Fact I: Before the Fact
Doom's Day is coming!
As I've mentioned to one or two of you, it's that time of year for my annual medical checkup.
I abhor the thought. And I've run away from home... again.
It's not that I have anything against doctors per se and I think, as a whole, they're probably very dedicated souls... except for one or two... who have crossed paths with me.
They like to touch. They feel obligated to touch... my body... my unclothed body.
Now, I ask you:
Do they have to lay a hand on my naked shoulder while they listen to my heart?
Does the stethoscope really belong *completely* under my left breast?
Do I really have a discernible heartbeat just below my tummy button... or at the top of my naked butt?
No, I do not.
Dutifully, and because I was threatened with a bad girl spanking, I made an appointment for a checkup - civilian doctor - recommended by a so-called friend who is obviously into these touchy-feely things. I like to be prepared when I go into battle so I checked out the office in advance. Mostly gray hair... over six feet... between 45-50 years - a definite twinkle in his eyes when I said I wanted to meet him first. (More like a feral grin - reminded me of someone who shall remain unnamed... shall have to ask him if he has a twin.) Twinkle bothered me... got home and cancelled that appointment.
Made an appointment with a female doctor...
"Well, aren't you the cutest little thing!" she cooed as she patted my fanny! No way! Cancelled that one, too.
"When's your appointment, Sar?" the bully asked.
Hemmed... hawed... cleared my throat. "Soon."
"Never," I mumbled under my breath as I made my escape to the other side of the house before wrath descended in the form of his hand on my still-ivory posterior.
"When?" he shouted, clearly exasperated. Tsk. He exasperates easily and I hate when he shouts - not good for the blood pressure... mine.
"Since you seem to have a problem with this, I'm picking a name out of the book and making the appointment myself." And he did. "It's a done deal, imp," he announced a little while later. "You're going."
With great trepidation, I went. I'm sitting on the exam table, wearing a short paper thingy over my underwear... Doc comes in with nurse... smiles at me... sort of like the wolf smiled when little Red showed up... arched brow... wolfish grin. He dismisses the nurse.
"And how are we, today?" he asks in an unctuous tone as his hand creeps to my shoulder and lingers...
("We" is a collective noun... I don't know about him, but I'm feeling v-e-r-y uncomfortable.)
"Hmmmm?" he asks as he cups my chin and looks directly at me.
I stare him down. He grins... unctuously.
"Let's just get you comfortable and lying down," he says as he gently pushes me back on the exam table. "Just going to check your heart."
"I'll sit up for this," I say as calmly as I can, considering my heart is now hammering against the wall of my chest.
"I like my patients to lie back and relax," he says without looking at me but his hand fondles my breast.
I decked him, dressed and left.
"How'd the appointment go?" the giant squid asked when he got home that day.
"Fine." I thought it went quite well, actually. I'm proud to say I still have a mean left hook. Wonder if we'll be billed for that?
"How fine?" he asks, crossing his Popeye arms over his chest - not a good sign.
"Very well," I smile, my look of innocence pasted on my face.
"Did you go?" he asks sternly, his chin lowered to give me "that look."
"Yes, I did."
"And what did the doctor have to say?" he asks, exasperated again. "Did he give you a clean bill of health?"
"Uh-huh," I lie with a straight face. "Did you want a glass of wine before dinner?"
"Don't change the subject, imp," he says, grabbing my arm before I can escape and then scoops me up and we settle in a kitchen chair.
He settles; I squirm. This is not going well...
"Did the doctor examine you?" the commanding officer asks.
"How not exactly?" he asks, keeping an arm around my waist since he knows I'm ready to bolt.
"He started to... but... um... he touched me."
Cowboy rolls his eyes and sighs. "Where did he touch you that you objected to?"
"He fondled my breast," I say indignantly.
"Was he doing a breast exam at the time?" Cowboy asks with great patience and jaw clenching, knowing that getting information out of me is worse than pulling teeth.
"NO! He wasn't. He touched me inappropriately and I got dressed and left before... before..."
"Did you hurt him?" My 240 lb. mate asks calmly as if I, at 100+ lbs. am a lethal threat and could bench press his weight.
"Not exactly," I mumble.
"Just tell me what you did," he says, hugging me, knowing I'm upset by this.
"Decked him, that's all. And... stepped over him, dressed and left."
"That's not so bad," Cowboy shrugs. "Better than the one you clobbered in Seattle last year. At least, you didn't break any bones this time," he says matter-of-factly. "But you're still going to see a doctor. Your weight's dropped a little too much and I want to know why."
I don't comment when he's giving a speech - for two reasons. One, I'm not listening... it's so boring to try to pay attention when he gets all admirally... and I'll probably say the wrong thing if he asks a direct question and two, I'm not interested in encouraging the subject.
"I'll have my yeoman make an appointment with one of the base doctors," he says with an arched brow, daring me to challenge him. "And I'll escort you there, myself, imp. You're going!"
I don't bother to argue. It's a no-win situation and I suddenly have escape... um... excursion plans to make.
So, the appointment is made and low and behold! It was made for the day before my birthday. I am livid! No Navy doctor is going to disobey a direct order from Cowboy no matter what I say. It's a given that the appointment is not going to go well for me. No matter what the doctor does, I'm going to object. If I hurt him in any way and/or refuse to let him examine me, I'll get otk retribution when I get home and my birthday will be ruined! If Cowboy goes with me and has to hold me down so I can be examined, I'll never forgive him and I'll be unmanageable for days after... maybe, weeks.
If Cowboy delays the "otk discussion," it'll hang over my head on my birthday and I'll be miserable all day. Either way, this is not good. I tell him all this and he... typical male... says I'm going anyway and all I need to do is behave. Grrrooannnn. Men! It's in their DNA - they simply don't understand these things. How did their mommas ever put up with them? It's enough to make a brat qualify for sainthood... I wonder if non-Catholics can be canonized... Soooo, the day before the appointment, I stuffed my backpack with a jacket, a couple of sweaters, flannel pajamas, lots of warm socks, 3 dozen chocolate bars, a couple of 6-packs for the dogs, their health certificates, their sweaters and a map of British Columbia, the Yukon and Alaska.
I planned to crash early so I could get away before Cowboy woke up but the Wonder Woman connection came through. There was something going on at the base and they had to reschedule my appointment. Yes! Birthday was saved and it was a glorious day except... for the extra soft pillow our friend David gave me for "those days when it's hard to sit comfortably" he writes on the card. I was so appreciative of his gesture I sent him a 24-month subscription to a magazine that caters to readers with more than one sexual dysfunction.
So, the appointment day came around and Cowboy had to go into the office early and assigned a marine to escort me to the base... He said he'd meet me at the doctor's office and if necessary, go into the examining room with me... ostensibly, to protect the doctor...
The marine, having been forewarned by his buddies, told me he didn't like chocolate brownies and refused my offer of a warm one. I asked him what he did like and the foolish man said Key Lime Pie so I made one for him with an ice cream base... which makes the saltpeter additive work faster... and as soon as he was indisposed, the pups and I headed north.
We made it to Vancouver, BC near the end of the day. We pigged out on a couple of large buckets of KFC, original recipe, mashed potatoes, biscuits, hold the coleslaw, root beer for me, milkshakes for the pups. Turned my cell phone on when we got to our motel room to hear the messages.
"Where the hell are you?"
Tsk. When Cowboy's angry, his vocabulary is sorely limited.
"Sar....! When I get my hands on you...!"
Jeez! Well, that's a good reason for staying away. Wonder how long it will be before he calms down?
"You're not gonna sit again! EVER!
You'd think he could come up with a different threat. This one's o-l-d!
"Your butt's gonna wear out before my hand does!"
Oh dear... better get to the grocery store and stock up on chocolate. Might be here for a while.
"Call me, baby. We'll work something out. Come home, Sar. NOW!"
Ahhhh... he misses me. I'll let him sweat a little while longer. When he apologizes for his rudeness, the pups and I will head south.