hold onto your butts

I can't believe I haven't written about this yet. I guess I've been busy...um...watching The United States of Tara in its entirety over the course of a week. PRIORITIES.

Christmas came and went, as it does, and very quickly, as it ALSO does, and faster and faster each year. But, lucky woman that I am, I got to open one of my Christmas presents early.

I came home from work one evening, exhausted and stinking of puppies (which is pretty standard these days), and trying to work up the energy to go to my work Christmas party (which wasn't too difficult, it's just that I need to work up energy for any kind of extended social interaction where small talk might be expected), when I noticed a card sticking out of my Christmas stocking.

Inside were two tickets to Newport Aquarium's Penguin Encounter. See:

Craziest eyes to have ever crazy eyed.

My response to opening this gift was something like, "What? What? What does this mean? Does this mean...oh my god...oh my god...what does this mean? Does this really mean we get to meet penguins? Like meet meet them? Like shake hands?" for, oh, about half an hour? And then for the rest of the week? JOE IS SO LUCKY.

It was awesome, you guys. The encounter itself lasts only about twenty minutes, which passes far too quickly, but it's great. I'd go again. Like, SO MANY TIMES AGAIN. I'd pay five times as much if it meant I could spend twice as much time with the penguins. I briefly considered asking for a job application once it was over. I mean, how different are penguins from dogs really?

When you arrive at the penguin encounter, a penguin handler makes you wait five minutes while he or she tells you about how you can't pick up the penguins and cuddle them like little babies unless you don't have a particular fondness for your eyeballs anymore. (Still. It's tempting.)

After the liability spiel, you're finally allowed in the room with the penguins. When we went, there were about eight penguins roaming about the room. You mostly just sit in one place and have to wait for the penguins to approach, which is difficult. I really wanted to get up and waddle around with them but I don't think that's allowed.

The handler picks up various penguins and you're allowed to, like, pet them on the back and wings. They're so soft! I wasn't expecting that. And they sometimes make sounds like braying donkeys. Definitely was not expecting that, either. Anyway. Here are some pictures of penguins. That's what you're here for, right?

HELLO I AM A PENGUIN.

I named this one Donkey because she made donkey noises. CREATIVITY.

Blueberry tried to steal my umbrella. I guess cause it was blue.

Newport Aquarium opened in 1999. It's open every day (except major holidays), there are five penguin encounters daily, and each encounter has a limit of 12 people. Assuming the penguin encounters started when Newport Aquarium opened, over 300,000 people have taken this tour. It's fairly easy to buy a ticket. It's not all that expensive. Anyone could do it. But I don't care. It still feels special. Like, I touched a penguin! Who cares if so many other people have done the same? Extraordinary experiences don't become any less extraordinary just because others have experienced them.

I'm not sure when my obsession with penguins began. It was probably always there, along with my obsession with, oh, all other animals. I know seeing this video a million years ago definitely didn't help:

And this latest penguin encounter has only strengthened my resolve to have my own pet penguin someday. I'LL SPARE NO EXPENSE.

a question for the girls...about the girls

So I need a really, really supportive strapless bra to wear under my wedding dress. Well, strapless bra or like a bustier thingie. Bustier sounds so douchey. Anyway. HALP.

When I say I want it to be really supportive, I mean REALLY supportive. I'm trying to think of a tasteful way to say I have big boobs but I can't so SOOOOORRYYYYYY.

Also, bonus points if it's actually comfortable.

Thank you in advance. I am bad at being a girl.

TMI? Too much information. Uh, it's just easier to say TMI. I used to say don't go there, but that's lame.

It's been a while since I've shared too much information with the internet, I think, but HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTTS because I went to the lady doctor on Monday.

That's right. I scheduled an appointment with the lady doctor on a Monday morning, because apparently there's no better way to start your week than having someone poke around your girly parts with cold, metal instruments.

So in I went and when the nurse took my blood pressure she was all, "why is your blood pressure so high," and I was like, "because I'm at the doctor's office, duh," and then the doctor took it again later and was all, "why is your blood pressure so high" and I was all, "gee, I don't know, maybe because this one time I came in here and you forcibly ripped out a piece of my body so this place doesn't really give me CUDDLY, WARM FUZZIES."

Long story short (ha!), I have to start watching my sodium, because sodium is an evil bitchmonster, hell-bent on making my heart explode before I'm 30. JK, it's not that bad, but did you know there's a shitload of sodium in everything? Like, that water you're drinking probably has 5000 mgs of sodium in it. OK, it doesn't, unless you dumped four teaspoons of salt in there but why would you do that? That's disgusting.

It turns out lots of foods I thought were healthy are NOT healthy, sodium-wise, because they've been processed out the wazoo (what a fun word) and processed food, while delicious, is a big bad. Not THE big bad, though, otherwise Buffy could just smack it around for a while and all would be well. I wish I could shrink Buffy real tiny like and shoot her into my bloodstream to stake all of the sodium molecules before they could eff up my body. That would be awesome. It could be an Innerspace sequel which OMG I love that movie so much.

Right. So. Here is where the TMI comes in. This may not be common knowledge to those of you with penises, but when you go to the lady doctor, she spends a lot of time feeling you up. This is also when she yells at you for not doing monthly breast exams. The whole thing is less uncomfortable than it sounds, at least with my doctor, because she's really good at carrying on a conversation while she's doing all of that. Do you think they teach that in med school? I think so because I'm pretty sure that's what Karev failed on Grey's Anatomy, and that's where I get all my doctor knowledge. That and WebMD but I'm not allowed to look at WebMD anymore because doctors don't like it when you diagnose yourself.

Anyway, the doctor was rounding second base and there was a break in the conversation where she was all like, "...hmm," and that's not a good noise for a doctor to make while she's kneading your boob like a lump of dough.

"Your boobs are dense," she said (RUDE) and I told her that I TRIED to tell them to pay more attention in school, but would they listen? No. She didn't laugh, though, because she never gets my jokes.

Long story short again (ha!), I have to get an ultrasound next week. On my boobs. Because, according to my doctor, boobs are supposed to feel like cottage cheese and if she feels something pea-like IN the cottage cheese, that's a problem. WELL. APPARENTLY, my boobs feel like cottage cheese that's been left on the counter for too long (her words), so she couldn't tell if she'd found something weird or just, like, even older cottage cheese.

It's really nothing to worry about, and I wasn't even going to say anything on here, but I'm guessing that the experience of getting my boobs ultrasounded is something I'm going to want to blog about and it would be weird if next week I was like, "I got my boobs ultrasounded today," with no explanation beforehand so that's what this is. An explanation. In the meantime, I'm going to get my boobs a therapist because after being called dense and being compared to old cottage cheese, they're having some self-esteem issues.

WARNING: there is disturbing hooha talk ahead. I mean it. Turn away now.

Thank you all for the kind words yesterday. I knew I could count on you guys.

Now, it's time to talk about the gyno. I know, how excited are you? So. I went to the gyno this morning, because what better way to start the week than by letting someone you don't know very well shove a cold piece of metal into your hooha and poke around with giant Q-tips. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. I think sometimes men wonder why women complain about going to the gyno and HERE IS WHY.

First, you walk in and they weigh you. I'm really OK with this. The part I have a problem with is that they then measure you and SOMEHOW I've shrunk a quarter of an inch from last time I was in. Or I was wearing thicker socks last time. Or I was standing up straighter. I don't know. But I do know that 26 is probably too young to start shrinking.

Then they take you to an exam room, where they point out the lovely frock you'll be wearing. The nurse is all, "make sure the gown is open in the back and put this white sheet over your lap." The white sheet is for privacy while the doctor gropes you. You'll see.

So you change into this gown, making sure to leave the opening in the back, and cover your business with the white sheet. You wait and wait and wait and, if you're like me, you're just getting to a good part in your book when the doctor walks in and is all, "How's life? How often do you do it? Have you ever been pregnant? When was the first day of your last cycle?" It's like an exam you haven't studied for PLUS ALSO an interrogation. There are even hot lights shining on you. Sure, they're shining on your lady parts, but whatever.

After some chit-chat, the doctor tells you to lie back and put your arms over your head so she can feel you up and make sure your boobs aren't bad-lumpy. And then she yells at your for not giving yourself monthly breast exams. My doctor also likes small talk, but instead of talking about the weather, she'll talk about how her kids go to Catholic school and one day they came home and said they'd had a discussion about abortion in religion class. And you just smile and nod and try to pretend she's not kneading your boob like a bunch of dough.

Now comes the big show. The stirrups come out and she's all, "scoot down here . . . a bit more . . . that's it . . . relax your knees," and it's very uncomfortable, except you're kind of distracted because SHE'S STILL TALKING ABOUT ABORTION. And then, with some gentle words ("oh boy, this part is never fun") she violates you with a piece of metal. Good times. Now is when she switches subjects a bit and starts talking about how she really liked that Mike Huckabee and you bite your tongue because you are in a VERY. COMPRIMISING. POSITION. and she could do you permanent damage. Eventually, she finishes and you think it's all over, but then she feels your ovaries or uterus or whatever. From the inside. Yeah. I've heard some gynos poke you in the butthole or something, but mine doesn't do that. If she did, I'd poke HER in the butthole and see how she likes people messing around down there.

See? I told you not to read this. That'll learn you.