This is not in my head.
But this is what all men say. That everything we complain about is all in our heads. I wanted to take his off. “I know y’all give out samples of Lexapro and Prozac,” I said, “but I was wondering if you had some extra boxes of Elephant Lady–sized tampons and pads as I’m certain to have another period in five to seven days?”
He left with one of those perplexed, “I’m-a-doctor-minusa-personality” expressions, and I left with my K-Y’d parts puddling.
Then, to make matters worse, my next errand was to get my car tag renewed. Only fools will schedule a Pussyectomy and DMV visit on the same day. I’m that kind of fool.
I stood in line wondering if in a week the boring old doctor would call and say I had a reattached hymen from lack of intercourse. The line here wasn’t moving so there was lots of time to think irrational thoughts, my number-one hobby.
The man in front of me was picking his nose, checking the contents out and even chatting with them before putting it all into his hanky and saying, “Bye for now.” I kid you not. And the woman with the six kids behind me was yakking on her cell phone to a man I presumed was her husband or live-in about how the line hasn’t moved since breakfast and her hemorrhoids were giving her fits.
“You get your ass up here you no good sumbitch and stand here with these six young’uns. It’s your restored Gremlin. Not mine. I’ll give it one more hour, then I’m taking my sore ass home and soaking in some Epsom salts.”
She reminded me of my poor friend, a beautiful pharmacist, who was walking around in labor begging the doctors to administer the epidural to her giant hemorrhoid instead of her spine. “I’d been in labor 44 hours and the thing was huge,” she said, sipping red wine and discussing its size while all of us fell over laughing. “I can’t figure out why they didn’t just go ahead and give me what I wanted.”
A few minutes later at the DMV, the lady who was working the counter alone was helped by a man who looked as if he’d been tortured by the government and recently released. He was such a sad sack he made Eeyore seem manic.
Every single person who finally inched up to the counter was sent away. None had proper documentation. No one ever does.
Here’s what I heard from these government-paid public slaves:
“YOU NEED A NOTARY TO SIGN THIS BEFORE YOU CAN GET A TAG, MA’AM.”
“SIR, WE’VE CHANGED THE REQUIREMENTS SINCE YOU WERE LAST HERE FOR TITLE WORK. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO PAY CASH AND SHOW DENTAL RECORDS. YOU COULD BE ANY BODY OFF THE STREETS.”
“But I wear dentures,” the man said, taking them out and setting them on the counter.
At that point I was ready to run.
Then it was my turn.
“Oh, what have we here? I remember you. You’re the little bitch that pitched that fit four years ago when it took you seven tries to get a tag. Welcome back,” she said and scrunched up every feature on her face until she resembled something from Lord of the Rings.
“I’m going to need to see a current license, birth certificate, proof of insurance, PROOF OF LIFE, proof you own that damn car, and we’ll also prick your finger to make sure you are really who you say you are. Standard policy now with all the car theft going on.”
I was stunned. K-Y jelly was running down my left thigh. I wanted to go home.
“I’m not leaving without a tag,” I said. “My temporary blew off in the car wash and I have nothing on my back bumper but a fresh coat of paint. It needs some letters and numbers or I’ll be wearing them on my jumpsuit as I clean liquor bottles from I-240. Please, Madame DMV.”
She clicked and typed and came back with a secret manila envelope.
“You wanna make this trip shorter?”
“Please. Yes.”
“I see you got ‘organ donor’ listed here on your license.”
“Yes, I am a great believer in donating anything you—”
She made that creepy-crawler bug face again. “Shhhhh! This is between you and me, Miss Priss. Now you and me both know you wouldn’t have proper documentation if it jumped outta your ass. You know that. I know that.” She leaned in closer. “It’s not offered to all our customers, but if you’re willing to be a living donor, that is one who’ll give body parts prior to receiving your personal toe tag in the morgue, you get a renewal plate pronto and don’t have to pay the taxes on the vehicle for a year.”
“Do what?”
“That sweet little Lexus your ass is driving around town? You know how much you’re going to owe on that baby? Here’s the deal, sign this paper that you’ll be a LIVING donor and we’ll stamp you clear, give you a tag and set you loose.”
“Living donor?”
“Means we’ll call if we need half your liver, a kidney, some skin for grafting, maybe a fallopian tube, cornea, thumb or shin bone, that sort of thing. Parts you don’t really need to live a normal life.”
I was speechless but definitely interested. I thought about the visit to the gyno and the parts down south I sure didn’t need. “You can have my uterus,” I said. “I was going to sell it on eBay or send it to a hide tanner and turn it into a change purse, but I figure someone might need one.”
She mumbled and gave it some thought. “What else you got to give? A uterus is just a start.”
