I almost got stuck in the bathroom today. I had been wandering around all day waiting for something embarrassing to happen to me as it usually does. And then it hit me.
I locked myself into a one person bathroom in a “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam so thankfully everyone was too high to notice a panicked woman stumble out of the bathroom after MINUTES of clicking the lock back and forth unsuccessfully.
What I really wanted to talk to you about is drug dealers. (This is called a segue.)
Tonight when my brother, Nick and I were walking home after a night at an Amsterdam local food festival we had the joy of approaching a group of men. Don’t you love that feeling that crawls all over you when you see a group of territorial-looking guys who are too old to be hanging out outside fast food restaurants but too young for old men bars?
Anyway, we eased through them and one (the peacock) spoke to us in English, “Welcome to Amsterdam”. I didn’t realize we had ‘tourist’ written on our foreheads but apparently it was evident we weren’t from around there.
Of course, Nick and I used our ‘ignore everything’ technique but I soon realized my brother was no longer with us. I looked back to see him and the peacock essentially circling each other, similar to boxing or Pokémon battles.
My first thought, “How will we carry the body of a 19-year-old, 6’7” man back to our place when this guy knocks him out?”.
Just kidding my first thought was, “rape”. I calculated every possible way it could end at that point. There were 6 grown men vs us. Does anyone else immediately go there?
I feel like as a woman we immediate calculate the chance of rape in any given scenario. Maybe that’s just me. I tend to selfishly think about my well-being.
Once we pulled my brother away he wouldn’t explain what the guy wanted. As we pushed into the Airbnb, the peacock drove around the corner in a neon green Vespa. It was the most European moment I’ve experienced so far in Europe.
This man followed us in his tiny green Vespa. That means if his friends all had multicolored Vespas he’d be in a biker’s gang. But with neon Vespas.
It was intimidating as hell.
We locked the door behind us but my brother refused to follow us into the apartment. He wanted to go out to this guy.
Nick and I went upstairs to look out the window and waited for my brother to join us. After what felt like forever he came back.
“What did that guy want?” I yelled.
“Oh, he just wanted to know if I wanted to buy drugs,” he said.
Was I in the “what not do” part of a DARE video?
Kids, when a drug dealer approaches you don’t interact with them, especially if they drive a green Vespa. If they were any good at being a drug dealer, they’d be driving something better than a green Vespa.
I waited be the window and prayed I wasn’t going to be part of Taken 4. Partially because I think Liam Neeson is slightly overrated.
The peacock hasn’t shown his face or his green Vespa since. So naturally I’ll just lay in a puddle of anxiety all night.
Oh the good all days when the most exciting part of my day was almost getting stuck in a toilet.
I didn’t post yesterday because I was packing for my trip to Amsterdam with my brother and Nick so stop yelling at me guilty conscience and let me live my life!
The key is organizational piles.
The “fun mom” pile wouldn’t be complete without responsible but cute shirts typically from Old Navy. Then you’ve got your “I’ll need this to cover up my erotic vibes” which consists of cardigans and black tights. Then there’s the “when did I become a person who wears leather?” pile which only holds a leather jacket I stole from my 12-year-old sister and a scandalous/business casual leather skirt my grandma bought me.
Did I mention I’m cool?
Anyways that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We arrived at the AirBnB we’re staying at and two cats stared back at me from the couch. That’s when I vaguely remembered that to get such a cheap place in the city I agreed to petsit the host’s cats. I was confused too.
I took the list of instructions including a recipe for their dinner! Cat pâté! Freaking cat pâté.
Nick is allergic so we’ve been keeping him in a corner. Allergic to cats, not pâté. That man loves a mean pâté. And nice pâtés too.
I feel like I usually get paid with free housing when I pet sit but instead I’m paying her to take care of her cats. I’m great at negotiations. This explains my fear of car dealerships.
Anyways we spent the evening doing what people do in Amsterdam. When in Rome, amirite?
We both know I’m talking about walking in the bike line? Man, they love their bikes here. And they do aim.
When we came home last night we weren’t the most sober we could be. We probably could’ve been more. Just a little more.
That’s what I told myself when I woke up this morning and realized I mixed kitty kibble with hot water and then instructed Nick to mash it together with a fork to make “cat pâté”.
I found the actually pâté in tin cans this morning. I also found that the mush had hardened over night so the cats laughed at me silently while I scraped it out. #budgettravel
You know what they say. When in Rome, make cat pâté?
Update: So I assumed we were taking care of these cats because the hosts were going on their own vacation/they were staying with a friend/ living in a cardboard box while we rented their place.
Wrong.
We walked downstairs and as we were about to walk out, the door to the apartment on the ground floor opened and our host stepped out.
“Have a great day, guys!”
I was flabbergasted.
“You mean to tell me that you are living downstairs and I’m taking care of your cats upstairs?! Are you and your cats on a break? Should I drop off your cats later? I’m sure you guys can work it out over some pâté,” I said.
Except I only said that in my head because I’m a pussy.
Yes, that was a cat pun. Excuse me while I go feed the cats.
When your 19-year-old brother refuses to watch a stand-up comedy special with you because he’s not “in the mood” for a female comedian you realize why you undertook this project in the first place.
Reasons he listed for why he doesn’t like female comedians:
“They’re so sexual”
“They’re too feminist”
“They talk about things I can’t relate to”
Now I know some may think I’m overreacting because my brother doesn’t want to watch female comedians. I think I’m reacting just enough. Because after some badgering he more or less admitted that he thinks girls aren’t funny.
I know many people feel this way. I’ve experienced it firsthand and I’ve talked to many women who’s jokes aren’t laughed at until their male peers retold the joke. Some might say their delivery might have been wrong but we know the truth. This is the first time someone has directly admitted to me that they believe girls aren’t funny.
It became crystal clear when he said: “They talk about things I can’t relate to”. This makes sense. As a woman, I’ve sat through stand-up comedy shows, movies, music on the radio, all talk trash about women. Women are crazy, women are dependent on their male counterpart, women eat dick for breakfast, women are this, women are that. But because you have the privilege to decide whether you want to listen to someone else’s experience you can decide girls aren’t funny.
Women talk about having sex, about our periods, our body image, our ongoing fight to choose what we do with our body. And it’s fucking hilarious. It’s goddamn beautiful that in the midst of all the bullshit women deal with, we can still make people laugh. We can laugh together, at each other, with each other.
Of course, I love my brother and of course that hasn’t changed. I just immediately made him watch Sarah Silverman. However, this moment reaffirmed why I started this website.
My dream is that one day this website can retire because the idea that Girls Aren’t Funny is an archaic concept. My dream is that we can start with each other. Each time we make each other laugh we move a little in the right direction. We need to tell our stories. Our hilarious stories.
I’ve always been a big fan of visions boards where you cut all of your vulnerabilities, your hopes, your dreams out of magazines and paste them on to a poster. I think it’s therapeutic but it may be a waste of resources.
Sidenote: I once ate Elmer’s Glue on a dare but when I picked up the bottle my thumb covered the “non” in the word “non-toxic” and I nearly passed out from the fear of dying/becoming a teenage mutant ninja turtle.
So I thought what better place to do that then a freaking community for women supporting each other. So support me, bitches (and my male bitches too because penises are always welcome as long as they’re not dicks).
Basically, this is what I envision for Girls Aren’t Funny in the future. Almost a Chicken Soup for the Soul meets Vagina Monologues. It’s already killing it on the bestseller list [in my head] (I may be insane or incredibly crafty).
Book reviews coming out the gate:
“Girls Aren’t Funny has been breaking glass ceilings with their bare hands and it is a messy business! The publishing industry, not the blood. Why are we talking about blood when we should be talking about this book!” – The feminist next door
“Get back in the kitchen.” – President Trump
“Without Girls Aren’t Funny I’d still be involved in cockfighting.” -The local priest
This book is like a new friend you don’t feel comfortable asking for money yet. But you will. – Your mom
This picture is of the first day of ski school. Look at that naive son of a bitch smiling away without a care in the world. Let’s just say the last day of the program I found myself in a full-blown panic attack slowly making my way down a mountain with four very uncomfortable people. The trainer mistook my raspy breathing as asthma rather than anxiety. I thought I’d have to fight off CPR.
Unsubtle sports segue.
I am terrified of team sports. I think it has something to do with people expecting my height to somehow assist me in my coordination.
You’re probably thinking, “Oh no, now she is going to talk about how her long limbs got in the way of her athletic ability”. Or you are thinking, “Can I eat this Chinese food if it has been in my fridge for two weeks?” If the first question, you are wrong, I am an amazing athlete. If the second, yes you can eat it, I have already tested the theory for you. You’re welcome.
Soccer: When your parents don’t realize you’re American
At the ripe age of four, I was enrolled in soccer. Maybe if I was born literally anywhere else in the world I would enjoy this sport but… no.
Who didn’t have to go through this experience? Parents try to make sure their kid doesn’t get type II diabetes so they enroll them in shit like soccer and gymnastics.
(Pro tip: Thank god for childhood obesity because I can buy cheaper clothes in the plus-size section of Gap Kids.)
Well, did you have a dad who stood on the sidelines yelling at the coach’s lack of ability as a coach and as a man? This only started my career. At every game, my dad would stand farther down the field and give me opposite advice to what my coaches were saying.
“Melanie! Head back to defense!” yelled the coaches.
“Melanie! Don’t listen to them! They’ve never played a day of soccer in their life! Go for the ball! Aggression is key!” screamed my father.
Understandably, soccer games became a huge source of anxiety for me. So did tennis, kickball and for one summer, fencing. Naturally.
Over the years I racked up some pretty gruesome injuries. Including the time I injured my ankle, was strapped into a boot and then put in the goalie box to keep me safe, to be then injured by my own teammate. Oh did you want me to tell you that story? Don’t worry, here it goes.
My dad was really big on the concept of supporting your team no matter what, so with my new ankle boot I hobbled onto the soccer field to wish my team good luck before the game. We were missing our goalie and so in their desperation, they asked me to stand in goal. I learned two things from that moment:
1.) Never show up to anything injured or sick, because people will still find ways to put you to use when you don’t want to be, and 2.) Always negotiate for an extra snack when being asked to perform a dangerous service, especially when Sarah’s mom brings orange slices.
I accepted the new position and tugged on the neon, smelly vest that comes with the glory of the goalie. I planned to stay rooted in my safe little box until I realized I was actually standing in the target zone.
I wrapped my arms around the ball to look up and see two figures speeding towards me. I felt an intense pain and blacked out. My response is best told through my mother’s interpretation, “You were sprawled out on the ground and then you shot up with a scream of pain. It was kinda funny like when you giggle at a horror movie trailer.” Very relatable.
The arm I broke was on the same side of my body as my ankle boot so for weeks after the injury, I hobbled around with the right side of my body heavier than the other. The most flattering nickname I received was ‘bionic woman’, and that was from my dad. The least flattering was ‘cripple’, which was from my mom.
Good times. At least I can say I was allright!
Volleyball: Oh you’re tall? Get the fuck on this team
My mom encouraged me to try out for the volleyball team in eighth grade and when I say encouraged I actually mean she refused to pick me up after school until I called her sweaty and out of breath from the excitement of the experience. If I called her sweaty and out of breath for any other reason, it was just another day in middle school.
The last bell rang and I stayed seated on the locker room bench as a gang of girls came through to change into athletic gear. I tried some small talk like, “Hey! I have never played this sport before and it would be swell if you could explain every rule in the game and also never pass me the ball,” or some casual locker room banter such as, “No worries, I am no threat to you as I will not be making the team. Please just let me live through this.”
Some girls gave me weak smiles of pity, while others laughed as if I was joking. One, in particular, sprayed me with perfume and whispered to me, good luck. I took it as either a superstitious ritual or a hint that I needed to find my deodorant again. I trudged out onto the court where the volleyball net had already been erected.
The coach came up behind me and slapped me across the back, “I’m so glad you came, Whyte. We can finally put your height to good use.”
What does that mean? Did she think my height had been of no use so far for anything but the godly athleticism of volleyball?
“I can reach things on the top shelf,” I mumbled. She looked at me for a beat too long with a concerned look on her face.
The same look she gave me when I was put on the discus team for track and field, then realized I had no strength, moved me to the sprinters, realized I’m not fast, then moved me to long-distance running, where I perfected the technique of lifting your knees in an exaggerated motion so that from the other side of the track it looked like you were jogging in slow motion.
I’m not sure where I was going with this, but needless to say, I had a bad track record!
Basketball: If I was shorter would you still love me?
Eventually, I found basketball, where the shorts are baggy and the girls are… tall. Did you think I was going to say saggy? Because they are not. They wear sports bras.
I made my middle school basketball team and after the initial relief of accomplishing a tryout without injuring someone else, I realized I would actually have to play a game with people watching.
The crowd at my first game could be described as human, maybe with a few service dogs mixed in. I was sent out on the court with my white skin shiny under the gym’s fluorescent lights and my limbs swinging nervously by my side.
My coach screamed, “defense!” at me as I made small talk with the other team’s players. It was important to me that everyone liked me so this was the natural position for me to be in. In an effort to please the coach, I broke the girl’s nose.
Oh wait, I skipped some details.
As I was having a lovely conversation about how I don’t particularly enjoy being sweaty, the basketball bounced off the rim and ricocheted towards us.
In an effort to protect her (i.e. defense) I reached out to grab the ball and my elbow came crashing down on her fragile cartilage. I promised to be right back and made a shot for my team, but she didn’t want to exchange chat-room information after that.
You win some, you lose some. I say I won on several accounts, one of the bigger reasons being that I was diagnosed with scoliosis at the nurse’s the next day and no longer had to participate in team sports.
You know what they say, back surgery is a bitch but nothing is worse than enforced team spirit.
I promise the Catholic posts will stop soon once I leave Ireland. My sister has finally gone through the last round of becoming the holiest she can possibly get. There’s no way she’s becoming a saint so it’s all downhill from here.
The day was going fine until my family got into a tug-of-war battle over the pew we were assigned to with one other family. We were each given one half of a pew reserved for as many members of your family that you could fit.
We took this as a challenge.
The four of us spread out to save spots for the seven of us. It became tense when the family we were up against arrived early like little bitches (really they were on time but fuck them).
At first, I was feeling confident. I was wearing a new dress that was both tight and made me look like a mermaid. Also, I was wearing a fresh pair of flesh-colored tights my Nana described as the “palest you can get”.
I was the last person on my family’s side so I was shoulder to shoulder with the mother of the opposing family. A mama bear. A woman with long fake nails and fake tanner that was rubbing off on my pale tights. A fighter.
Over the course of a few minutes, she managed to slowly scoot her butt down the pew effectively using me as a domino for my family’s demise. Without making eye contact she repeatedly muttered under her breath, “We each get half the pew” as if she was confrontational but not good with eye contact.
My Nana pushed back to no avail. I was too much of a pussy. I just wanted everyone to get along in the house of God, partially because I like being better than Catholics. It’s good for the soul.
During the mass when everyone turns to their neighbor and says, “Peace be with you” with a handshake I decided to extend an olive branch. Terrible idea. I broke rank. My family felt betrayed and I lost my seat.
With just one buttcheek on the pew, I looked at the wooden Jesus on the cross and thought “Now I know what you went through”. Sacrifice.
Finally, it was time to go up with Abigail to act as her sponsor and escort her to the priest to be blessed or something. Don’t ask me what a sponsor is or does because I have no idea. I was just told to put one hand on her shoulder.
You’d think this simple instruction would be easy to follow. I immediately began to panic on which hand and what shoulder. In line, I started massaging her shoulders just to be safe. I felt like I was getting her ready for a boxing match.
Apparently, it’s easier to find a gif of an elephant massage than a boxer getting prepped for the ring.
After the beautiful ceremony, the Catholic school teachers were thanked with gifts from the students. The male teachers received an expensive bottle of wine and the female teachers got flowers. Freaking flowers.
The girls dispatched to deliver the bouquets had difficulty finding the female teachers in the audience. I can guarantee you they wouldn’t have had this problem if it was wine. They’d be tracking the kids down to grab that prize.
The sponsors got a measly prayer for our well being. I call bullshit.
I’m currently applying for big-kid jobs and while I was trying to find the latest copy of my resume I found pictures of old cards I wrote during an internship while in college. (First day on the job and the only thing on my desk was a dinosaur head (see image above) which was never explained. Ever.)
Background: I worked for a utility company and it was Linemen Appreciation Day so as the intern I gave people pens to fill out the cards. I soon become bored and wrote a couple myself under different pen names while literally using different pens. When I was done I shuffled them throughout the deck and went on my merry way.
To my horror, before they were sent off to the linemen my coworker went through and read every damn card in the 700 pile stack because he casually read one that happened to be mine and was determined to find others like it.
My team got an email a couple hours later with photographs of the most ridiculous ones (all done by me without their knowledge). I basically sent a reply admitting to writing all of the cards and asked them nicely not to fire me.
I recognize I’m young. I revel in my youthfulness because it excuses me from having my life together. However, I have noticed a huge difference now I’m a couple years into my twenties.
I was on the bus from Dublin back to my Nana’s house when a toddler pulled herself up onto the seat next to me. She looked up at her mom and yelled “Mama sit!” and pointed at my seat. As if I was going to give up the seat for her precious mother! As if. I fought for this seat, bitch. This little girl thought she was cute but I knew better than to fall for her charms.
Did I mention I’m a horrible person?
The rest of the bus ride she played one of her baby apps on an IPad that made loud noises the whole bus cringed through. I’m not sure if this happens to all women but the closer you get to your peak as a baby-making machine you see them everywhere. Babies I mean, not IPads. Who buys IPads anymore? Babies.
They’re everywhere just reminding you of your ovaries. I had heard of this phenomenon from women older than me and through film classics like Baby Mama but I didn’t take their wisdom seriously. I’m years away from ever purposely conceiving but I recognize I have to make the decision at some point.
Your babies make me uncomfortable. OK, sometimes they’re cute when they’re dressed up as polar bears. Which is apparently a trend across Europe. It’s amazing.
Here is a baby in a polar bear outfit for your viewing pleasure:
Also, to feed your curiosity, this was also offered up to me when I googled babies dressed up as animals.
Does your baby stay up all night [and dig through your trash]?
Does your baby dream of living in Madagascar?
Or is your baby more of a party animal?
Well, forget about buying your kid a winter coat when you can wrap it in fake fur/jumpsuit!
Basically, I’m terrified of having kids so here’s my plan. I’m going to adopt a lonely 30-year-old when I’m in my 60’s. That way I don’t have to learn childrearing and THEN when I need someone to come over for Thanksgiving I’ll have a grown-ass adult bring over their best pies. Foolproof.
I know what you’re thinking, “There are so many kids who would love to be adopted!” Well, have you ever thought about the kids who weren’t adopted and lived their lives as an orphan and just want an old woman to bring pies to? Hmm? Did you think about that? I’m basically creating a charity.
My plan b involves having a kid and if I don’t like it I can drop it off at an orphanage. Hold on! Hold on! Put down the pitchforks, I’m not done yet. I’d come back when it’s 30 so it can bake me pies. Really it’s a win, win.
In all seriousness, I don’t know how to make the decision to have a kid (singular) or not. I can barely make my mind up about adopting a dog! Any thoughts?
Because I don’t want to tell my future kid/dog/30-year-old stranger that I chose them based on a pro/con list.
P.S. I saw this book cover and realized how much worse it would be to raise a zombie baby. You thought your kid gets messy with mashed peas? Try feeding it brains. Consider yourself #blessed.
Can I first direct your attention to the stock photo I’ve selected as the featured image of this post? It’s hilarious. What is she doing? I think she thinks in a crossover of Greys Anatomy and America’s Next Top Model.
Unpause.
AAHHHHHHH! That was my initial reaction on my 21st birthday. Not joy for the opportunity to be an open alcoholic but the knowledge I had to now undergo one of the last entrances to womanhood: the pap smear.
Wait, pause again! This is an “inappropriate” post (imagine air quotes because it’s more condescending) so please proceed with caution. I’m looking at you, Mom. You’ve been warned.
Unpause. Again.
First of all, why the word ‘smear’? It makes me think of a New Yorker asking for cream cheese. And I love cream cheese. I don’t love a person sticking their head between my legs for medical reasons. The reasoning is important people.
Please let me know if anyone else does this, but if a doctor asks me a question I cannot lie. I think I believe my life depends on it. Even if a doctor asked me if was currently fantasizing about what it’s like to have sex in the gynecologist stirrups I would tell them, “Yes, doctor, that is what I was thinking about. Does that help with your diagnosis?”
So when I had my first pap smear I was scared. I felt like I had to take an oath and share my testimonial with a court. Anything personal between my vagina and me was now up for grabs (literally).
It started out bad… it also was bad in the middle and towards the end. (Sounds like sex with a high school boy, amirite ladies? Oh god, I mean as a high schooler having sex with another high schooler! Like losing your virginity at 16! This is what happens around doctors. It’s like a truth-telling serum.)
Because I was cheap, young and without health insurance (still am), I went to my school’s clinic for a free women’s exam. The nurse practitioner who was to perform the exam came into the room and I immediately felt on edge.
She sounded exactly like my boyfriend’s mother. Similar mannerisms, same Boston accent. Now, there’s nothing wrong with my boyfriend’s mother! You just don’t want your boyfriend’s mother performing your first pap smear (or any of them for that matter).
“I’m with a student, do you mind if she participates today?”
This was my fear. I had a similar situation happen when I was getting birth control when I was 16. In a cramped doctors office, there was my mother, the doctor and a doctoral student all discussing my reproductive symptom. Not again.
“Well?” she said impatiently.
“Um, I’m not too comfortable with that,” I squeaked.
“She’s almost done with school,” she said exasperatedly.
“Sure…” I gave in like a pussy (with a pussy about to be smeared, freaking smeared.)
I had no idea the student was going to do the whole damn thing. The WHOLE thing, smear and all.
She came in looking hella nervous which of course made me panic. She shook my hand and sat down across from me while the nurse practitioner stood in the corner. She explained she had to ask me some routine questions. Understandable.
“What kind of sex do you have?”
I coughed, “Excuse me?”
“Vaginal, oral, anal?”
“Well, when it’s dark who knows what goes where?” I said to lighten the mood.
She stared back.
“Um, vaginal and oral.”
“So no anal?”
“Nope, no anal.”
“Seriously? You’ve never done anal?”
I didn’t know how to answer. Did she think I was lying? Did I look like someone who was on an anal rampage? Did she think I walked funny? Or was she so appalled I could be so boring in the bedroom that I wouldn’t even try anal?
We moved on and she asked me to get undressed.
“Buy me a drink first!”
Nothing, I got nothing in response to that.
When I finally got up on those stirrups the woman was sweating she was so nervous. Was it too hard to ask for her to appear mildly pleased to have the opportunity to go where few had gone before (very few ok! Enough with the jokes)? I looked back at the nurse practitioner and questioned this decision with my eyes. Are you sure you want to give this woman access down there?
To add salt to the wound, the nurse practitioner was standing behind me yelling, “Relax! Just relax”. This would be fine if she didn’t sound like my boyfriend’s mother. Remember? Do you know how traumatizing this was?
Also, I craved a bagel and smear the whole time. Dunkin’ Donuts should team up with women’s health clinics. Except it would be even more likely that my boyfriend’s mother would be there because she loves Dunkin’ Donuts. I told you she has a Boston accent, where did you think she bought her cawfee?
Soon it was over and I was left to get dressed and gather my dignity.
The student came back in to give me a form to give to the front office.
“Seriously though, you should give anal a try,” she said before closing the door.
I’m kidding she never said that but it would’ve made the whole experience totally worth it if she had. Oh well, what are you gonna do? Pap smears.
My kid sister* has been sick the last few days so we set up an appointment at the doctor’s office. My parents stuck their head into my room (my nana’s living room**) and asked if I’d take her that afternoon. Half-asleep I agreed. With ten years between us, I had always been seen as an understudy to my mother.
*The featured image was chosen for two reasons: it was a picture of my sister when she was still cute enough to get away with things and also because this story takes place in Ireland and for some reason, she looks like a leprechaun.
**I always have to clarify this but I’m only staying for a couple weeks before I continue my travels so I’m not couch surfing indefinitely. I clarify this for you and border control. They were mean and made me show them proof I plan to leave. Jokes on them, I’m actually an Irish citizen who made the mistake of traveling with her American passport instead of her EU passport so she could stay in line for customs with her sexy American boyfriend. The stupid shit you do for a guy to carry your luggage.
The neighborhood doctor has a tiny office attached to the side of his house down the street from Nana’s place. His daughter is also a doctor and they are a badass duo. (Why isn’t there a superhero who writes prescriptions?)
You could maybe fit two American-size fridges in their tiny waiting room. (That’s now how I scale things now.)
An older woman and I were bumping knees and I felt her staring at the side of my face. She’d hurumph and click her tongue in disapproval when I’d hand Abigail a tissue or push hair behind her ear (all motherly like). This is when I realized she thought I was her mother.***
***Abigail’s mother, not this woman’s mother, that would be time travel and I’m not that talented. Just talented enough to get pregnant before my first period. Call me Mary. That was a biblical reference. It was incorrect but it was a reference. (Apparently, I don’t know how to use footnotes.)
She was angry at me for possibly birthing a child as a teenager. I’m obviously not a teenager anymore. This means this woman was holding a grudge against me for something that may or may not have happened 12 years ago. When I was 10.
I actually found myself hiding my left hand because I didn’t have a ring on my finger! I was kicking myself for not wearing more rings. Should’ve put a ring on it. By the time the doctor came to get us I was humming Beyonce.
We sat down in her office and I immediately started sweating. I’m still not used to going to the doctor by myself, let alone another person. I’m so adult I wrote down a list of her symptoms and kept checking it when she looked away.
She had Abigail lay down so she can press all over her lower abdomen and do doctor things. When she sent Abigail to the bathroom for a urine sample I twiddled my thumbs in silence. I attempted doctor small talk.
“So what organs were you pressing?” I said.
“Organs?”
“Yeah, organs! Like what were you feeling her for?”
“Well uh, there’s bladders and tubes and the whole female reproductive system down there. You do know where babies form right?”
“Oh well yeah! I know how babies are made.”
Should’ve stayed silent.
“I’m just going to go check on Abigail.”
I banged on the bathroom door to hurry my sick sister and came back after counting 60 Mississippi’s.
“She’s fine! Should be with us shortly.”
Once she got back I continued to not know the answers necessary to confirm her medical history. I felt like it was exam day but if you fail so does your sister’s appendix. I’m not equipped for that kind of pressure, and neither was my deodorant. (Insert deodorant commercial that makes me rich and I buy robot doctors I can rent to third world countries for a fee because there’s no such thing as a free lunch!)
She asked who she should call in the morning to further discuss Abigail’s symptoms.
“If your mom is working who would be the best person to call [because you’re useless]?” she said.
“Oh just call Nana,” I said like a freaking three-year-old.
“Nana [you toddler in a woman’s body]? ”
“I mean, Adrienne. I mean her grandmother [jesus, let me off the hook and give me a lollipop].”
She nodded and wrote something down. I like to think she wrote down a reminder to splurge for the nice alcohol tonight because she has to deal with patients’ family members like me.
We left with the possibility Abigail either has a minor virus or appendicitis.
