Tag Archives: Women

When Your OB/GYN is a Jerk

My first OB/GYN wasn’t a jerk, but he also wasn’t an OB/GYN. I found him in the Yellow Pages when I was 17 and looking for a place to get a prescription for birth control pills.  (Young people, the Yellow Pages was a book (made of real paper) we used to find business addresses and phone numbers back before Google.  Yes, those were dark times.) Planned Parenthood was too far away, and I was without a car at this time due to an accident I had when an 89-year-old woman ran a stop sign, a common occurrence in South Florida. Anyway, this doctor’s office was RIGHT DOWN THE STREET.  So, I walked there, after calling on the phone for an appointment.

The doctor was super nice, and so was his wife.  She talked to me before my pelvic exam.  She had a model of the female reproductive system, and she showed me exactly what her husband was going to do.  Then, she stayed with me in the room while he did the exam.  She told me that her husband was a general doctor, not an OB/GYN, but he wanted to help young girls get birth control if they needed it.  I think they may have charged a lower rate, too.  They were very nice people, and I got my pills.

My mom was PISSED when she found out I was on the pill.  Our pharmacist told her because I was dumb enough to go to the same pharmacy my mom always went to.  I think that’s kind of illegal for him to have told her that.  Once she found out who prescribed them, she was really mad. My mom worked for doctors and said this guy I went to was a “fucking quack.”  I liked him, but since she was so pissed, I told her I would go to her doctor for my next exam.  My mom’s doctor was, and probably still is, a jerk.  I’m only saying jerk because I’m trying to swear less.  Really, he was an asshole. OK.  A fucking asshole.

Love those paper gowns and blankets!
Love those paper gowns and blankets!

I went in for my exam by myself.  The nurse brought me to the room and had me put on that gown that covers almost nothing.  I’ve never understood why they even bother with the gown.  They should just throw a baby blanket over you and call it a day.  Anyway, the doctor came in after I sat in the room for about 20 minutes with the air conditioning vent blowing on me.  In South Florida, it’s always too hot outside and too cold inside.

So, the doctor had me lie back and scoot my butt all the way forward, and then put my feet in the stirrups.  Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.  Then, he proceeded to give me the most painful, horrible pelvic exam I have ever had in my life.  Still. After the exam, I told him, with tears in my eyes, that it was very painful. He replied, I shit you not, “Well, I wasn’t tickling you!” I left there HATING him and vowing never to return.  Not only did I never go back, when I got home I asked my mother if she was unaware that there were other OB/GYNs she could see.

By the time I got around to getting married and pregnant, I was 25.  I had a warm, wonderful OB/GYN throughout my pregnancy.  I won’t use his name, but his nephew was on the show Full House and he was also the voice of Aladdin.  He told me all of this during exams.  I found that to be really neat at the time, the fact that his nephew was mildly famous and the fact he actually talked to me about such things during exams.  That doctor was so awesome.  He told me I was glowing and looked beautiful at every appointment.  And then I had to see his partner.

At this OB/GYN practice, they made you see other doctors towards the end of your pregnancy because your own doctor might not be on call when you went into labor.  Because no one ever goes into labor during normal business hours.  So, I waddled into the office at about 8 months to see Dr. Z.  I could tell that Dr. Z was an asshole, I mean jerk, the minute he walked in because he did not make eye contact with me.  He just told me to assume the position.  I asked if he could look at a rash I had developed on my bikini line. I thought it was a heat rash since I lived in South Florida and I had a heck of a FUPA with this pregnancy. The doctor stood a couple of feet away from me and said, “It’s a fungus!”

I was horrified.  He made it sound like black mold was going to eat me alive with his alarmed tone. “How did I get a fungus?”  I genuinely thought I had some South American rainforest level shit happening.

He stepped back about three feet and said, “I don’t know.  Get some anti-fungal cream at the drug store.  Also, you might want to start watching your weight.  You’ve gained too much.” With that, he walked out of the room.  I pulled my paper blanket around me and slid off of the table to get dressed.

I had to hold back the tears.  I was fat AND I had a fungus.  This was not good.  So, I did what people usually do when they are insulted like this, I went home and ate macaroni and cheese.  Lots of it.  I shoveled it in my mouth while muttering, “I’m fat and I have a fungus. Asshole.”

Guess who was on call when my water broke?  Yep. Dr. Z. Before they wheeled me in to the OR, Dr. Z examined me and told me, “Your water didn’t really break.”  I swear he rolled his eyes when he said it.

I rolled them right back.  A person CAN TELL when her water breaks. I told him, “Well then I must have lost control of my bladder in bed, all the way to the bathroom, and in the car on the way over here.”  Asshole. Jerk. Other bad words.

I labored for 17 hours, and my epidural quit working and needed to be inserted again.  Good times. I ended up needing an emergency C-section. Lucky for me, his surgical skills were way better than his bed side manner.  I never saw him again, and I don’t miss him.

Let me hear from you in the comments! Guys, you can play along, too.  Tell me about your worst doctor ever. How did you handle your visit with him or her?  Tell me I’m not the only one who has had horrible doctors.

Menopause Killed my Inner MILF

Happy Monday, everyone! Please enjoy this funny guest post on menopause from my friend Vikki, and read how to win my book and others at the end.


Google “Benefits of Menopause,” and you’ll get 8,570,000 possible links. Over 8 1/2 million articles written on how menopause makes us stronger, sexier, more confident, and more at peace with our bodies and our sexuality. Not to mention the exhilarating freedom from periods, bloating, cramping, PMS, and the constant worry about pregnancy, however slim the chance.

What they don’t tell you in those same posts is that all that zen is achieved after menopause is over. It’s the prize at the end of a rather bumpy ride, during which you’ll start questioning whether you’ll ever be sexy again. Or if you’ll ever care.

Like most women, I like feeling attractive, sexy, desirable. I’ve spent more money than I probably should’ve towards that goal over the years, and although yoga pants and no makeup are my norm, I do clean up fairly well (which admittedly takes longer with each passing year). I have a tiny, but persistent, inner hot chick that still likes stilettos, little black dresses, and the appreciative looks from Hubs at my efforts. Menopause crashed my hotness with a thud heard in three states.

Suddenly I was more “Ma’am” than MILF. Men stopped whistling at me from the street and started helping me through the crosswalk. People no longer commented “You look so much like your mother” and started assuming we were sisters. One unfortunate store owner in town asked me if I was my son’s grandmother. (As soon as I figure out how to hide the body, he’s going to die.)

In retrospect, I’m amazed that Hubs made it through my menopausal years. He married a reasonably confident, arguably normal woman, and woke up one day to an overheated, moody, questionably sane female sobbing uncontrollably over the sudden appearance of cankles. My MILF was gone. How menopause killed it:

  1. Hot flashes. We were out at our favorite romantic restaurant, and instead of the coy flirting of our early years (“Gee, Big Guy, is it hot in here or is it just you?”), it became “Is it hot in here or what? I’mhot. Is anybody else hot??” Repeated requests to the uncooperative waiter to turn the thermostat down finally ended with a screeching “Can’t you turn the freaking heat down?!? It’s TOO FRIGGIN’ HOT IN HERE.” Hubs dragged my sweaty body out of the restaurant, and we haven’t been back since.
  2. Metabolism changes. Actually, mine didn’t change. It stopped. Weight maintenance was now limited to one Fruit Loop and a Diet Coke per day. Weightlossrequired colonic cleansing and fasting. And if you like wine, no carbs for you. Ever. Carbs plus wine make you blow up like a puffer fish, so you have to choose. I haven’t had a carb since 2009.
  3. Fatigue. I was tiredall the time. Bedtime went from 10:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., effectively eliminating boogie nights on the dance floor, since it’s virtually impossible to find a band that starts at 5:30.
  4. Night sweats. Yeah, nothing turns a man on more than being whacked on the arm at 2 a.m., to “Get up” because we have to change the cold, wet sheets. Again. After the first six months, we both got used to just tossing beach towels over the sheets and crawling back into bed. Takethat, sex life.
  5. Day sweats. I quit going to the gym after realizing my clothes would be soaked, with visible sweat pouring down between my boobs and my butt crack, and I’d only been on the treadmill for 3 minutes. It took me longer to wipe down the machine than it did to work out.
  6. Incontinence. I’d laugh. A little squirt. I’d sneeze. Another little squirt. The actual need to pee? Now I’d be clenching my Kegals while I waddle-ran to the nearest bathroom, praying there wasn’t a line and fully prepared to bust into the men’s room if necessary. By the end of the evening, I smelled like Eau de Pee, sitting in wet undies, and wondering what the hell had happened to my life. Hubs, not surprisingly, was still not turned on.
  7. Mood swings. Some days, Hubs would come home to find me sobbing over yet-another Hallmark commercial about the son returning home at Christmas to his adoring little sister and happy, teary-eyed parents. Other days, any and all comments directed at me, from anyone in the room, on any subject, were met with “What the hell iswrongwith you??” accompanied, when the stupidity-level warranted it, by a smack up ‘long side the head. Hubs claimed later that every day was a crap shoot.
  8. Physical changes. Under-arm twaddle, boobs headed towards my knees, and hips widening, irrevocably eliminated anything sleeveless or low-cut from my closet and would forevermore require military-grade underwear. Menopause underwear is designed to git ‘er done, by pushing, lifting, and shoving defiant and migrating body parts back into their original shape and place. We no longer care about lace edging or cute bows. We need Kevlar underwire and the Spanx company on speed-dial.
  9. Body heat. More consistent than hot flashes, I was basically just hot all. the. time. We had the front door open year-round, and unless it was raining, I had the top down on my car. In December. I turned the house heat completely off every night and opened all the windows. Hubs repeatedly complained that he couldn’t perform in a meat locker. I reminded him once that it’s a bad chef who blames his utensils, but apparently he didn’t get my humor. Nobody got any that night.
  10. Hunger. Suffice it to say that I wasalwayshungry. And somehow, I have no recollection of craving carrots. I do remember threatening to bludgeon Hubs to death one night for eating the last of my Milk Duds. To this day, he’s never eaten another Dud.
  11. Evening conversations tended more towards chronic menopausal-induced IBS than our mutual plans for our next vacation through the wine country. Hubs, who’s never seen me pee (not oncein 15 years) because I want to maintain a modicum of mystery in our marriage, looked a bit stunned one night when I bent over and hiked up the back of my dress, asking “When I bend over like this, can you see cellulite on the backs of my legs?” He laughed so hard, he fell off his chair, but was smart enough to leave that question untouched.

Now, at the end of the tunnel, I’m approaching inner peace. But it was a humbling and often mortifying ride. And occasionally, when I’m doing my morning prayers and meditation, my thoughts will free-fall back to those years and I’ll ask God, “Really??REALLY??”

I’m still waiting for a response.

Exciting news: Vikki Claflin, author of “Who Stole the Cork Out of My Lunch?”, and I are co-sponsoring a fabulous new book giveaway called “The Big Booty Book Bundle Giveaway!” It’s FIVE books by talented female writers that will keep you laughing out loud. And it’s free! For details and to enter, click http://laugh-lines.net/its-here-the-big-booty-book-bundle-giveaway-edition-1

book bundle ed. 1


Vikki Claflin writes the award-winning blog, Laugh Lines, where she doles out irreverent advice on marriage, offers humorous how-to lists galore, and shares her most embarrassing midlife moments. She shows us how to master midlife with laughter and common sense. Check out more of Vikki’s hilarious writing in her newest book, Who Left the Cork Out of My Lunch? Middle Age, Modern Marriage & Other Complications. Available at Amazon.com, B&N, and iTunes. You can also find her at http://laugh-lines.net