Wednesday, August 31, 2011


Okay darlings, it's just us here, no precocious men lurking about smelling of motor oil and stale coffee or asking where you hid his Charles Bronson tape.  So let's get right down to it.  Let's talk about...


Shhh!  We aren't supposed to discuss this subject, at least that's how it used to be, back in the old days, when the specula's looked like serrated Medieval torture devices.  Frozen serrated Medieval torture devices.   I remember the very first gynecologist I visited, he drove the thirteenth buggy from the front, traveling with our wagon train as we made our way into the wilderness that was Illinois.  This was in the mid 1800's.  Or, maybe not.

Anyway, his name was O'Brien or O'Connor or something like that.  I was just eighteen or so and untouched before this.  I tell you it was different world.  Women wore BATHING CAPS at the beach and GARTER BELTS were a necessity, not a sexy turn on.  Or, maybe they were.  Who knew, certainly not me.

I was mortified when he screamed out to his nurse that he needed the baby specula and if they didn't have any small enough did they have any old Popsicle sticks laying around.  I never went back.

My next gynecologist was Dr. Loeff in Chicago.  He seemed very nice.  A little guy (why are most male gynecologists short, I wonder?  Could be they've been to base of the mountain top, looked up and saw there was no need to go any further.  Everything worth seeing was right there in front of them.)  But I digress...

Anyway, Dr. Loeff would check my breasts as if he was popping those bubble wrap sheets.  He'd go on and on, his head bent in deep concentration, his jaw set firmly, his eyes closed.  It was rather disconcerting, all that intense physical attention with no speaking, murmuring.  Just silence. 

Finally, I remember saying, "You sure take a long time.  You're starting to scare me."  He didn't even raise his head in acknowledgement.  "You want me to do a thorough job don't you?" he grumbled.   Later we would lean back, share a cigarette and a glass of wine.  Just kidding.

One day he was in his magic fingers position, head bent, eyes closed, jaw locked, when the door swung wide open (I kid you not) and his nurse, Eva Braun, stood on the threshold, eyes popped open.  "Oh!" she shrieked.  "You are giving ze examination?!?" 

I could feel his hands shake on my breasts - that was the first sign; then I heard this odd grumble, rumble sound, suddenly his head rested on the exam table and he started to wail with laughter.  Remember, I was laying there, exposed to the world, my doctor's tiny hands truly the only thing between me and a career in porno.  He laughed so hard I thought he was going to faint.  "I better be," he finally screamed in laughter.  No.  I didn't think it was that funny either.  I never went back.

I was through with men, at least in the professional gynecological area, and I set out to find me a good female gynecologist. I hit the jackpot right off.   Dr. Cislak, located in Evanston, Illinois; and, what a difference a female doctor makes, a completely different dynamic.  Of course I was older now (although still pathetically naive), less humiliated, a 'career' woman (if you count being a secretary a career).  For the first time a doctor was my age, female and adored all the same singers and actors I adored.  Actually, she looked a lot younger than her years, kind of like that little kid in Fatal Attraction whose bunny ended up in the pot.  Punky Brewster was my OB/gyne.

She was my doctor for years, my confidante, and the person to whom I could ask questions.  I heard about all her kids, she heard about all my crushes.  It was very nice, but then I got engaged and thought I was big stuff, thought perhaps I should have a fancy Gyne located in the loop somewhere (that's Downtown Chicago to you Lithuanians)  I found a woman with an office in the most expensive, most exclusive, most pretentious medical building downtown.  It was beautiful, brass and glass, girlie colors, soft, very rich looking.  I figured I deserved it.  I was going to be a WIFE.  As we settled into the usual positions she asked me which physician I had been seeing before.  I told her, "Dr. Cislak in Evanston."  She looked at me, up there between my knees, her big blue eyes peeking just over the drop cloth, in that adorable way gyne's have.  She was enraptured, she looked worshipful, like I was something holy.  I must look pretty damn good, I thought.

"Dr. Cislak!?" she repeated.  I nodded.  She became teary eyed.  "She's my ideal, the reason I went into Gynecology!  I love her!  She is the most amazing doctor in the world."

Well, that was really interesting.  Why the hell am I seeing you then? I thought.  I didn't say it, but I sure as hell thought it.  I never went back.

Now I see Dr. Cislak less frequently.  We live in Florida and I've found a great doctor here.  Dr. Liebert.  She's one of the very kindest, nicest people I've ever met and she truly loves medicine.  Recently she had to do a BIOPSY on something she noticed in a nonmentionable area.  To me the word BIOPSY is latin for Order the Hearse, so I freaked.  But it turned out to be nothing.  She asked me if I wanted to see what she cut off.  I declined politely.  She said "Now when you look down here..."  I said I wouldn't be looking there in the foreseeable future, thank you very much.  She said, "But if you do, position a mirror here..."  That's all I need, the touring company of the Vagina Monologues.  In Florida, God's Waiting Room, it is not an appealing idea.  I could tell she still didn't understand my disinterest in that particular part of my anatomy.  "See," she said,  "I just lopped this bit of flesh off.  It's really small."  She showed me the vial with the little snippet in it anyway.  "Isn't that interesting?" she asked me just moments before I passed out.  And she was serious.

Gynecologists - you can't kill them and you can't live without them.

Saturday, August 27, 2011



In the sleepy town of Meryton, a suburb of the great throbbing metropolis that is known as London, live several families. 

This is their story

The home of Emma Knightley, lovely, rich, and almost as abysmal a cook  as she is a matchmaker

Emma Knightley:  I am so very pleased that you have all accepted my truly condescending invitation to luncheon.  Have you all met?  No?  Do I care? Not really.  Be that as it may, let me introduce you.   Strapped into that chair and seated as far as possible from mine as I could without dangling her out the window,  is Marianne Dashwood Brandon - self-indulgent emotional, impractical, a pathetic dancer, somewhat feral, cheats at cards, has a club foot...

Marianne Brandon:  Well, dear, dear Emma; aren’t you special?  How would you like a Maypole up your…  Ow!  No need to kick me, Elinor! 

Elinor Dashwood:  I never kicked you, Marianne, what an odd thing to say. 

Emma Knightley:  Sitting beside Marianne, well she is the only person actually willing to do that, but I digress, is her sister, incredibly plain Elinor Dashwood, dependable, level headed, a veritable pillar of common sense and propriety: and, in point of fact, the only halfway intelligent member of her family.  (Emma smiles sweetly)  No one really notices your mustache, any longer dear Elinor, so I shouldn't fret about that.  She’s engaged, you know; has been for, oh how long dear?  Ten years, twelve?  If you only given me a free hand, had allowed me to find you a proper match…

Elinor Dashwood:  Emma, I should rather stick this fork into my eye.  It is true that Edward and I have been engaged nearly twenty-seven years now.  However, neither one of us of an impetuous nature, as you know, nor do we feel compelled to marry.  We are both in complete control of our emotions, our baser desires, no matter how filthy, debauched, degrading and completely animalistic lusty they may be.  No matter how I throb and burn – did I just say all that out loud?  Oh dear me, how unfortunate. 

Emma Knightley:  You do completely terrify me at times Elinor, and I mean that in the most abusive of ways; but, Knightley says I am to be kind to the poorly dressed and imbecilic – so here you and your sister both are.  Now, next to me on my right is the absolutely beautiful and angelic Jane Bennet Bingley.  That’s quite fun to say, isn’t it.  Tickles your tongue as you say it – Jane Bennet Bingley Jane Bennet Bingley Jane Bennet…

Marianne Brandon:  Shall I bash her on the head?  Maybe her needles’ stuck.

Emma Knightley:  I am also expecting Lizzy Bennet Darcy, however, not until later.  She’s always late, always; usually covered in mud and twigs, flies in her teeth.  She has corns you know.  Yes.  Whoppers on her bunions.  Well, it's the walking you see.  Walking, walking, walking.  Oh well.  She did marry well - somehow.  He's the handsomest morsel I've ever seen, I can tell you that.  Yowzah!  HAHAHAHAH!!!   Oh and I invited another woman also but I can’t seem to recall who.  Small woman with beady eyes…what was her name again...Bess…Sue…?

Anne Wentworth:  (muffled voice)  I believe that would be me, Emma.  I am standing outside - here behind the closed door.  Every time I knock the butler opens the door and then grumbles about no one being there.  But I am here.  He just never seems to notice me behind the hedge.  Perhaps I can just pop in on my own, if you don’t mind.  Ah.  There you all are.  Hello, there.  No, over here.  Behind the pots.

Emma Knightley:  Did you hear it?  That voice?  I’ve been hearing that voice for an hour at least.  Quite annoying.

Elinor Dashwood;  Emma, I am certain I speak for us all, with the exception of my gagged sister, in that we were quite flattered to receive your invitation as your first catering employment, even though you did inform us that we were summoned only when more acceptable people refused.  And this is your first venture into the world of commerce I gather.  Unpalatable Catering - what a unique name that is for a food industry business I must say.  Refreshingly honest.

Anne Wentworth:  If I may speak?  Of course, now I may be way off course as my husband continues to say, with this, but would not catering for oneself generally be considered simply…cooking?

Emma Knightley:  From where in the world is that voice coming?  It’s like a small rodent gnawing on wood.  Anne Wentworth!  Whenever did you arrive?  Finally we can begin. You know, Anne, it is considered very poor form to arrive late like this.  We may have to shoot you later.  Or perhaps you could be a Pinata at my next function...  Oh well.  Please everyone, let us begin.  I should so like you to taste my first course. 

Jane Bingley:  Could we wait a few more moments until my sister arrives?  She should be here soon.  I know!   I'll just go out and see if I can find her.  Marianne please let go of my ankle, stop it, you little… All right!  I’ll stay already!  Are you happy!  Jeez!

Emma Knightley:  I’ll keep a plate warm for her; besides, it is her loss if there’s nothing left.   Now this first course is a favorite from my childhood.  Vinegar Pie.  Bon Appetit.  Well look at your faces!  It does my heart good to see such strong reactions.  You may be assured also that this pie will do nothing bad to our figures. I left out the sugar.  I’ll be right back with the tea pot.

As she leaves the room the four women turn and simultaneously spit their food into the tall fern pots behind them.  The ferns immediately die.

Marianne Brandon:  That bitch swims with the fishes tonight.  Someone untie me.  You - rodent girl - get over here.  Let me kill her, Elinor, please.  Ooh.  Please, please, please please.  I can do it right this time, not like with father. It will be quick and relatively painless.  Ok maybe boiling her in cooking oil would sting a bit.   Ooh, I know.  A small foot to her throat, a small knife to her neck – whom would be the wiser?  Kitchen implement accidents are on the rise.  I saw it on Dr. Drew.

Jane Bingley:  Are my gums bleeding!  I think my gums are bleeding!

Anne Wentworth:  Could I have a taste please?  Perhaps a spoon.  Over here – I’m over here.

Jane Bingley:  Oh, by the way, before Emma returns I must tell you all who has returned to Meryton.

 (Tense music as Elinor, Anne, and Marianne are seen in closeup scrambling to leave.  Marianne is stealing silver candlesticks from the table while Elinor is polishing the brass doorknob with her skirt.  Anne is running in the wrong direction) 

Jane Bingley:  Caroline Bingley has returned!  Yes!  Isn’t that marvelous!  I so admire her bravery in the face of losing six husbands.

Marianne Brandon:  Sounds more like rank carelessness to me.  Jane could you pass me those silver napkin rings?  There’s a love.  Toss in the brass flower pot too.    Open the door and I'll get this lot into the carriage. 

Elinor Dashwood:  Jane, you have a neck like a quarterback - I'd never noticed before.  For heavens sake do not tell Emma about Caroline, please!  We don’t want another botched matchmaking thing like when she introduced Jennifer Lopez to the men of Glee.  The poor woman hasn’t a clue.

Jane Bingley:  I believe she’s seeing someone already anyway.  Another one of our old friends we thought was lost to us.

Anne Wentworth:  Who, Jennifer Lopez? 

Jane Bingley:  No, Anne, not Jennifer Lopez.  Go play on the expressway like a dear, would you?  I believe Caroline Bingley is seeing…..(tada da dummmm!)  Dr. George Wickham, debauched former brother in law of mine and current Gynecologist in training at Meryton Memorial Hospital.

Marianne Brandon:  Whew!  Slap me daddy!  That’s a match made in hell if ever I heard of one.  Well, hate to puke and run but we are out of here...where in bloody hell is my sister?  Move your butt, Elinor; stop washing the grass!  Get in this car!   Jane, I suggest that whatever we do, we don’t tell Lizzy Darcy!

Elizabeth Darcy:  Tell me what?????          

Emma Knightley:  Here is our next course everyone - Calves Foot Pudding!  What was that?  Wicky is back????!!!!  Oh, Elinor Dashwood, have I got a match for you...

To be continued…

Friday, August 26, 2011


 This is a tough one because I find the older I get the more people really turn me off.  I am becoming a recluse in my advancing years so


Okay, here we go...people who turn me off.

10. Donald Trump

9.  Any woman over sixty who still smokes, wears short shorts and heeled sandals

8.  Any man over fifty who has more hair than I do (except on the chest)

7.  Anyone who mistreats animals

6.  The French (not really.  Don't bomb me or anything)

5.  (in order)  Rush Limbaugh/Ann Coulter/Bill Maher/Glen Beck/

4.  Anyone who tells me Jesus lays something on their heart.  Jesus is busy.  Quit bothering him.  He's given you brains, opportunity and talents.  USE THEM

3.  People who talk on cell phones when sitting at the next booth at Subway or McDonalds.  STOP IT.

(Anthony Hopkins - how could you?)

2.  Any actor, any movie maker with a film coming out that bastardized a classic book, made a film about a comic strip person, used drop kicking a dog as a visual comedic moment, or included poop and fart jokes anywhere.

Thursday, August 25, 2011



Setting - Meryton Memorial Hospital.  In our first episode a very toothy Caroline Bingley has returned to link up (literally) with Dr. George Wickham, amateur gynecologist turned professional.  Will Caroline  use George to avenge herself on Lizzy?  Will Charlotte Lucas, Proctologist to the Stars be discovered as one of Wickham's secret conquests?  Who else from Jane Austen World will arrive?  Tune in Sunday (or maybe Monday if I'm really lazy) and discovered the truth...If you can handle the truth..for



I have some new pictures of my darlng Darcy to share. 

How can anyone be cruel to any animal, let alone a sweetheart like Darcy?  We are still discovering her fears.  Early on we realized we can't yell at her because it truly terrifies her.  The other day I got upset with her because I had to go outside with her leash to bring her in the house (she loves running full speed around the yard).  When I came in I was so aggravated I dropped the heavy handle for the retractable leash so that I could close the slider behind us - not on purpose, but I was grumbling - the leash handle hit her behind.  She ran into a corner and that damn leash handle kept slapping at her legs as she moved.  She looked devastated, like I'd suddenly turned into a monster.  I cried harder than she did.  She ended up comforting me.

Then a few nights ago I was dancing and singing to her and she was dancing too, jumping up and down with joy (there is not another soul on earth that has that reaction to my singing.  I love my little angel.)  she is the most exuberrant dog!  She leapt for me and I sidestepped her by reflex - she fell hard, slammed her body onto the tiled kitchen floor.  Again she looked at me as if I had kicked her in her side.  She scurried into the corner with her little butt tucked under, whimpering and crying.  Oh my God - she just breaks my heart sometimes. 

But, these traumas are happening less and less frequently.  I think she's coming out of the past - slowly.  She is even beginning to trust that we won't hurt her if she misbehaves.  There is nothing material in this house worth her suffering fear over.  Nothing. She is one of the best dogs we've ever had. 

Please everyone, if you want to get a dog, go to the Humane Society for one, don't pay $800 or $1000 for a dog!!!  That is just crazy talk, sorry.  A dog is a dog, it's not a status symbol.  You can't dangle it from your ears or drive it. 

Get a shelter dog, you will never never regret it.