…PLEASE REFER TO PART ONE FIRST…
Holy crap. This guy suddenly looks like he’s ready to go right then and there. I immediately scan his crotch in search of a spontaneous boner, my bad, but it’s as flat as a pancake.
“You’re sure I’m gonna wanna…” I finish by gesturing the same humping motion because, at this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose here.
His eyebrows go up and down as though he’s trying to dislodge something from his forehead and he grins at me. He sets the bottle into my sweaty palm and I wrap my fingers around it like it’s some kind of treasure.
But wait, out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand reaching towards my right breast.
Did this mean I still had it? Did he get all worked up by my push, push, groin thrust? Was I hot to him? Were my girls turning him on?
I instantly react with the speed of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. I intercept his approaching paw with my best jiu-jitsu move and my do-jo cry–Keyah. I give him the evil eye!
He steps back and rubs his wrist. As close as we’re standing I can see a red welt rise where I’d just smacked him.
He stands there in complete shock, complete disbelief! His eyes fill with fear.
He takes two more steps back from me then raises his shaking hand and points at my right breast.
I look down and see there is a rather large ball of white thread sticking to my black sweater. It probably came loose from the coat I’d been wearing earlier.
“You got shit on your shirt lady,” he says in his defense.
“OMG…I’m so sorry!” I say as I pull the straggler off and toss it to the ground.
“Maybe you need hormone too bitch…help brain relax,” he says making his move towards the cash register.
I’m thinking this guy must be fucking telepathic because I had run out of estrogen. I’d been out of it, and out of my mind, for nearly a week because I’d forgotten to order it.
I try to hand him my credit card.
“No lady, you set card on counter, I pick up myself.”
I try to gather what’s left of my brain and defend my action but the second I try to speak his shushes me.
“You pay me, get out,” he hisses at me. “You no come back.”
He rips my card a new asshole through his machine and tosses it back on the counter, then sets the sales slip down so I can sign it. As I reach for the pen he steps back as though he knows what my arm span is.
“Can I have a bag?”
“Okie dokey then.”
I hang my head in embarrassment and do as I’m told. As I head towards my car I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I know he’s watching through the slats of the window blinds to make sure I’m really leaving and I’m pretty sure I hear the clank of a lock being engaged.
But then I thought to myself, who cares, I’m about to get my horny on. I’m about to get my mojo back. I’m going to be that sex machine I once was. The boner goddess. The MILF! I may actually find that spontaneous orgasm. Whehaw!!!!!
I get in my car and nearly have to pry my fingers off the bottle so I can read the label.
I look at the main ingredient and burst out laughing.
‘Horny Goat Weed.’
It’s then I realize I probably could have just as easily gone to the local feed store to get this shit.
No one’s home when I get there so I crack the bottle, tip it towards the light so I can inspect the pills inside.
Was I supposed to swallow these things or were the suppositories? I have panic attacks when I have to take those little Advil tablets, how was I possibly going to manage these? I look at the label and read the instructions.
Take one daily for maintenance and up to four two hours before sexual activity. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow.
OMG! Now I was going to have to get anxiety medicine just to be able to swallow these suckers.
But I was on a mission. I’d just have to bite the bullet, literally, and down these horny goat weed suckers any way I could.
Flash forward one week.
I wasn’t feeling the sex thing yet but one thing I did notice immediately was that whenever I was driving, my attention kept wandering towards the long tall grass that runs parallel to the freeway. I’d start to feel hunger pangs followed shortly thereafter by the urge to pull over and graze.
I even started noticing barn yard animals in the most odd places. In Los Angeles proper it’s pretty rare to see anything other than a cat or dog.
I found myself wanting to visit a friend of mine’s ranch up in the Santa Monica mountains because I’d recently attended a woman’s horse retreat there and had a vague recollection of a very handsome billy goat wandering about.
I started answering questions and responding to statements in an odd way.
My son came bursting through the door after school one day so he could tell me a joke he’d heard that day. It was one of those really sick jokes if you know what I mean.
All I could say was “Eweeeeeeeeee,” followed shortly by a few “Bah, bah, bah’s” as his warped humor wrapped around my brain.
I’d catch myself late at night staring down at my front lawn from my bedroom balcony.
I ordered every version of “Grazin In The Grass Is A Gas” from iTunes.
One day my husband came home and I was laying face down in the tall cool green grass.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Mowing the lawn,” I said.
“Why is your hand down your pants?”
“I got an itch.” I respond.
What? Wait a minute!
Maybe it was starting to happen. Maybe it wasn’t just an itch. Maybe, just maybe, my vagina was finally getting the message.
I looked up at him staring down at me and cocked my eyebrow.
“Kids aren’t home yet. Would you like to step into my office?”
Oh yes, the world we live in, the world I live in, is a far better place when we can chemically alter it!
Where the hell have all the lost libido’s gone I wonder? Where was mine? Was it lost in the same vacuum as all those missing socks I’ve failed to locate after dong laundry?
Did it fall out that day I wore granny panties instead of my thong? If that’s the case, I should have known better, I knew the elastic was loose.
Or did it escape when they ripped out my innards to protect me from the blob that had taken over my uterus back in my forties?
Could it have snuck out while I was sleeping one night when my legs spread haphazardly in the nine o’clock/three o’clock position hoping for one of those rare, did I say rare, I think I said rare, spontaneous orgasm.
There’s also a very good possibility that I lost it somewhere between packing lunches, running to the dry cleaners, washing, drying, and folding endless loads of laundry, dropping the kids off wherever then picking them up later, homeschooling my son, (kill me now) paying the bills, waxing the floors, dusting the furniture, washing the windows, dragging the garbage cans to the curb, negotiating with the plumber or electrician or the Roto Rooter man, cooking dinner, grocery shopping, bathing the dog, and whatever else needs to be tended to nearly every single day.
Mmmmmmm…………. Maybe it wasn’t just my libido I lost…maybe it was my entire mind that went AWOL.
Maybe, just maybe, when I find all my missing socks I’ll find my mojo again, but until that day arrives, I’ll be on the search for the magic bullet .
We women know very well that menopause does strange things to our bodies, and even stranger things to our minds. We look at ourselves in the mirror and are often surprised to see that erosion is no longer just a term reserved solely for soil. All those perky parts that used to be up there have gone south and are not expected to return home any time soon.
Your nipples, well, I have a vague memory of how proud they used to make me during the winter, you know, sweater weather. They could make a grown man stop dead in his tracks. Now…they sort of point towards the ground as though they’re weighted down with magnets and are constantly on the lookout for missing coins.
What used to be my neat little waistline, well…hell that thing now looks like a scrap yard filled with heaps of old worn out dented parts waiting to be crushed and hauled off. I never knew you could acutally grow cellulite on a belly but I was wrong. I was very wrong. My favorite trick with this newfound flesh is to squish together all the fat around my belly button to replicate the perfect bagel.
The lack of hormones, lack of energy, lack of time, lack of desire, all move us constantly towards that ‘not tonight honey I’ve got a headache’ syndrome. In some cases it’s even more drastic, it’s more like ‘touch me and pull back a bloody stub’. Worse yet, you can voice the words ‘touch me and die’ with a single glance at your partner.
Yeah, the lost libido syndrome echo’s across the nation like a sonic boom and you know who’s listening to these calls for help–the pharmaceutical companies—that’s who. They’re very aware of the need to put the zip back in your atrophying vagina before it closes shop permanantly. They know they’ve got you by the balls so to speak. So what do they do, they charge you a freaking arm and a leg for their products because they know that if mama ain’t happy, nobodies happy.
Yep, this craps expensive and because it doesn’t work like Erectile Dysfunction meds, which has an immediate impact, you have to take it long term.
I recently had coffee with my angel and his wife. We talked about all the normal things we usually talk about but then the conversation turned to his prostrate cancer. Now, this in itself is not funny at all, but his description on how his penis works now that his prostate has been removed cracked me up. Not only did he have to take Viagra to get a boner, he had to give himself a shot right in his wiener.
When those words left his lips I felt my vagina shrivel up into a fetal position trying to protect itself.
Let’s put it this way, if somebody told me I had to stick a needle in my vagina to achieve an orgasm, I’d likely die an old non-orgasmic spinster.
Our conversation had to be diverted at that point so I asked his wife how her libido was. I figured she was a safe bet to ascertain a little info on this subject because she’s a little older than me. She told me that she had struggled with it over the years, having gone through menopause already, but she’d recently discovered a fantastic product that boosted her libido.
It was a combination of Chinese herbs that turned it around for her. She swore by them and told me I should get some for myself. I hate trying new things, especially when it comes to pills of any kind, but I was desperate. I sucked back the rest of my coffee, excused myself, then rushed off to the herbalist’s store.
Now if I’d been looking for say, something for a cough, or something to make me sleep, I would not have hesitated to ask for help locating this particular product, but because it would be an admission of my inadequate sex drive I cruised up and down the aisles scanning bottle after bottle for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t find it.
I slunk up to the counter, and of course it was some young Chinese boy standing there, and I had to ask him to point out the libido booster section.
“Oh yes…libido…” he said looking me up and down.
“Mmmmm…” was about the only confirmation I could respond with.
“Libido broke?” he said in a half-question, half-statement tone.
“No, no, I just lost it somewhere between my forties and fifties.”
…to be continued!
…make or break you in so many ways it’s hard not to laugh when the going gets tough, although I’ve recently discovered that at my age this kind of laughter can also significantly increase your chances of accidentally pissing down your own leg at the most inopportune time.
When hormones are raging, as in you actually still have some, it’s likely the time when we’re ready to hatch those little parasites…er…I mean those sweet little angels we call our children.
Oh yes, I remember those glory days when my skin was taut and flawless, and full of elasticity. My hair was shiny, the aging spots had yet to surface, and I could usually bounce back from whatever came my way as far as my body went.
Now that I’ve surpassed that time I only use the term elasticity when shopping for pants, as in “do these come with an elastic waistband?” or “how much give does this spandex shit really have?”
I no longer try not to acknowledge that bounce in my step because I know that ‘that bounce’ is usually just my softer, rounder fat ass trying to stay contained in my hip low-cut jeans.
After seeing my gynecologist and trying out the estrogen gel I knew things would eventually be okay. Even though they hadn’t kicked in yet I was by no means ready to throw in the towel.
Some say I’ve got the patience of a saint. These of course, are the same people who never see me behind closed doors. Let’s face it, if I had reality camera’s rolling in our house 24/7 one of us, probably me, would likely be carted away to some nice freshly painted white walled facility by some kind of uber polite uniformed professional.
After chewing on this hormone thing I decided to investigate my options. I’d heard so much about bio-identical hormones I started asking all my girl friends if they’d ever tried it, and as it turns out, nearly all of them went bio-identical. I jumped on board and starting making some calls.
Turns out that there are not too many people who specialize in it, and those who do are booked so far in advance it takes months of waiting till you can go see them. But again, this is where my patience pays off. I book an appointment for, WTF, two months down the road.
My GYN is not big on these homeopathic solutions, she thinks they’re a bunch of hoey-baloey because pharmaceutical hormones are an exact science in her mind, but that did not deter me. I was not going to let her rain on my parade. Of course now all I had to do was convince her to send my blood test results to this new gal so I wouldn’t have to revisit that hideous blood drawing experience any time soon. Two arm wrestles later–I won!
I’m glad I jumped on this right away because as it turns out, my body was not absorbing the gel like it should have. All the death glares I was shooting out like ray vision in a sci-fi movie brought on by my estrogen depletion should have been the first hint that something was amiss. I now, single-handedly, had the ability to empty a room in less than three seconds just by making my presence known.
Tick tock, tick tock!
Anticipating this consultation was nearly enough to kill me as I counted the weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds until I could walk into this appointment demanding to be fixed.
Being ever the resourceful woman I am however, I came up with the perfect solution to throw whatever was or was not happening in my body off-balance.
I discovered that the Agave plant has medicinal qualities.
That last day before my appointment seemed to crawl along like a snail trying to maneuver up a greased hill. I paced, I sat, I read, I surfed the net till my fingertips were raw. I kept looking at the clock hoping it would hit my bewitching hour and I could crawl into bed so I could stop all this waiting nonsense.
6:17 & 1/2
This was not going well so I turned my attention back to that Agave .
By eight o’clock that night me and that little worm at the bottom of the bottle were having a perfectly normal conversation.
“Swim you little bastard,” I’d chant.
“No, no señora, I am dead. I no can swim no more,” he’d reply.
“Bastard,” I’d say leaning in closer to the bottle trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or not.
I guess I should’ve read the warning label on the back of the bottle.
“This product can produce hallucinatory side effects.”
…as in one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, FLOOR!
Finally, morning rolls around. It’s ‘THE DAY’! My head is pounding and I have this weird recollection of speaking to the dead.
Regardless of my self-induced hangover, I shower, dress, jump in the car and head out to my appointment.
“Good morning,” I say. “I’m Jacqui, I’m here to see the doctor.”
“Just have a seat, she’ll be with you shortly,” she says.
“Is she running on time?” I query.
“Um…she’s actually not here yet,” she replies.
“What?” I say.
“You’re forty-five minutes early,” she says pointing to the clock.
I look at her clock and then at my watch.
Crap! Then it dawns on me that’s why I got such a good parking spot.
I read through every magazine in the office as my ADD kicks in.
Finally the door next to the receptionist opens and I hear them call my name.
I step through the doors expecting to feel some sort of magical transformation. I don’t know why homeopathy makes me feel this way, it just does. I follow her down the hall to a teeny-weeny room. She tells me to sit down. Tells me the doctor will be right in. Tells me to relax.
I survey the room and wonder where the etherial music is. Where are the healing crystals I expected to see? Where is that magical aura I was expecting? Where the fuck was the doctor?
Ten minutes later in walks this blonde bombshell. The white coat tells me she must be the doctor but I’m still awed by the fact that she looks like a movie star. I try to sit up straighter but remnants of my self-induced hangover keep me slumped over like a dog out of treats.
“Good Morning,” she says with enough perk in her voice to command global peace.
“Grrrrrrrr….” is the only response that leaves my lips. I’m wondering why she’s so happy and why she’s talking so loud but of course I realize it’s only because I’m hungover.
She leafs through the paperwork I’ve filled out, then scans my blood test results.
“Oh…” she says taking a step or two back.
“Can you fix me,” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she says.
A slew of questions later she explains how she’s going to treat me.
“We’re going to give you estrogen,” she says then writes something in my file. “How’s your sex life,”
“My sex life?” I ask.
“Yeah, how’s your sex life?” she says again.
“What sex life?” I respond.
“You know…the one where you have sex,” she says.
“Oh, that sex life…mmmmm….!” I say needing to think this through for a minute. “It’s, you know…”
“How’s your libido, your sex drive, do you want to have sex?” she asks.
“Are you asking me if I want to have sex with you,” I respond a little shocked by her brevity.
“No, not with me, with your husband,” she says.
“Oh,” I say feeling a little rush of embarrassment course through my body. I’m surprised she didn’t add ‘you idiot’ to the end of her sentence.
“Libido’s not too good,” I tell her. “Can you fix that too?”
“Of course I can,” she says writing a note in my file. “You need testosterone.”
She begins to explain how this chemical works in the female body and I’m thinking, hell yes, I’m totally game for this.
“There’s a few side affects,” she says.
“Side affects,” I say. “Like what.”
“Well…you might grow a few stray hairs here and there,” she says.
“Stray hairs?” I say.
“Yeah like on your face,” she says. “Sometimes other places.”
My hand impulsively shoots up to my face. My fingers start rubbing that spot under my chin where I am constantly plucking out a couple of very coarse, very dark hairs.
“How many stray hairs? I ask.
“Maybe just a few, maybe a lot,” she says.
I have this sudden urge to pull open my shirt so I can see my boob, the one that loves to cohabit with a tiny group of strays. I try to picture my nipple wearing a toupee and this disturbs me.
“Are we talking shaving or plucking hair amounts?” I query.
“There’s a possibility of both,” she says.
“Oh,” I say.
As she starts reading my file again, I reach into my purse and find my glasses so I can see her better. This is when I notice several incredibly long hairs dancing around under her chin. I lean in to get a better look and see several more wisps on her cheeks. I realize by the looks of things, she’s a natural blonde.
“Do you take testosterone?” I ask.
“Yes I do,” she says still purusing my file. “My husband said he didn’t care if I started looking like Wolfman Jack, just so long as I wanted to have sex.”
“Ohhhh…!” I say.
As though she can feel my eyes burning into her skin she turns and looks at me.
“Why do you ask?” she says.
“Umm…no reason, just wondering,” I answer trying to divert my attention away from the imaginary neon arrow I see pointing to these outgrowths on her face.
“Will it make me…you know…horny?” I ask.
“It should if the dosage is right.” she says. “A lot of clients say that it works for them, but…”
“But what?” I ask.
“They say that they want to do everyone but their husband,” she says smiling.
“I’ll prescribe both,” she says. “You should get them in three or four days. They come from a lab in Phoenix.”
Crap! More waiting for me. Oh well, everything in its time I think.
…to be continued!
…to a women’s body what motor oil is to a car. Let one or the other run dry and you’re gonna be stuck with a cracked block, spark plugs that don’t fire, or worse yet, a completely fucked up out of commission engine. This is not a good thing for you or anyone in close proximity.
Not only will your crank shaft be cranky, your axel frozen, you’ll also discover that your tranny and oil well will no longer be willing to accept a dip stick!
Oh yes, these little hormone buggers are the nectar of life for women who’ve begun that descent into that ‘middle place’.
In my book, anything is game when the well has run dry.
I knew something was really wrong when I started cursing at inanimate objects around the house.
My brand spanking new refrigerator was the first to suffer under my barrage of obscenities. It failed me so many times in my plight to ward off hot flashes. It’s one of those new energy-efficient ones with all the compact shelves. Once you’ve shopped and piled the stuff inside, there’s little or no room for any body parts, not even my teeny-weeny head. The only appliance, as you very well know, that was off-limits to my tirades was the washing machine. WE have a special relationship.
So once again I’d drag my ass off to the doctor’s office, roll my sleeve up, stick my arm out and demand they draw blood.
“I’m ready, go ahead,” I’d say.
The young tech would approach warily. Being around anyone who is hormonally imbalanced can strike absolute fear in even the most confident professional.
She’d motion me towards the chair. I’d stomp over and plop down in the worn leather seat.
“You’re gonna feel a little prick,” she’d say.
“I know, my husband already told me the same thing this morning,” I’d shoot back.
She’d blush but otherwise ignore my glare. She’d tie off my upper arm to create pressure, then she’d use two fingers to tap the area where my veins were supposed to be. After a few minutes of this she decides she’s found a likely target and jabs the needle into my flesh. She twists the needle back and forth like she’s excavating a mine.
“You’re hurting me,” I’d say.
“No I’m not, if you’d stop squirming,” she’d say.
“I’m not squirming, I’m sitting here like a rock,” I’d say. “You’re the one squirming.”
“No…I’m not squirming, I’m just trying to find your vein,” she’d say.
“It’s right there…I can see it plain as day,” I’d offer.
“No. That’s not the right vein, it’s not the one I need,” she’d say.
“Don’t you just need one with blood in it?” I’d ask.
“Shhhhhhh…!” she’d say.
“You’re shushing me,” I’d ask.
“Yes,” she’d say.
“Maybe you should try the other arm,” I’d offer.
“Maybe you should just shut up and let me do my job,” she’d say.
It’s pretty hard not to notice that after two or three minutes have passed there has yet to be even one drop of blood drawn.
“Mmmmmm….” I utter as I watch that little elbow crook starting to turn black and blue.
“I’m going to try the other arm,” she says withdrawing the needle.
“Whatever….” I’d say.
We repeat the procedure, tie off the arm, pat the skin, stick the needle in, start searching once again for the elusive vein.
I decide to concentrate on the lively gardening conversation going on between a few of the other nurses in the office.
“It took all day to dig that sucker out,” says nurse #1.
“I know what that’s like, I had this tree once whose roots were everywhere. Took me the better part of the day to get them all out,” nurse #2 replies.
“Hey,pssst!” I say to get their attention. “You guys should hire this one, she can dig like nobodies business.”
“Ouch,” I say as she twists the needle in revenge for my comment.
I see the smirk on her face.
“Sorry,” she says as though I’d actually believe her.
“Maybe someone else should do this,” I say hoping she will stop moving the needle around.
“Why are you whining,” she says.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been in there seven or eight minutes now and there’s still no blood in that little vial,” I’d say.
That does it for her. She pulls the needle out, undoes the little rubber tourniquet and rips it away from my arm. Of course now all the hair that was under the little rubber thingy is now missing.
“I’ll get the doctor,” she says turning away from me.
“Shit,” I think to myself.
I hear her shoes clickity-clacking all the way down to the end of the hall.
The other nurses stare at me.
I love my gynecologist but she’s one of those slam, bam, thank you ma’am kind of doctors. There’s no fucking around with her. She’s a specialist so her time is very valuable. She’s that git er done gal.
The spark of fear hits me when I hear her heels clomp-clomp on the pristine wood floors that she’s recently installed. I can feel my pulse begin to race. I know what I’m in for and I say to myself “why can’t you just shut your mouth you idiot. Now look what you’ve done.”
I can see from the look on her face she’s not exactly happy to be called upon for this chore because I’m sure she has better things to do than try to suck my blood out.
“Hi there,” I say hoping my friendliness will diffuse her ire because my veins are such a pain in the ass and she has far better things to do than this mundane simple procedure.
There is no response though, nada, nothing, not even a peep. She just stares at the crook of my arm as she snaps the rubber gloves on. She grabs the little tourniquet and ties it around my arm. As I look down to watch her in action I’m fascinated by the fact that I can see all my little hairs waving around as though saying goodbye because they didn’t have time the first time.
“How are the kids?” I ask trying to get her to relax.
“Fine,” she says. Then I realize that when you have kids you are never relaxed. Wrong question I guess.
BAM! Needles in and the exploration begins all over again.
I grit my teeth forcing my mouth to stay shut.I watch the needle zig north and south, east and west.
The whole time I’m wondering where the fuck my blood is. Had it too gone the way of my hormones?
“I guess I’m just fresh out,” I say jokingly.
Her expression turns to stern concentration. By now my toes are curling and it’s hard to keep my butt down on the chair. Another twist, another turn and I’m now ready for take off. But then I see one precious drop of blood slowly sliding down the side of the clear glass vial.
“Eureka,” I yell out.
“We’re almost there,” she says.
She plunges the needle deeper and a little to the left, and a little to the right.
And suddenly, there it is. That wonderous red liquid is now flowing into the tube at a rapid rate.
“Fucking eh beatch!”
She looks up at me and it’s then I realize I said this out loud.
“Are you whining?” she asks.
Again, I deny that I’m whining as I blink back the tears I’m trying to force back into my tear ducts.
She rips the tourniquet off so the blood will flow like a river. Again I notice there is a new barren spot on my arm. I’d once considered shaving that unsightly hair off my arms and this might just be the catalyst for doing just that.
My body, after all this trauma, is more than willing to give up eight or so vials of blood.
I ask her if she needs more than that? I ask her if she can just keep some on file so we don’t have to repeat this dastardly procedure for a while?
Again, that look, the one that tells you you’re a complete moron.
“We’ll call you with the results,” she says sliding the needle out of my arm.
She rips the gloves off and without further ado makes her way back down the hall to her ‘real’ patients.
I roll my sleeve down and go over to the desk to check out.
“That’ll be $40 dollars,” the receptionist says.
“$40 dollars, I’m gonna need that to buy makeup to cover these marks on my arm,” I tell her.
“Funny,” she says. “Give me the $40 bucks.”
“Whatever,” I shoot back.
Three o’clock that afternoon the phone rings.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” the receptionist says.
“What’s the good news,” I ask her.
“Your check cleared,” she says.
“What’s the bad news,” I ask.
“You’ve got no hormones,” she says.
“None?” I ask.
“None, nada, nothing. You’re running on empty,” she says. “You need to come back right now and we’ll give you some.”
“Will there be any little pricks involved?” I ask not knowing anything about the delivery of such medications.
“No, just cream,” she says.
Again, I’d heard the same thing from my husband that same morning after the ‘little prick thing’ was denied. I was starting to feel like they were all conspiring against me.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I tell her.
“We’ll be waiting with bated breath,” she says as though mocking a women in my condition is not a bad thing.
Ten minutes later I open the door to their office. The nurses scatter trying to avoid direct contact with me now that I am officially a walking time bomb.
“Should I come in?” I ask motioning to the door that leads to the examination rooms.
“Nooooooooo!!!!!!,” the receptionist manages to squeak out. “I’ll show you what to do from here if you don’t mind.”
She shoves a small bottle across the counter. I pick it up and pop the top off. She does the same with her sample bottle.
The demonstration lasts about five seconds. Pump once, rub the cream on your forearm.
I do what I’m told then I stand there waiting for some kind of reaction. The three of them just stare at me wondering what I’m doing.
“What?” I ask.
“Ummmm…….it takes about two to three weeks to take affect,” she says taking a few steps back from the counter.
“What?” I ask as though I’ve heard her wrong.
“Look, I’m just the messenger,” she says. “It takes two to three weeks before you’ll start feeling more like yourself.”
“Whatever,” I say.
I toss the bottle into my bag and as I turn to leave I see a few of her pregnant patients sitting there, staring at me.
“Yeah, that’s right. Enjoy your hormones while you’ve got em!” I say.
…to be continued!