My Vagina Has A First Name, It's C-H-E-A-P

I have the worst gynecologist ever. I know this because he is always available for appointments. When I tried to make an appointment with other gynecologists, the conversation goes something like this:

Me: "So, um, I'd like to make an appointment."

Doctor Too-Good for Me Apparently: "Sure, no problem."

Me: "Great!"

Doctor Still Too Good for Me Apparently: "I think we can squeeze you in sometime around 2010."

When I call my gynecologist, the conversation goes like this:

Me: "Do you have any appointments available, say before the next solar eclipse?"

Doctor Desperate: "Sure do. How about today at noon?"

In fact, I am willing to bet that if I wanted to schedule an appointment at 3 in the morning, my doctor would be willing to meet me halfway...and then escort me inside the office.

The office itself is no more reassuring. The waiting room features solely magazines devoted to pregnancy and childbirth. Not one single People or US Weekly to distract patients from the fact that a total stranger is going to put a cold instrument up their hoo-ha and pry it open like some stubborn elevator door. No siree.

The waiting room selection though, beats the exam room offerings though. Posted directly in front of the paper-covered barca lounger, is a poster of a tree frog dangling precariously over a branch, its legs akimbo. The caption reads, "All progress has resulted from those who have taken uncomfortable positions." I am too frightened to ask what sort of progress I might expect. I am too frigtened to run screaming out of the room like any person with a tablespoon of common sense would do.

Sometimes I really dislike small talk. When I get my haircut, I sometimes pretend to have a headache so that I won't have to engage in strained chitchat with the stylist. However, I found myself wishing that my doctor would launch into a little mini-dialogue about the weather or sports or what effect the weather was going to have on sports this weekend. Nope. Not to be. Instead, what I get is:

"Let's hope for a normal pap result. Now, wouldn’t that be a great Christmas gift!"

Now, my vagina is not ordinarily in the habit of getting me gifts. And if it were, I'm pretty sure the wrapping job wouldn't be all that impressive. But, it was Christmas and I happened to know my vagina wasn't going anywhere. So it was with some eagerness that I awoke on Christmas and looked around to see what my vagina might have left me.

Unfortunately, the good doctor is also apparently, a liar. My vagina got me nothing. Zilch. Still, I can't help but have high hopes for Valentine’s day...