Alien Autopsy

In my (and especially my doc’s) attempts to stem the crimson tide (AKA Tsunami Roja), to assist me with this crap phase called menopause, I underwent a uterine ultrasound (AKA Alien Autopsy) yesterday.

I’d had one before and remembered it not being a:

1) Day at the beach
2) Stroll in the park
3) Nice soak in a lux, redwood hot tub

I recalled discomfort but no pain. Mind, I don’t believe the sonographer -- a title much more musical and poetical than deserved or appropriate -- intended to inflict pain BUT neither did she appear particularly concerned about my comfort levels.

Also too, I’m pretty damned sure that I told her 'I’m deaf so speak slow and I’ll try to read your lips. If that doesn’t work, you’ll need to write things down for me.’ At least once, I said this. Maybe, probably three times just to be sure.

Did the terse tech slow down her rate of speech or make sure I was looking at her when she was communicating instructions? Eh, not so much.

TMI ALERT!

While she had the wand gizmo (and it should NOT be called a wand because that sounds all sweetly, happily magical. Nope, it oughta be called, perhaps, the baton of pain) up my hoo ha, Tech Twat had to get a variety of pics, of views. This involved moving the baton of pain around. Her technique brought to mind images of an extremely enthusiastic teen, who’d never driven a stick before, getting a shot at Dad’s brandy new, refurbished, candy red ’58 Jag.

Tender, skilled finesse? Ah, that was not in evidence yesterday. I felt like livestock -- a slow moving sheep or goat being prodded and poked by a careless herder.

Post torture, I climbed into Horace my Silver Beetle and exited the parking dungeon. I noticed that my engine light was on. Again. I just had this fixed, expensively, two weeks ago! Not only that but traffic was utterly heinous -- it took me 45 minutes to get from MGH to the entrance of route 93 south. I could have walked the distance six times over in that time. And then, then, the engine light began flashing. A lot. ‘Christ on a carburetor,’ I thought, I deserve a better end to my day than this!

Good news -- I made it to the mechanic's and Jen was able to pick my tired, sore butt up and tote it home. Valhalla was a tremendously welcome sight.