Confronting the Pap - as in Smear, not Arazzi

Dearest DP,

First of all, I must clarify the following: I would not qualify my crush on Michael Phelps (and possibly Channing Tatum, and, okay, Colin Firth too) as adulteress! Or even adulterous! Crushes are healthy. They keep life interesting. Besides, you should feast your eyes upon The Lawyer these days. Colossus has him looking waaaaay hot. So. Just wanted to clear that up, you pheisty Phelps phanatic you!

Now then. In the interest of TMI, I would like to fill you in on how I spent my morning (now that Mr. Phelps is no longer gracing our big screen TV with his mile-long abs).  Today marked my first foray into the world of British private healthcare.  'Twas time for my annual physical, so now that I am a dependent on the Lawyer's Insurance of Dreams (For real! Everything gets reimbursed! It's so much better than the crap insurance I had when I was actually employed.) I made an appointment at a local private clinic.

Going to a private doctor in the UK is like going to a hot tapas restaurant (and apparently much more palatable than the alternative: the National Health Service). You pick and choose from their menu of services, each of which comes with its own hefty price tag.  Today, besides the usual dishes, it was necessary for me to indulge in a pap smear, which - I was rather gobsmacked to discover - was conducted by the general practitioner himself. Um, awkward! 

My doctor was perfectly nice - very British, very proper. His wedding ring shone handsomely on his ring finger. He was wearing a gorgeous bespoke suit with a pink and blue striped tie. His office had big windows and a beautiful fireplace, with nice art on the walls. I felt like I was in his living room. Pretty darn swankified.

Also in his office? The examination table. 

Dr. Proper took my family history, checked my height, weight, blood pressure, and listened to my chest. Then he left the room as I dropped my pants and put the loveliest, softest towel over my legs. Upon his return, I spread 'em as he requested, and the deed was done swiftly. No stirrups (woohoo!).

But still. I am a little weirded out by this, you know? I miss the linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, paper gowns, and general sterility - both literal and figurative - of my NYC gyn's office. I felt bad for having to drop trou in the middle of this guy's gorge digs. He seemed fine with it, but afterwards I had to fight the urge to apologize for exposing myself to his collection of ancient Roman coins and plush furniture.  Not to mention sullying the silky-soft Egyptian cotton towel. 

Still feeling a bit sheepish, but I know I'll recover. Maybe I'll go watch some creepy stalkerish vids of Michael Phelps on YouTube. Not that I would know how to find them.

Love from papland,

DG

To Baby or Not to Baby?

Dearest Domestic Goddess,

While you're off frolicking in Italy, my biggest highlight this week has been getting amazing health insurance! As you know, I've had Freelancer's Union health insurance this past year, which really did nothing for me unless I all of a sudden woke up one day with three eyes and one leg.

Anyway, since getting on The Doctor's Health Insurance (as our Domestic Partnership went through beautifully with his hospital), the strangest thing has happened... all of a sudden, I want to go for every medical checkup I can think of! Pathetically, I just want to go for fun because I can. And, equally as strange, is this sudden desire to reproduce again. As you know, I've been tres anti-baby for a while, so this has been the biggest shocker to me.

This past year, I didn't do my usual somewhat dangerous activities of snowboarding, rockclimbing and the like, and I think it's because I was too nervous without good health insurance. I had read in The Armchair Economist: Economics & Everyday Life, that people will drive more recklessly with seat belts and airbags. In fact, the author, Steven E. Landsburg, writes, "[in order] to bring about a major reduction in the accident rate: Require every car to have a spear mounted on the steering wheel, pointed directly at the driver's heart." No doubt that would bring about safer driving from all these NYC taxi driving freaks.

Moving on. Now that I feel like hanging out at the doctor's office every five seconds, all of a sudden my uterus has come alive again! I assumed this year that I didn't want to have kids after watching several of my friends' marriages dissolve because of kids and household responsibilities. I'm not interested in kickin' it with my Domestic Partner due to a poop-filled diaper, you know?

But now I'm wondering if it had to do with not having health insurance, and not feeling like I had enough money to provide for Little Baby Buddha. I've been getting more clients, so I've been feeling more financially secure, and, with that, it makes me think it's okay for me to spawn. (Though me and my beloved's kids may be so weird that they'll spin out into outer space, so maybe it's not a good idea...)

Who really knows what's going on? I'm 29 and I really thought my belly was Closed For Business. Perhaps, since 30 is fast approaching, my clock is coming out of the dust-filled basement?

Guess I can't call babies Little Liabilities anymore.

Love,

Domestic Partner

The Fake Joint Bank Account

Jen,

Alas, I must admit that I’d rather have chronic diarrhea for the rest of my life than plan a wedding; however, I’m excited for you guys to get hitched and seal my karma. And, of course, I’m all set to get my online minister certificate with The Universal Life Church and wear a totally inappropriate hot red dress to your wedding. Did I tell you that they insist I sign an agreement saying, essentially, that all people are nice? Yawn.

Scott and I opened up a fake joint bank account yesterday solely to prove we’re domestic partners. Domestic partnerships = excellent health insurance = free medical massages for Wendi. Did you see the article in the NY Times the other week about how couples are getting married just for health insurance? They may as well have interviewed me during a shiatsu session.

Our appointment at the bank went as follows:

Nice bank lady: "How much would you like to start your account with?"
Wendi: "Could you just open it with this $5 bill?"

Nice bank lady: “Would you like an ATM card for your joint account?”
Wendi: “Nah.”

NBL: “Would you like checks with both of your names on it?”
Wendi: “Um, doesn’t that cost $20? No thanks.”

NBL: “Do you both want online access to the account?”
Control Freak Wendi: “I’ll be the only one accessing the account. Are there any penalties associated with closing the joint account within a few weeks?”

Confused but Nice Bank Lady: “You did say you wanted a joint account, right?”
Wendi: “This is really more of a formality.”

Tomorrow our bank account will be official, and then we’re going to the post office to have our domestic partnership proof verification notarized. Essentially, we’re getting married by the angry mail lady!

Beyond awesome. Scott wants to dress up for the occasion.

xx,
Your solemn and faithful future minister