The Itch: Part one hundred and seventeen

So, the itching hasn’t stopped. Last night, Lara with the PhD in “how to drive your daughter”, crazy took a peek and everything looked fine to me, but then what do I know, it’s not like I have any other qualification other than to me they all look the same, and unless there’s a dog or something hanging off of it, I wouldn’t know a rash from an insect bite, from some other disease (not that I’ve seen more than the average gal who sometimes takes a shower in the gym with other women.)

So Bella, being the somewhat* higher than average maintenance 15 year old swore she could NOT go to school today, unless this issue was checked by a true professional doctor, one who actually went to medical school, not just got their MBA, so go figure. Who am I to argue? But then, when we found out that the doctor wouldn’t be ready until 10:45 and she would miss nearly a whole day at school, Bella asked me if she could go to my gyno.

“My doctor? You couldn’t get into to see him for a week.” And the response wasn’t a WEEK? The response was: “HIM, YOU GO TO A MAN DOCTOR?” To which I blithely replied: “Yeah, I feel a little weird with a woman”.

Weird with a WOMAN? And you don’t feel weird with a man?
Well I feel weird with both, but less weird with a man.”
What do they do when you get examined?
They make sure it’s all OK and your ovaries and everything is healthy.
YOUR OVARIES!!??? Do you know how far up your ovaries are?
Well, um, yes, I suppose I do. But listen, you don’t have to worry about this, until you do the hoochicoochi.
I am NEVER, EVER, not in a million years EVER having sex.
Fine with me. Just perfect. You have made my day.

I think I will get through today without a single glass of wine.

PS: 10:14 AM- Her cell phone is dead, she went to school according to the doctor’s office, but I’m just a TAD curious to find out what ALL THE ITCHING was about.

** From Wikepedia- The Free Encyclopedia – SOMEWHAT: Somewhat, somewhat? She is SOMEWHAT high maintenance? No, she is over the top, drive me insane, go gray, pull out my hair, scream, yell bang my head against the wall, HIGH FUCKING MAINTENANCE. Can someone please pass the Clairol?

Epilogue– I promise: This is Dr. P and she’s just a little irritated down there. So I gave her some samples of cream. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. (No shit Sherlock! Now can you give me something so I don’t jump through the cell, when she calls to report, and scream and yell like a banchee that she is driving me crazy and causing me to gain back all the weight I lost last month and if that happens I will be ready to send her back to the babygiver, from whence she came?) “Thanks doctor”.