It's OK to have IBS. Sometimes I carry my emotions in my abdomen which causes me to have Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Some people may feel uncomfortable with my speaking about my bodily functions in public. However, I know that just for today, it's OK to have a syndrome related to my emotions - in fact, it's quite common. A lot of people have chronic conditions that they don't speak about in public. But we are as sick as our secrets and just for today, I choose not to live in hiding. Today I choose to live in acceptance. Just for today, I am person with irrritable bowels (and who, to be perfectly frank, can blame them) and I am not ashamed.

Just for today, I can listen to criticism and accept that it may contain some kernel of truth. So when people complain that I might be a little to free and open with reference to chronic conditions, I can learn to keep certain things to myself. Just because I suffered from both a sinus infection and severe IBS this weekend, does not necessarily mean that everyone I come into contact with wants to hear about it. While I believe I am performing a service by sharing such conditions, I am learning that not everyone can appreciate the detailed descriptions of my storytelling, especially pertaining to certain orifices.

Just for today, I can constipate my mouth.

(FYI: The second most often typed Google phrase, second to "Search for Sanity," that leads to this website just happens to be "Irritable Bowel Syndrome." So, I know you folks are out there! Even if you pretend you're not!)

Just for today I can find ways to exercise that don't involve walking outside in the freezing cold in a bathing suit in the middle of a rainstorm. While the adrenaline prompted by my wearing a bathing suit may induce me to exercise or swim a little harder, I can't refrain from the running dialogue of "I am crazy, why am I doing this? " that goes through my head for at least two to three laps. I know swimming is a gentle low-impact aerobic exercise, but faulty pool-heating systems are not so gentle. They are just *@# cold. Just for today, the question remains, am I highly disciplined, or just masochistic?

Am considering desperate measures for IBS. Yes, I'm even considering visiting my doctor. The only thing stopping me is the thought of his condescending, eye-ball rolling, deameanor when he says things like, "You don't have AIDS," (Oh, yeah, how do you know who I've slept with or what drugs I've done? - blood transfusions he would probably know about). Or, "You're not going to die," (mmmm, yeah...just who are you?! God?!). Or, even, "you might want to consider renting a parking space in our lot, hahahahhaha!" (Um...I'm not laughing). So, now that I have a painful stressful condition, he's the last person I feel like seeing. As a dealer, there's no better person to go to for a fix of Tylenol with Codeine or Claritin. He'll have me flying high in no time. But for serious medical concerns about serious medical conditions that I have heard about or read about or fantasized about, he's not a very sympathetic ear (oh, I know all about HMOs and hypochondriac patients and blah blah blah). Still, there might be some bowel freezer out there on the pharmaceutical market.

Just for today, I can consider visiting my doctor about IBS.

I spent the other day with my mom, having lunch, going shopping, before we picked up my sister from school. She took one look at me and said, "Why do you have all of those black things in your teeth?" I looked in the mirror and, sure enough, there couldn't possibly be more black peppercorns in my teeth. It looked almost like I had holes in my teeth. So, I immediately asked my mom why she let me walk around all day looking like that and she replied, "Because I didn't want to embarrass you." As if walking around with black peppercorns all over my teeth is without embarrassment. As if walking around town with someone (let alone your off spring) with food in their teeth is without embarrassment. Unconditional love can indeed sometimes go too far.

To this day, real friends let me know when I have food in my teeth. I don't care how bad the damage is, just let me know....please!

According to some sources, we are all concentrated points of energy that have slowed down enough to become solid physical matter (think about how H20 can be air, mist, water, or ice cubes) and no matter whether we live or die, breathe or not, we will always be some version of that energy. (We can be ice cubes or a cloud.) Hence, there is no death and all illness is an illusion because we can consciously change that state of energy with our minds by taking away our belief in it (I think)....So, why isn't this helping me kick out a sinus infection? I tried believing that my blocked sinuses were an illusion created by my mind and it worked fine up until the caffeine and Codeine wore off, and then my head started to feel not only very real, but like the most real part of my whole life.

Another metaphysical perspective espouses that we get sick to call attention to certain parts of our lives and that we can learn from our illnesses where we are blocked emotionally or spiritually. So, maybe my sinuses can't separate O2 from all the pollen and pollutants in the air because I can't sort out of healthy people from the ones who suck me dry.

Other sources say that we can heal our bodies by sending love to the parts that are sick. "Listen, sinuses, I know that I live in the city of Los Angeles and not in some pristine moutain top, but cut me some slack here because I really do appreciate how well you do your job and keep oxygen flowing in my veins (is that how it works? I'm not really sure), but I promise to pay more attention to you from here on out."

Just for today, I can use metaphysical ideas to kick the sinusitis.

Since I've taken enough antibiotics to turn my blood into astringent, I am now relegated to scouring the Internet for strange cures for sinus infections from the frightening depths of cyberspace. Yesterday, I irrigated my sinuses with a remedy that some guy in Spokane swears by and another sinus sufferer from Taos claims causes brain damage. I'm trying it out because anything is better than feeling like my brain is floating in a swimming pool, and nothing is less attractive than beginning my conversations with "My sinuses..." One thing I've discovered is that the Internet is a fabulous place to find bizarre home remedies concocted by people who believe that all we need to cure any disease is hydrogen peroxide, acetyl alcohol, baking soda, and quetips. Accordingly, all other treatments are ploys on the part of the pharmaceutical companies. There are many sites that swear that, if used properly, hydrogen peroxide could cure cancer, AIDs, and broken hearts. Not bad for $.50 a bottle.

Just for today, I say screw doctors and put my health in the hands of the Internet.

The cashier asked me if I wanted a bag for my tampons and I said "no" without thinking about it. Then I realized that I had to walk all the way back to work and into my office holding a box of tampons. I tried tucking it into my shirt, but that just made me look like I'm trying to hide a box of tampons. It's not like I'm advertising that I'm on my period, but why should I have to hide it? It's been a fact of my life for twenty years.

Just for today, I don't have to feel ashamed of the menses.

P.S. I would just like to thank "penis enlargement" for his regular visitations to my site and for commenting on my "cool blog" (which I didn't publish because it included links to porn). Thanks, dude.

I have to go the doctor's office to discuss problems relating to sexual activity and that area of my body where my uterus and bladder meets everything else (please note: while in anatomy class it - organs and stuff like that - all looks neatly laid out like a map, it's actually smooshed together like…I don't know…laundry?) Anyway, the point is that I have to discuss, without irony, the details of my sex life (yes, amazingly, I have one) with an Adult Male (who I'm not having sex with) without wilting in shame [please note: I'm writing about this on a public web site not because I'm cool and "whatever" about broadcasting my personal life to the world, but because sans Sex and the City (God bless that show) I don't read bout this stuff much in Protestant America.}

Talking to a male doctor about my "sex life," well, there are only two places for me to go: Father Figure or Predatorial Male. I could possibly get to Concerned Male Authority Figure…but getting to a Sex and the City Hey-it's-no-big-deal place…well, that's just not going to happen.

My heart goes out to women living in patriarchal societies all over the world and throughout history.

Just for today, I can go to the doctor without shame.

I thought I was all bad-ass by swimming three times a week. But then I watched the Olympics and thought "holy shizer" those women have great bodies and must swim at least four times a week! Anyway, I found out today that this woman I work with named Marica swims ten more laps than I do! As it turns out, I'm just paddling around the water like an old lady and imagining that I'm a triathlete who doesn't need to prove anything. I didn't think I was competitive about swimming (especially since I get smoked in the fast lane on a regular basis), but it turns out I have "working out" pride...so humbling.

Just for today, I am humbled by the exercise routine of others.

My relationship has reached a new state of intimacy. Yes, I can now disccuss my colon activity without fear that he will leave me. Did I believe that all these months he thought I was the one human being on the planet who did not poop? On a deep unconscious level I think I was hoping he did. Now that he knows the truth about me, well the skies the limit on what might come out of my mouth.

Just for today, I feel love and acceptance from my boyfriend.

I don't know about anybody else, but I find the love child of Ashton and Demi to be very exciting news.

First of all, I thank Demi for further dispelling the Blanche DuBois myth which dictates that older women need fear the loss of their mojo (though I know I'm not the first)...BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, from what I have read (albeit, in publications that just might have some truth filters) it wasn't exactly planned (do I really know this? No, but I couldn't think of anything else to write about...) Meaning she didn't pump herself up with fertility treatments. Call me crazy, but I don't really know women over 35 to be that infertile. I've met more than one woman (my mother included) who got a surprise in her forties. It just seems like a vital, alive woman in her forties who is living her life, getting her needs met, answering the call (I'm talking about sex here...can you sense my discomfort?), or in other words, getting it on with a healthy young man, would get the eggs flowing sans any chemicals. Anyway, I'm not giving advice, but Demi and Ashton seem like they have a good thing going (and not just because they are both hot), so the Gods of love have blessed them with a child. And I think that's awesome.

I'm most likely not going to start squeezing out the puppies until I'm at least 35 (if not older), so the last thing I need is some gynecologist trying to pump even more drugs into me (I got in a huge argument with my last condescending gyno who rolled his eyeballs when I mentioned "Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom" and claimed that it wasn't written by a "Doctor"...meaning by a socal man with hair transplants, like himself.) And here's the point, if ever I my marriage ever broke up in my forties, it would be nice to think that the possibility of life, love and children is not over.

Anyway....congrats Demi and Ashton!

Just for today, I can admire a movie star (from the 80's, but, hey, she looks amazing).

I have heard that if you send love to parts of your body that are ill, you will heal faster. I just spent the last hour in bed telling my bladder affirmations so that it will heal from its 54th infection. I've been saying things like, "You are a unique and beautiful bladder" and "You are strong and function well."

It's all my fault because I'm not supposed to drink caffeine, but like any addict I have ignored this advice, hoping against hope that somehow I'm not doing ill to my body. How foolish of me. Oh, bladder, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!

Just for today, I love my bladder.

I have bluritis again (i.e., a condition or state of the eyes and brain caused by continuous exposure to a computer screen). This time I can't blame my job. It's really just me and my "choice" to live on my computer. I'm going to take a day off from any work involving a computer...except for right now, that is.

And now.

I may be going through withdrawl.

Just for today, I can take care of my bluritis.

I once read that when I am ill I can talk to the part of the body suffering from the ailment and see what it wants. After many rounds of antibiotics and a series of home remedies (vinegar, alka seltzer, asparagus juice...yum!), I have decided to have a heart to heart with my bladder and see what this year-long bladder infection (impressive, I know)is trying to tell me.

Dear Bladder:

I get the point. I know I have abused you with coffee, sugar, and alcohol and now you want some attention. So talk to me. (Below is the dialogue that ensued...)

Bladder: You are not a victim, Stella!

Me: Whoa! Hey! I wasn't expecting that...I'm open to hearing your truth and all, but you don't have to yell.

Bladder: Stop giving your power away!

Me: Uh...excuse me, but FYI, I have a therapist. Just because I'm giving you a voice, doesn't mean you can get all bossy on me.

Bladder: You must slay the dragon.

Me: Now you're going Yoda on me. We clearly have different communication styles, so let me try to break this down. Are you saying that I don't prioritize my health?

Bladder: Worry not on what is not important. Think more of what is in your heart.

Me: Are you saying that I stress out too much about issues that aren't nearly as important as my health and happiness? Let's shoot for plain English.

Bladder: Fine, if you want to be boring. You are not listening to the wisdom of your body because you spend far too much energy worrying about things that haven't happened and may never happen.

Me: I hear you, Bladder. And I value and respect your words. Thank you for speaking your truth to me in plain English.

Bladder: Welcome.

Just for today, I can listen to my bladder's truth.

(P.S. I can't wait to see what kind of Google Ads come up when the spiders scan this blog.)

I'm watching the Eagles Farewell Tour and getting ready to drink another delicious cup of asparagus juice. I know what you're thinking. Where does one buy asparagus juice? Well, as it turns out, not everyone finds the sound of asparagus juice as appetizing as you and I. Some accuse it of creating a foul stench after urination (yes, I did just use the word "urination" in my blog)? Well, there is my old friend, Bladder Infection, of whom I speak of so frequently that I have just about bored or grossed out every human to come within my circle of casual conversation. To know me, is to hear of this ailment. ANYWAY, as it turns out, there is a reason why asparagus produces such an unfavorable smell after...uh, urination (yes, I did just use the word "urination" in my blog AGAIN). As it turns out, is asparagus cleans out the kidneys and bladder (I don't have any "facts" on this, but think about it...it smells so bad, it's gotta be doing something right). I can vouch for it as natures miracle cure for bladder infections. And I shamelessly write about it so that other men and women suffering from this same pain in the ass problem will benefit from God's cure (I've decided that antibiotics are the fast food of remedies). I also love having another excuse to speak/write the words BLADDER INFECTION (take that one Google Ads)...

Just for today, I love the vegetable of asparagus.

(I'll chill out about this issue...now that it's going away ;-)

So, I had a meeting with a very imposing Urologist who probably got paid a lot of money (via my health insurance) to look at my urine and then tell me to stay away from alcohol, caffeine, and spicey food. Well, I knew THAT. I came because I thought he might have something else. But, no, all he did was add chocolate to the list (as if things couldn't get worse) and gave me a urologist's version of "this is for reals" lecture. I walked out with my tail between my legs (as Steve Martin once clarified...I don't really have a tail) and cried as I walked to my car over the loss of my good friends Chai Soy Latte and De-caf Sugar-free Mocha. How I'm expected to work and earn money without caffeine, is beyond me, but if that's what it takes for me to not blab about my bladder to every other person I meet, then so be it.

However, before he let me trudge out of the office he did mention that eating a bran muffin every day would keep me regular. While we're on the subject of constipation and regularity (were we on the subject? Oh, sorry, that was someone else...but anyway), I might add that Mr. Urologist was not messing around with this recommendation. Bran. Muffin. These two words made the trip to his office worth every humiliating moment. If you're serious about making your visits to the throne comfortable I can't say enough about bran muffins. And I've tried every mysterious fibrous colon cleansing substance on the West Side of Los Angeles (have you seen the colon shelf at Whole Foods?! The colon is some serious business)! Forget the flax seed mixtures or the metamusil. Bran Muffin. My work is done.

Just for today, God bless my urologist.

I went to the health food store looking for Motrin and the woman looked at me like I had asked for a bag of Doritos and said, "We don't sell Motrin here, but Magnesium is a natural muscle relaxer." I started to go into a shame spiral over my monthly addiction to ibuprofrin, but then I thought "this is my period we're talking about, here." This is the thing that descended upon me at ELEVEN YEARS OF AGE that was accompanied with brutal knife-like cramps that have never gone away. And like Superman flying out of the telephone booth, I busted out of my shame-spiral with my Super Period Survivor Spirit and said, "Uh-Uh." Nope. I'm not messing around. Sure, I'll buy your tampons and skin cream, and maybe I'll plunk down $20 for some vitamins and tell myself I'm being healthy, but when it comes to my monthly friend, I'm not taking any chances; those orange pills are the only thing that can tame the uterus that is mine (it's the uterus right? Note to self: study female anatomy...).

She gave me a "whatever" look and I bolted to the nearest liquor store to find my drug of choice (which used to be coffee...but now I've been relegated to motrin...is that OK Mr. Urologist?).

Just for today, I'm grateful for western medicine.

I've spent the past 48 hours spraying stuff up on my nose and watching in shock at what comes out. I'm also watching Spike Lee's documentary, "When the Levee's Broke" about the most poignant natural disaster in American history. Oddly, the two go together. A long-ignored sinus infections and the Katrina hurricane's effect in New Orleans. These are the purveryors of truth.

Just for today, I can live in reality.

I've spent the past 48 hours spraying stuff up on my nose and watching in shock at what comes out. I'm also watching Spike Lee's documentary, "When the Levee's Broke" about the most poignant natural disaster in American history. Oddly, the two go together. A long-ignored sinus infections and the Katrina hurricane's effect in New Orleans. These are the purveryors of truth.

Just for today, I can live in reality.

Between blowing everything but the kitchen sink out of my nose every five minutes (I warned you this would be gross), and dealing with a waterfall-like menstrual flow (I wasn't kidding), and working desperately to appear like a normal functioning person during an intense work week, I feel like I survived some kind of female "Survivor"-like endurance test. I know I have some deep psychological reason for a) having these dramatic health issues and b) needing to blog about them, but it doesn't change the fact that this is what I had to deal with this week and it was a real f-ing nightmare. The breakthrough literally happened on Wednesday night when I was finally able to breathe through my nose again. Never did I think I would have so much gratitude for something so basic as easy access to oxygen. I have to say, there's something about being wide awake at 3:00 am for the third night in a row, soaked in a fever sweat, and blowing blood out of your nose to make a person really open to a higher power.

Just for today, I'm so grateful this week is over.

I had another health crisis around something entirely different. However, I'm not going to go into it because I'm starting to date and am realizing the importance of maintaining some aura of mystery (I don't think mysterious women blog about their periods). What if my future husband reads this and gets to know me far sooner than he should? Of course, my (someday) partner will eventually get to know me, but it's important to prolong the discovery process for as long as possible. In my experience, the end result of all relationships is the inevitable conclusion that the other person has "issues" and is essentially weird (compared to what I don't know). I know it's the result of my intimacy issues (and those of the guys I've chosen) and my fear of being "known" and all the stuf that my therapist drones on about (it is her job to be annnoying). Unfortunatley, the "you're a weirdo" phase is as far as I've gotten in relationships, which shows you why I'm still single. I think there's another phase after this in which people who stick it out actually learn to love each other and become higher, more spiritually evolved human beings. So, even if I'm still someone who spends most of her life obsessing about her sinuses, shoes, and how much to spend on lip gloss, I hope to some day develop a loving partnership with a member of the opposite sex. For the sake of that goal, I'm going to refrain from graphic descriptive outpourings about my health issues.

Just for today, I have blogging boundaries.

My mom came into town this past weekend to take care of me because my body simply wouldn't heal from whatever virus from hell was/is plaguing it... However, it turns out I just needed was some serious Mom energy. She came and brought all the busyness and food and attention that I seemed unable to muster in my permanent state of bedragglement. I've always prided myself on my independence as an adult, but when the fourth weekend in a row came around that I had to barrel myself into my apartment and "recover," I had to give into my humaness. I've always viewed illness as a character defect and have had a hard time forgiving myself for allowing myself to get sick. I'll apologetically refuse invitations and assure people that I'll be ready to entertain in just a few days. It's kind of sad how much pressure I put on myself.

Thanks to my madre, I think I'm feeling much better. Thanks mom! I love you!

Just for today, my mom can take care of me.

Either it's an unconscious form of female bonding with my friend who is probably in labor as I type (if she hasn't already given birth), or my other friend's attempts to get pregnant, or an increasing hormonal imbalance due to my own ovaries' cry for fertilization, OR early menopause. Either way...welcome to 35.

Just for today, I can be hormonal.

Just like I'm not a mechanic, or an electrician, or a make-up expert at the MAC counter, I'm not a dentist and unless I'm willing to take a crash course in one of these areas I am, therefore, at their mercy (I am, however, getting much better at putting on eye shadow). Of the aforementioned, I trust dentists the least (I trust MAC Counter People the most...though, they often have some scary lookin' eyes), and the fact that dentists have the highest rate of suicide, doesn't make it any easier. Due to insurance changes, I had to stray from white sanitary office of my old dentist whose only two utterances were, "Everything looks good!" and "You should really get a mouth guard" (then how could everything be looking good?...at a certain point, it's time to change professions). Suddenly, however, I was thrown into the jungle of Los Angeles dentists who judge anything that's not a white straight line as a monstrous defect that is doing nothing short of holding me back from my wildest dreams of love and success. I'm not saying I want to be a snaggle tooth English person (nothing against the English personally), but I didn't wear headgear for four years for nothin'....I've paid some freakin' dues!

Anyway, on top of the challenges of holding down a stressful job and searching for a life partner, I have to deal with the trauma of dealing with a densist who insists that I spend $200 on a special toothbrush and my life savings on five crowns and and ten veneers (OK, I'm exagerating...it's been a long week)!

I know this is an overused expression but...WTF?!

Just for today, dentists in Los Angeles are evil.

When I don't feel well, everything in my life looks worse. If it's already sucky, then I'm in trouble. I refer to my current condition as Sinus Hell, though, I'm sure there is probably a more official sounding name written in some medical journals...actually, I don't know what it is, but at this point in life, I blame everything on my sinuses. Menstrual cramps? It's my sinuses. Ingrown toe nail? My sinuses. Sad state of my love life? Sinuses. I would also blame my sinuses on my bad childhood and the state of world affairs, but I think there's a chicken and egg thing going on there...

So, last night, after laying my sinus-infection-ridden body down to sleeep, my smoke detector decided to go schizo at 1:00 am in the morning. After stacking books on a step ladder, I took it out. Twenty minutes later, the other one went off. There's something about the piercing sound of smoke detectors randomly going off when you're not feeling well that makes you wonder if God gets off on all His power (Ok, I don't really believe in that kind of God...but I can't think straight when I'm in sinus delirium). I would make a joke about how vulnerable my apartment is to fire and smoke (seeing as it has no functioning detectors), but I'm too superstitious...

On Friday night I accepted Relentless' offer to come over and have a piece of the cake he had just baked. I was bored and lonely, and thus, susceptible to two things he could provide 1) cake and 2) male attention. When I arrived, I entered an apartment that felt like it has leaped straight out of the Pottery Barn catalogue. Spotless. Immaculately decorated.

I know, I know...Baking? Clean, nicely decorated apartment? Great. My one suitor is a closeted homosexual. Damn sinuses.

Just for today, I'm not happy.

My sinuses were out of control. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and it felt like time to surrender to my drug pushing, pharmaceutical-industry ass-kissing Republican doctor...

However, he gave me Steroids to go with my anti-biotic/sudafed cocktail. I know "weird" is a far overused word (by me), (so I'm not going to use it), but I'll just say that I can see how murders are blamed on steroids. I just felt...WEIRD (ok, so I lied...see what I mean?). It felt like something chemical and soulless was coarsing through my veins...like the opposite of prozac, manufactured anger, instead of manufactured happiness. I felt angry and depressed in an inhuman way...the way a robot might feel when snubbed...

My sinuses feel great, but that was not fun. So, much for Western medicine...

Just for today, I'm going holistic.

I'm in the throws of some kind of laryngitis virus that makes me sound like Kathleen Turner after 10,000 cigarettes. It would be sexy if it weren't for that lugie I hacked up this morning (it was awesome).

There's nothing a doctor could do for me but to tell me to be still (the hardest). Though at this point, I'd have more faith in a medicine woman who told me to drink the blood of a toad and to sleep facing the ocean as a cure than anything my Republican doctor has ever prescribed me.

...I don't think I should blog after taking Benadryl...

Just for today, I can be sick.

After sleeping on an ice pack for a week and looking slightly crooked in the mirror I decided to finally break see my friend, The Salsa Chiropractor, for the first adjustment of my life.

"You might hear a loud crack. That doesn't mean anything is wrong," he said.

Think I'm going to get scared off by a measly crack? As if I haven't been creaking and cracking through yoga class for the last two years (how do you think my back got messed up?...though, I've always been a little crooked)! I'm sure I have the loudest joints in West Los Angeles.

Sure enough, the sound of my spine reverberated through the office.

I spent the remainder of the day feeling dizzy, but I've been told that there's an adjustment period to being adjusted and it's all for the better in the end.

Just for today, I can get straightened out.

I went swimming yesterday and realized, yet again, that there's no place like the women's locker room for discovering the latest fashions in the hoo ha hair-style department.

I'm always surprised at how many women go Brazilian. Being the cry baby that I am when it comes to my eyebrows, I can't imagine that kind of pain. Even my Eyebrow Lady, who makes a good part of her living in the pube department WOULD NEVER DO IT. Granted, she's in her 60's and has been married for forty-sum years, so not sure how important to her happiness a shaved pube is (probably not much). But even if I could tolerate the pain, how high on the maintenance ladder does the hoo ha go? Except for us ladies in the showers, isn't that area, ideally, reserved for a party of one (two counting yourself)? There's probably some real obvious reason that I'm missing (like great sex?!), but, well, clearly it's been a while...

At one point in time (within the last ten years), I had a sleep over friend (since I'm working to publish a book about my personal life, I need some practice in the Baring My Soul And Other Stuff dept), who complimented me on how I "let it grow out." What the...?! He acted like I was stating a new trend...Have we entered the 1950's of pubic hair?! It's not like there's no shape or structure, I'm just not looking like a nine-year-old. I guess it shouldn't be surprising in a culture where women inject all kinds of substances into their bodies for the sake of lookin' hot...really, are there not enough ways for women to torture ourselves?

Bottom line, I would need a really good reason to wax my nether regions.

Just for today, I can make decisions about my hoo ha.

I went to a new hoo-hoo doctor (the gyno) because I didn't like my my old one. I was told that I would have had to wait longer for a female doctor, and so I braced myself for some gynecological weirdness. After my experiences with Creepy Republican Doctor, I pretty much felt like I could deal with anyone in the name of gynecological health.

I waited in the semi-nude when a Asian teen-ager walked in the door. I was about to tell him that he had the wrong room and that the bathroom was across the hall when he stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Choi. I went to Harvard Medical school and I only tell you that because I look very young."

I spent the next half hour discussing my v-jay-jay with someone who looked like the guy who set the AP Calculus curve, and who I seemed pretty sure hadn't spent much time with a hoo-hoo outside of the examination room. Why short Asian men opt for gynecology is a mystery, but I figured I'd save that question till we know each other better. Though, at this point, I'm not sure how much more intimate I can get.

Just for today, I can bond with my gyno.

Having old-man smoker coughing fits that end with something scary-looking in a napkin. Being sick sucks, except its very good for my soul. It's like a vacation from the pressure to do things, and a good excuse to take legally sanctioned drugs.

My doctor prescribed some cough syrup with codeine and when I went to pick it up, the pharmacist had two bottles.

"Why two bottles?"

"So, it stays fresh for next time."

Then, I swear, she sort of winked at me like, "have a good time..."

Oh, I will...I thought as I wondered if she chugs one of those little bottles every night.

Just for today, I can be stoned while I get better.

I had lunch with my old friend who lives in LA, one of the honorary Junior High School Friend With Whom I Did Crazy Shit. We had salads and discussed how hard it is to develop friendships as an adult that come anywhere close to the ones you have with people you witnessed passed out at the Rocky Horror Picture Show (that would be me) She had offered to print out my manuscript at her work, and I decided to forego my No Stealing From Employer Resources Policy because...well, it's not my employer. Also, it costs about as much for me to buy new ink cartridges as it would to buy a new printer fully stocked with fresh ink cartrigdes.

We also talked about our periods, and how it's taken about 25 years to finally get the hang of having your uterus ripped out every month. I don't know how we survived through this in junior high...all that pot must have been good for something.

"Now when I'm crying over not knowing how to send a text message on my new phone, I know I'm not crazy, or to stubborn to read the manual...I'm filled with hormones..." I said.

There's nothing quite like discussing your feminine organs with an old friend.

Just for today, I can talk about my period with an old friend.

A few weeks ago, I bought some Target brand tampons.





I've spent the last 24 hours trying to understand the packaging. What is the purpose of the image of the purse? Is it trying to show that tampon can fit in a clutch? Then why is it being held up by a hand as if it's a prize? I looked all over the box for the free give-away coupon.

What about the words "up & up" written on the arrow. You mean up and into my business?

These tampons advertised as "super undercover." As in, we can hide the fact that we menstruate by stuffing our oversized tampons into the smallest purse we can find?

Two things are strikingly clear: 1) I have way too much time on my hands and 2) Like the iPad, this branding was designed by men.

However, the color scheme matches my web site remarkably well. (I know, I need a redesign).

Just for today, I can denconstruct tampon boxes.

I don't remember having love handles before. I remember a big butt. But now my butt seems to be shrinking and my waist is growing. My thighs are staying the same, though. At least something is consistent.

Just for today, I feel fat.

I used to rage against Bush/Obama/Anyone that I could only afford a ghetto health insurance plan. However, after several positive experiences, I realized a great universal truth: there's love in the ghetto. I wouldn't go with any other insurance if it were free (unless I ever need surgery or to spend the night at the hostpital).

I adore the receptionist at my gyno's office. However, I can't say the same for the equipment.

"Um, just so you know, your scale is broke."

I figured, that's another downside to a ghetto insurance plan.

"No, that's right, baby."

Did my jewelry weight five pounds? How heavy is a jean skirt? I had a talk with the doctor it.

"Just so you know, your scales are broken," I told him.

"You're probably right," he replied, while getting all up in my bidness (literally). "How is everything?"

"Everything is fine. However, I'm having some issues in another area. I don't know if you can help me, but I just have this toe fungus."

Apparently, gynecologists get tired of looking at the same anatomy. He talked to me about some very overweight clients, and got me a prescription for my toe fungus.

Just for today, I had a great office visit.

A friend recently confided to me that she's suffering from a UTI. Any mention of "Urinary Tract Infections," "Bladder Infection," (whatever you want to call that horrible experience) is my cue to share my Bladder Infection Story.

I once had a UTI for a long time, a really long time. A fucking year. This condition coincided with my involvement in a relationship. That's usually how it works. Women aren't just struck by The Bladder Infection Virus. They usually come as the result of sex with another person (usually, a man). A lot of things come from sex. And they unfortunately come to women.

I now file that relationship under "Life Experiences" (aka, "Never doing THAT again!"). This particular boyfriend suffered from the less-oft diagnosed, though, extremely common disease of Asshole-itis. Why did I date a man with this condition for a year? For the same reason so many women stay in bad relationships. I was "in love." Blinded by the dangerous cocktail of oxytocin, denial, and fantasy. I related partially to him, but mostly to a version of him that I created in my imagination and whose existence I supported with stories like, "he doesn't really mean [insert asshole comment]," "we will work through this [insert impossible issue]," "he'll fix [insert abusive trait] in therapy" (because therapy cures everyone?), and the greatest excuse for staying in a bad relationship, "Nothing is perfect!"

But my body knew differently. My body knew that this man was bad for me. Sort of like what happens when you eat bad sushi or tequila. You puke. You break out in a rash. And my body told me this by a chronic, horrible, antibiotic-immune bladder infection. So, while my mind told me that I could stomach bad milk while my body said, "WTF?! Who is this loser penis?!"

But I was afraid to go deep into myself, face my fear of being alone, feel the pain, and build the courage to say, "I deserve respect and consideration and go fuck yourself. Please!" It seemed easier to hate my body for being sick, than the man who routinely made disparaging remarks to me about it. Clearly, I had the problem. I had, yet, to learn that there is no "we" in "Narcissist," but there are two "I's.

So, after months of taking enough rounds of antibiotics to supply a small African village for a year, and drinking enough cranberry juice to fill the Venice canals, I decided that I needed to see a "Specialist." I went to the urologist of a famous ex-president who told me to cease my intake of coffee, alcohol, and chocolate. Why?! $%&@?! Because it's the %.05 percent caffeine in that Hershey's kiss, and not the force of a penis on a uterus that causes bladder infections?! I was desperate so I stopped the intake of my two greatest loves: coffee and chocolate (I wasn't in love with wine at the time). Nonetheless, the infection persisted.

And then came an act of divine intervention...

I got dumped.

Fucker! $%%$$! I was devastated...and cured. I started drinking coffee like a airliner sucks up jet fuel. But a question persisted...

Why had not one of the three doctors I saw ever suggested that I stop having sex?! Why?! (I think I know).

I always suspected that men of have a secret language. Well, not a language, per se, so much as a sacred contract whose prevading principle is "Thou shalt not keep another man from getting laid..." (Unless, said man seeks to lay said woman himself)...under any circumstances! Why else would this simple, logical cure not be talked about, written about in books, and on the Internet? Meanwhile, everywhere I turn I meet a woman suffering from this ass-kicking condition.

Wise lesson in summary: Ladies, listen up. Pay attention to your body. Not your male doctor. Not your antibiotics. Not your boyfriend.

Just for today, I feel wise.