Winston Churchill once said that one should never end a sentence with a preposition. Well I once said “Winston, I’m my own woman and I do what I want to!”
Things I liked this week:
-Homemade goat milk yogurt with the last of the raspberries and cinnamon glazed pumpkin seeds atop.
-Utah peaches on our Montana rooftop with autumn storms around and about.
-The amazing selection of musicals on Amazon Prime, and my new computer speakers to hear those sweet melodies with.
-Wild Rose Hip Tincture, and enough rose hips gathered to make Rose Hip Jelly after.
-Taking a bath with the Persian poet Bihari alongside.
-Biking everywhere outside, through, and toward.
-Moose and Copper have started providing for themselves by eating the apples Our Very Own Apple Tree has cast aside.
-Entering the last year of my 3rd decade on this beautiful world, the Boiling river during, and the amazing day in the woods after.
-This photo of the most epic high-five below.
This has been a rather arduous week, so there is a longer list than usual of things I don’t like:
-Misplacing my entire day’s tips while buying an avocado. Good news is, that $60 avocado was full of flavor inside.
-Wikipedia-ing Bihari, and discovering he is not someone I would actually want to take a bath with.
-Exactly what all that extra fiber from the apples does to Moose and Copper within.
-Ending all my sentences with prepositions, alongside. (ok. that one doesn’t make sense but seriously, no preposition fits in)
In other news, I was finally tracked down and roped into an apparently long overdue, decidedly intrusive test. Known in upper circles as a Papanicolaou test, we down here on the streets know it by slang: PAP smear. Usually, when I hear the word smear I think of nice things like peanut butter, or a super decadent lotion; not a q-tip the size a microphone, an idea which is both naive and a little optimistic on my part, I suppose. So Tuesday, I went to get this PAP smear, because it’s impossible to get birth control in Montana unless you either get prodded and poked every year, or you have an underground hook-up for uncut, black tar Lutera.
Thus, the setting is in place for my rant. Doctor, o, doctor, when you are spelunking elbow deep between my quivering thighs, can we please just sit back and silently acknowledge and appreciate the uncomfortable nature of the situation at hand, instead of talking about everything other than that you are, in fact, rooting around in my plumbing. Yes, yes, it is very true that the weather has been a bit dry lately, but, doctor, the weather isn’t the only thing that’s a bit dry right now, so I’d appreciate you wrapping up the task at hand. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am very comfortable with my body, and consider myself an extremely sex-positive person, but I have a hard time concentrating on a psychological probing of what the tattoo on my hip symbolizes when I’m being probed in a much more pertinent manner and I’m still trying to figure out exactly what you meant when you told me I had a “peek-a-boo” cervix, and what exactly that clicking sound is, and why the hell you didn’t warm things up first. There’s always time to for chit chat and playful banter later, when I feel we are on equal playing fields (like atWild Joe’s, sipping on lattes) and my ankles aren’t around your ears. To be perfectly honest, I would really just like to lie back and think of England, as the saying goes. But thanks for the good times, I’ll see you next year when you corral me in for another one, and ladies, make sure you know what’s going on with your junk, because a healthy vagina is a happy vagina.