"Anything but The View"

Make your own good time no matter where you are.

That’s what I do.

I had a mammogram today -- and for those who don’t know what it’s like -- you can practice for it.

Here’s how:

Take your pinky finger and place it on a brick.
Then slam another brick on top of it. Don’t breathe.

My friend Yvonne told me that I should blog about my experience today, and my friend, Laura, the insomniac, said earlier, “Blog, will you?”

So, I’m blogging.

Today I went to get my annual mammogram. Women have to do this every year after they are thirty-five or something. The first time I went, I used the experience for chat at many social gatherings.

Finally, David said to me: Do not tell that story again. If I have to hear about how it is like the Spanish Inquisition without the masks, my eyes will roll outside my head.

Me: Easy for you to say. All you have to do is cough.

Never mind.

Anywho -- my appointment was at 10:05, and after circling the parking lot like a buzzard following a chicken serial killer, I arrived at 9:52 and headed to sign in.

Then I sat in one waiting area, and then sat in a second one.

Beginning at 10:20, my appointment time, I was ushered to yet a third one. Three waiting rooms -- who thought of that?

After donning the terry clothed hospital issued gown and being asked if I had on powder or deodorant, I was told I was a “good girl “and shown the waiting area where about fifteen other ladies were already seated, all of us dressed alike like the Roman Senate . I sat between two other ladies as it was the only seat and opened my book.

No matter where I go, but especially to any kind of medical appointment, I always have a book with me, and the one I was reading had about 100 pages left. I glanced at my watch several times, watched as they called one woman over and over, and mainly focused on my book, but I noted that they were running behind.

Occasionally, I would glance at the floor and note the other women’s toes and feet. Most of them were clad in some sort of sandal, most toes were painted, but two ladies had on hose.

I thought: Egads. Hose. Talk about torture.

One lady, Mrs. Huff, dropped her pocketbook over and over on the floor. Each time, she said, “Sorry” to the lady next to her. Many times the lady helped her pick it up. It was the size of an overnight bag. It made this thud when it hit the floor. It was like *thud* "sorry" *thud* "sorry" so many times, I snickered to myself.

Another woman fooled with her Blackberry like she was communicating with the Axis powers. It vibrated and hummed like a refrigerator.

At 11:10, I finished my book and shut it.

It was like the shutting of my book somehow set off the women around me.

An elderly lady next to me quipped as she flipped through Southern Living, “Good thing, I ain’t got some hot man waiting for me at my house because by now, he’d cooled off.”

I chuckled.

Then the lady across from her piped in “I can’t believe that in a room full of women, they have the television on the Hunting Channel. If that guy shoots that turkey, I’m gonna go off on a hospital employee.”

I laughed out loud.

She put on her glasses and ran through some channels.

Another lady said, “I don’t do the View. Anything but the View. I hate the View. I hate all of those snippy women and their political agendas.”

Awkward pause.

She stopped on Judge Somebody.

Then the lady on the other side of me contributed, “What time is it anyway? I need a drink.”

We all laughed.

Then I was called back to the torture chamber by Mrs. Fernando Alvarez de Toledo.

The world is a funny place. Pay attention.

Muah.