Phew

Our dance party was a smash success last night. We made enough to cover more than one of the bursaries, and everyone seemed to have a great time. Technically, almost everything went smoothly, though there was some feedback during the beginning of Les Allumettes that I felt uselessly awful about. It's actually a really good room to have bands in.

The mix of people was great, there were a variety of ages and while it was a queer space, there were a lot of people there who wouldn't normally show up at queer events. I liked it.

The Great Dater was there as well, looking handsome as ever. We had a nice chat and made plans to have lunch on Monday. He's a very lovely man. And so not into me. I was wearing nothing but tattoos under a see through shirt and I don't think he noticed. Now that we're not dating, it's actually pretty endearing.

Today, I have homework to do. Grocery shopping to do. I've applied to write custom erotica for a website and have a story due on tuesday that I haven't started writing yet. So I have writing to do. I'm meeting with Sam of the pretty green eyes to discuss details of a party we're throwing on the 9th. So I have planning to do. I'm gonna go for a run. So I have exercising to do.

****

I get a call from my doctor's office, and since it's been a few weeks since the last pap, I figure it's because the results are in. I call back and the secretary - the Mini-Goob - tells me that the blood test results are back from my annual and that my iron is low and that I should take this supplement, blah blah blah.

I'm a little surprised. Not so much that my iron is low, because it's been low for a couple years.* But that she's about to end our conversation without mentioning the test results for the pap. I am much more concerned about my cervix than my iron stores.

Mini-Goob is ready to end the conversation when I interrupt her goodbye to say "I was in for a test regarding atypical cells two weeks ago and I was wondering if the results were back?" She pauses. I can hear the pages flipping.

"Oh yes. [The Goob] has called to make an appointment with a specialist for you. She'll call you when there's an appointment." Shaken, I revert to politeness and thank her before getting off the phone.

Off the phone, I fucking pissed. The cells came back atypical again, and my doctor didn't fucking call me? Just got me on the waiting list with a specialist.

I ranted to my friends for a day or two, and then decided that since 2007 is the Year I Take Charge of Shit, I will call The Goob and demand more information.

So I called when I knew the office would be closed and left a sternly worded message.

The Mini-Goob called me back the next day. To let me know it was all a misunderstanding and that the cells had come back normal and would I like to make an appointment for six months from now to re-test.

Why, yes I would. With a different fucking doctor.



*To cut this off at the pass, I'm not a vegetarian.