So, as mentioned yesterday, I had my second prenatal appointment with my doctor. I found her when I was pregnant with Carter and absolutely adore her. Since I moved just before having Carter, I now drive a good hour to get to her, monthly, and wouldn’t change it for anything. I have even decided to drive that hour to the hospital where she delivers.

I’d say we’re pretty close. As close as a doctor patient relationship could be, I guess. I mean, I guess you’re usually pretty close with someone who sees your lady bits on a regular basis.

So, the appointment. This is where any squeamish male readers may want to go HERE rather then continue.

Alright ladies, now that the men are gone…

So, I had my yearly pap during this visit. As we’re shooting the shit, while she is randomly prodding me with the samples, she nonchalantly asks if I’ve been itchy. Down there. I said once and a while it does get itchy, that’s normal, no? And she says that it looks as though I may have a very mild case of psoriasis. Down there. I was like: There’s a cream for that, right? Which yes, she gave me a script for.

[Why does it seem all these aliments start appearing after child birth? Seriously, it's like I'm contracting every aliment known to man. Or woman.]

Then we went over blood test results and I don’t have AIDS or syphilis. Good news.

Arriving home, I mentioned my visit to Mike. You know, I thought he may be happy to know that we’re AIDS and STD free.

Me: Dr. M said that we don’t have AIDS.

Mike: Well, that’s good to know.

Me: But I have syphilis.

Mike: *blink, blink* (mouth agape)

Me: It’s not a big deal really, she gave me cream. (As I shrugged and kept on with preparing dinner)

Mike: (raising his voice) You have an STD and it’s not a big deal?

[I think at this point he was ready to accuse me of cheating or something as his breathing got deeper and faster.]

Me: Oops, sorry. Not syphilis, psoriasis. *giggle*

It’s a simple mistake. I mean anyone could confuse the two. Geez.

:::

Since embarking on my online obsession life about, oh, 4 years ago I’ve been lucky to meet quite a few wonderful people. People that have been great friends and wonderful companions, even though we may have never met in person, and though we’ve never met, there’s still a connection between people that is unmistakable. A confidant, a partner, a friend.

I’ve been lucky to find a few over the years.

And one still sends me Christmas cards. Brenda and I have know each other online for about 3 years now and every year she takes her time to think of me and my family and sends us a Christmas card. I cherish them, hang them for all the see and even place her family photo on my fridge. And though I am absolutely horrible at reciprocating - because I never remember to do Christmas cards before it’s too late - I am forever grateful for her generousity.

Then yesterday, another dear bloggy friend who has gone through one of the roughest years has taken her time to do something fabulous for me. Karen (aka Trollbaby, Vodkarella) - who I’d link, but I don’t know if she wants one - bought me a Flickr upgrade to Pro so I could share my more of my photos since she thinks I have talent!

[She's so mistaken, but I love her for it. LOVE!]

I was so taken aback that I teared up at her email; it caught me completely off guard.

[That's me: completely HORMONAL!]

So, yeah.. these two ladies completely brightened my otherwise doom and gloom day and I love them for it.

Thought you should know.

Good Morning! I’m Dana from The Dana Files. Before I begin I must tell you that I don’t have a funny sex story to share today. I know. Many of you are disappointed and others have no idea why I’d start a blog post with this type of confession.

You see, the last time I guest-posted for someone, I revealed something that happened in the bedroom and my husband was not pleased. I suppose it was my own fault for bragging about how funny it was to write something of that nature on someone else’s blog. Ha ha. It still cracks me up.

I’ve decided to share with you all a story from my young, single, drunkity-drunk days — back when I was 19 and carefree. Man. That was like nine years ago.

So anyway. The year was 1998 and I was employed as a bartender at my father’s tavern. My dad had no rules about drinking under age. It was allowed (for me at least) as long as I did not drive a car and did not get arrested. He never actually said these words out loud, he just sort of implied them. If he wanted to live in the same house as my very Catholic mother, he had to at least pretend he was laying down the law.

I remember it was a Friday night in July. My friend Liz was my relief bartender and at the end of my shift I stayed out to hang with her and some of the regular patrons.

We loved to play a variety of music on the jukebox — a mix of Ani DiFranco, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Green Day, The Eagles and Van Morrison to name a few. It was a new-age hippy thing.

Somewhere around 2 a.m. I got this funny, insane, ridiculous idea to stand on top of the bar and strip. Naked. In my own father’s tavern. In front of customers — persons who knew my dad very well and I’m certain would be eager to tell him what his presumably smart, responsible daughter had done the night before.

I took off my clothing piece by piece (except for my underwear) and danced around a bit. Liz encouraged several customers to stick dollar bills into my panties — except one guy gave me a twenty. I walked away with about $60. (Boy was that a cheap thrill for them!)

It was the most fun I’d had in ages, and the sense of power I experienced was something I never felt before.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of my telephone screaming. I lived in one of the apartments above my father’s tavern and my roommate Rhonda was hollering at me to get up and answer the ringing nuisance.

“Hello…” I said, my throat was dry and my voice cracked.

“Goddammit,” I heard my father’s voice. “What the hell were you doing last night?”

“Dad, nothing. Really. It was nothing..” I said. “I don’t know what you heard…”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Dad interjected. “But I saw the tape from the security cameras!”

Oh shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit! I forgot about those!

“Oh my god, Dad!” I said. “I’m sorry…”

“I don’t want to hear it. Do you know how awful it is to check the tape and see your daughter topless? And dancing? ON THE BAR?” he yelled.

“I…umm…I’m…sorry,” I sputtered.

“If you ever do that again, you better make sure you turn the goddamn cameras off,” My father lectured. “And make sure you burn this goddamned tape before it finds it’s way to your mother’s hands!”

After I hung up the phone I started to laugh. My father said it was alright to strip, I thought. Okay, maybe he just implied it. (Wouldn’t it have been funny if I became a porn star? Ha. Ha, ha, ha. I can’t stop laughing.)

Needless to say the tape was destroyed and I couldn’t look my father in the eye for weeks. I was mortified. And the customers? They felt it was necessary to give me shit about my strip tease every chance they got.

But even though I still feel terrible for giving my dad half a heart attack, I must admit that night was one of the best I’ve ever had. Strip club here I come!

(You know, when I lose 100 pounds and look like Katherine Heigl.)

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Seriously Saddam? As if. At least I’m in good company.

:::

Did I mention that we don’t have air conditioning for the time being? Ya, the time being THREE fucking weeks so far!

We desperately need to have our ducts cleaned and can’t turn it on until their done because we’ve had that mould problem this winter. . The earliest they could get us an appointment was June 23. JUNE-FUCKING-23RD people! It’s about 35C (95F) right now. Yesterday? 38C (100F).

With no air conditioning. I am not happy.

I’m in hell and apparently comparable to Saddam-fucking-Hussein.

This day just gets better and better.

:::

Oh, and remember the post about waxing my va-jay-jay? Heartless Lass posted an email message she got, which I’ve seen before but nearly died reading it again! Fun-ny!

 So not waxing. Not gonna happen.

Why is it that every conversation has to have some sexual innuendo?

Me: You clean out the box? referring to the cardboard box for recycling
Mike: Oh, I’ll clean out your box alright!

Everything seems to become a sexual conversation at some point.

Me: What are we having for dinner? Legitimate question, right?
Mike: I don’t know about me, but you’re having a hot dog with mayonnaise.

Nothing is sacred. Always turns to sex. Always.

Me: Wanna watch a movie tonight?
Mike: What kind of movie? Can we watch it in bed?

I guess I can cope with the dirty talk. After all, I am still able to thwart any advances with one wonderful tactic.

:::

After the whole “cocktail playdate” shenanigans, I was none to pleased with Meredeth Vieria; so when I saw this clip I enjoyed it even more.

Give it to her Will! Beat her down!

For you, enjoy!