Just Turn Right

Late last night I have a call from my friend, CarPool Mitch. CP Mitch tells me that tomorrow he will be a little late picking up K2. CP Mitch drives him to school every morning with his son, who is K2's best bud. CP has an idea.
"Munkay Bitch", he tells me, "Every morning at the last turn we take into the school parking lot, our boys chant, just turn right, just turn right- please turn right!". Their school is on the left, by turning right they would turn away from the school and into town, away from their mundane daily academics and toward all the fun non-scholarly activities are happening. "What if tomorrow, I did turn right?" Damn I love how this man thinks. "Brilliant!" is my reply, "Just keep going and don't look back. Just tell me were I meet ya?" Then I remember today my body belongs to my Dr's. Rats.
I arrive at the clinic for the battery of test I'm shedualed for. First up is my ultra sound. Not a big invasive procedure for most ladies, but I am not your typical pane in the glass. While pregnant I would have to be sedated to have anyone touch my belly. My stomach is my most sensitive area of my body. Poke me, scrape me, measure me, stare me down through a microscope, whatever, just do not come close to touching me there. One unknowing fool at the universality unexpectedly did once and my screams brought my hubby running. From down the hall. And through the waiting room. I have changed somewhat since my transplant. One person at one time I actually enjoyed touching me there, but I was almost certain he would not be the one doing today's ultra sound.
Nice young man intoduces himself wearing a white lab coat and explains he will be the lucky one doing my procedures today. Poor bastard. He takes me into a room ware he dims the lights and plays me some soft mood music. As he lays me back on the table and makes sure I have enough pillows and am warm enough under the paper sheet, he rubs the pre warmed jell vigorously between booth hands as if he were about to massage me instead of violate me with infrared waves. I squeeze my eyes closed shut and grab onto the edge of the table I'm on, bracing myself for the horror I know is about to come. I go into my deep beathing mode and search my brain for my best happy spots. The beach comes to mind. Chocolate. Ridding my bike. My jaccusi. As his hands touch my trembling stomach, I do not flinch and scramble off the bed. No shouts happen. I do not roll into a fetal position and whimper. But I do... giggle, and giggle. I giggle and titter, only to stop once and awhile to snicker or chuckle. I table dance on my back like a snake during this exam. But I live through it. Maybe I should of let fly during the ultra sound because this lab coat wearing demon wants another piece of me. "Are you allergic to latex?", he askes fiddling with his machine. "Nope", I answer wiping the goop off my tummy before he can get close again. "Good", because we need some pictures from the inside. What the sicko has attached to the computer looks like a slender dildo, bulbous head and all. To top it off, he is unroll a condom over it, the latex he was refuring too. Laughing at that bizarre sight I say, "Oh no you don't, I need a few more dates and a couple of drinks before you even try that". What happens next borderlines on date rape in my book. After he has recorded images of my womanliness from ever angle possible he tries for a fast exit. "You can use these towels here to clean yourself up before you dress, and just leave the door open when you leave. Then I'll buy you dinner." Ha-ha.
Next doctor does more of the same. Does everything but try driving a truck in there.
The out come from all these invasions were favorable. It does not look like cancer. I can say that word now. I had been unable to before, not wanting to even say it out loud. I walked out of that office today a thousand pounds lighter.
On the way home I decided that I would just turn right alittle more often.