The negative repercussions of going out of town for 12 hours times eight:

1.  Massive piles of dirty laundry to tackle when I get home.

2.  Unloading the vehicle in the kitchen and pretty much heading straight for bed—leaving the mess for tomorrow morning (which is now today {go figure}).

3.  Worrying briefly about my abandoned garden, until I remember I never planted a garden this year.

4.  Mourning the tomatoes I won’t be growing and won’t be canning for the upcoming winter.  I hoard food, you know—at least, I would if I had grown any to hoard.

5.  Realising that I need to phone in a refill for my prescription contraceptive medication, like, NOW.

6.  Getting accosted by the lady on the phone at the doctor’s office:

Lady:  When was the last time you had a PAP?

*Gulp.*

Me:  Ummm…  What?

Lady:  A PAP?  A PAP smear?

Me:  Ummm…2007.

Lady:  2007?!?!  Well, Dr. So-and-so wants all his female patients within childbearing range to have a yearly PAP…

Me:  I’ll bet he does, lady. Great.  This is just great.  Ummm, okay.  I guess I need one, then.

Lady:  You can come see him or you can go to a female, if you’d prefer.

Lady:  I choose female.  I stick with my own kind, thankyouverymuch.  [Also, Poor Kyle’s family doctor happens to be a lifelong family friend, who I see at church socials and town parades and everything else imaginable {curse Mayberry and other small towns throughout the world!} which is just awkward for me, knowing he’s looked up my girly bits.]

Lady:  All right.  How’s tomorrow?

Me:  Tomorrow?  Heavens to Betsy, I need more time!  Time to prepare!  I need at least a week to blog about this!  I need to work up a solid, frenzied panic! Okay, that will be fine.

Lady:  We’ll see you at ten o’ clock, then.

Me:  Okay.  But, ummm…

Lady:  Yes?

Me:  …Can I still have my birth control?

Oh, dear…  The things I do for my lifeblood pills.  Next thing you know, I’ll be an honest-to-goodness crack whore.  A Yasmin™ whore.

So you see, my friends, bad things happen when I go out of town unexpectedly.  Tomorrow morning I’ll be getting a metal CONTRAPTION shoved up my crotch, and while she’s at it, she’ll go ahead and scrape out the inside bits.  The last time this happened, I cried.  Real, true, giant, wet tears.  Streaming down my face. My makeup was ruined.  My entire body was shaking—literally, quivering.  All over.  Every joint.

Lovely.

And how was your week?

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