This was supposed to be a post about my German refrigerator Otto Lothar Alberich* who started to protest his position in this house  after not quite three years of  clean and crisp German service…

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On the bright side I am pretty sure there is a butt load of xanax waiting for me over at the pharmacy so WHEEE!

It’s this whole idea I got into my head that I somehow belonged at this conference with real writer types that just boggles my mind.

Monday morning I arrived promptly at the crack of 10:30 am and had to open a jar of olives with my brute force super human strength which culminated in me having RANCID olive oil all running down the front of my once cute white shirt and tank top ending with both of them having a greenish yellow oil slick right down my heart stopping cleavage resulting in me calling my self The Gulf of Mexico and smelling really bad all day.   On the bright side I run a boutique so I got a new cute white tee shirt to go under my jacket because I need ANOTHER cute white tee shirt.

Sigh.

Then I spent the next two hours looking for all of my pens that I hide through out the store and preparing for, what I think is my fifth Doctors appointment of the year?!
For someone who has panic attacks when they go to the Doctors…
This. Is. Complete. Torture.
I could totally feel my blood pressure percolating, doubly so since this was going to be my first foray into seeing  my doctor’s assistant who was moonlighting as a gynecologist…kind of. 
Once there we go over the blood pressure data I have been keeping and we determine that I DON’T have high blood pressure especially in the evenings when I’ve snorted my Xanax and had my one glass of  wine, but that I have this thing called white coat anxiety…so pass the Valium please.
(*throws confetti in your eyes*)
Yes my blood pressure is actually pretty low and for that I am going out and buying myself a salt lick since salt is NOT my enemy any longer.
Then she tells me to take every thing off from the waste down
(bow chicka wow wow)
(I always leave my socks on just to laugh in the face of authority)
and then she says she needs to go get a chaperon…um, a what? 
Yeah, I didn’t order up a menage-a-trois this fine Monday afternoon.  And there the three of us were…the nurse telling me to scooch my hiney down more,
me on the table with my socks on, telling her I think the phrase
“scooch your hooch”
down is more appropriate since absolutely NOTHING is happening  about the hiney here,
and the receptionist. 
OH YES,  that’s right the receptionist who apparently is moonlighting as a parole officer for sexual predators that double as physicians assistants who are moonlighting as gynecologists.
And what a happy trio we were, all making small talk and jabbering away while the PA is using something on me that probably looks like  a small Christmas tree shaped Brillo pad to collect her data from my secret place asking me how I am doing and really, lets be honest here, do you think one of you could have had the common decency to offer me a glass of wine at least to loosen me up just a bit?

Sky rockets in flight…aaaaafternoon delight!

And for some reason when I google Christmas tree Brillo pad this comes up…

(Is that a Brillo pad on your “pocket” or are you just happy to see me?)

And now it’s Wednesday and I can’t get the smell of rancid olive oil or the taste of shame to go away.