Ah, nice visit to the gyno. I like to call him the Shoe Shine Boy (it’s the stirrups). Sometimes, though, when I go to see him, he’s not in, so his brother works in his place.
“Hi, I’m here to see Dr. B?”
“Great, have a seat. But he’s not in today, so you’ll have to see his brother.”
[beat]
“OK. Is he a doctor too?”
That joke just never gets old. Seriously.
Dr. B2 is not as charming or as friendly as Dr. B1. He also dives into you like he’s birthing a foal. This would explain why he’s still single.
Both Dr. Bs are Orthodox jews. I kinda like this, because it means that they don’t give you the usual scant hospital robes you’re forced to wear by the Gentiles, they give you these huge swaths of fabric. By the time Dr. B comes into the exam room, I’m looking like a pink bathtub virgin. Right on.
So Dr. B2 came in today. Here’s a rough approximation of our conversation:
“How are you, Dana? Still refusing to step on the office scale, I see. And how is your chocha?”
“Well, Doc, the chocha’s fine, but I’m a little sad today.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, I’m just sad about my man JC dying is all.”
Judging by the look on his face, I probably should’ve said “Johnny Cash.” There was some confusion with the initials there. He got a little nervous ‘cos I think he thought I was referring to the Crucifixion.
Stroke me.
