2001-02-20
Dear Diary:

For those of you keeping track, it now stands at Virulent Virus o' Death: 842, Marn (aka Our Lady of the Mucus): 0.

The more perceptive of my two readers may be wondering at this point why I haven't been to a doctor. I have one word for you:

Fear.

Yes, I am afraid of doctors.

Now let me say up front that our family doctor is a wonderful man who is about my age, very patient, and very kind. But deep, deep in my heart I believe that if I go to see him he is going to uncover some odd, extremely malignant disease which will croak me about four minutes after I leave his office.

Intellectually I know this is utter bunk, that if I have such a disease it's going to croak me whether or not I go to see the doctor. I KNOW my fear of doctors is unfounded and completely irrational.

In other words, it's just soooooo me.

PLUS, it's been over a year since I've been to the doctor's and I know that when he sees me he's going to order a mammogram AND I'm going to have to have a pap smear.

Now if a test for testicular cancer involved smushing a guy's balls between two icy plates of glass, I'm thinking a doctor would only have to experience it once to immediately begin research on an alternative.

So far there's no alternative to mammograms for women.

The first one I had, I had no idea at all what was going to happen. So Igorette, The Medical Technician/Certified Torturer had a relatively relaxed victim. Smush went the plates and I was left with what looked like two dinner plates sticking out in front of me. Fine.

But We Were Not Done. Oh no, then we had to smush them the other way and I was left with parallel fins. Fine. Only it was winter and I wasn't going to be swimming, so where was the advantage to being Shark Woman? HUH?

And the pap smear? Well, hey, who among us does not dream of donning a flimsy paper gown, inserting feet into stirrups and allowing someone we don't know well to sit between our legs, insert a speculum into our nether regions and peer inside, scraping out a little bit of said regions?

I know, I know, Where Do You Sign Up, right?

    So now you know why I've been dithering about going to see the doctor, eh.

It was the spousal unit, tired of my restless tossing and turning in my sleep, the loud sniffling and the coughing, who forced the issue.

He threatened me with The Prayer Chain, the heartless fiend!

Paul's mom is part of The Prayer Chain, a church group whose members are telephoned every so often and asked to pray for members of the congregation who are seriously ill.

However, the congregation of this church is very, very elderly now and so many of the folks on The Prayer Chain end up on the wrong side of the grass, as it were. Whenever our family wants to mock threaten each other, we say we're going to put their name on Norma's Prayer Chain.

Yes, we are a seriously disturbed bunch.

But we're all also just superstitious enough that the threat of The Prayer Chain is enough to make us take action, eh.

My appointment is for Thursday.

Keep your fingers crossed, 'kay?

--Marn


SETI@home

There has been an outpouring of sympathy for the plight of one small moose. The incredibly cute and deeply talented Paul of Rilting fame has even made a button for the Do It For The Moose Campaign.

Here's where the instructions are on how to get it.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.