Apparently, yesterday was the day for people to say odd things to the Zadge. Some flattering, some not.
For instance, the Zadge had to go to her gynocologist for some medical tests on her south-of-the-border girlie parts for an issue that she will not discuss here, lest she send her two male readers into cardiac arrest. Part of the tests involved having what the nurse referred to as an “internal ultrasound.”
Actually, at this point, the Zadge would advise Hulk and the Kaiser, the only male readers the Zadge can think of, to stop reading and go fart in the garage while you watch sports or something. Because that “internal ultrasound” involved the insertion of a long – and I mean, looong – probe up into said girlie parts. Thank god it was wearing a condom.
The Zadge kids you not.
The Zadge was taken aback – what IS the proper response to such a, uh, compliment?
“Um, what exactly does that mean?” the Zadge asked. ”Does it have perfect bone structure and glowy skin?”
“No, it’s just perfectly shaped and healthy looking!” the nurse crooned.
And this whole time the Zadge thought her legs were her best asset. Now she has to figure out how to show eligible men her beautiful uterus. Should she hand out copies of the ultrasound with her phone number on the back?
Then the nurse looked at her chart and said, “Wow, you are 48? I never would have thought that!” At which point, the Zadge tried to decide if the uterus-loving nurse thought the Zadge was actually older or younger than her years. The nurse says, “Oh, I would have guessed you at 38.”
Apparently, having a beautiful uterus shaves 10 years off your face.
Then, after all the tests were done (don’t worry, Moomskers, everything is fine), the Zadge headed to the first night of her new guitar class at Swallow Hill, a renowned folk and acoustic school in Denver. The Zadge signed up for an 8-week group beginner guitar class and was excited to learn something other than “Horse With No Name” and maybe meet some nice people.
So the Zadge sat down in the class, along with 17 other students. She’d heard that Swallow Hill was sort of an aging hippie place. So she looked around the class and noticed that most of the students matched that description. They also all seemed slightly nervous and ill at ease. Shy, introverted, lots of gray hair. Then the cute, 30-something teacher (Oh, hello, the Zadge thought to herself) came out and introduced himself and asked, “Who here likes 70s folk music?!”
The Zadge raised her hand.
She was the only one of the 18 students to do so. She figured everyone else was too shy and introverted (BUT NOT THE ZADGE!!!).
But before anyone could say anything, an older woman sitting near the front, 60-ish, frumpy, wearing the ubiquitous Birkenstocks, no make-up, and gray, curly, unstyled hair, pointed at the Zadge and said sarcastically, “Oh, can’t you tell by her hair, all platinum blonde and everything.”
Before the Zadge could a) determine whether the Aged Frumpster had just insulted her, or b) decide that the Aged Frumster was just intimidated by the Zadge’s obviously beautiful uterus, or c) respond that her hair was not fucking platinum, you gray-haired shit and have you heard about the new invention called The Hair Dryer, the Zadge saw the teacher pop up and say, “Hey, pick up your guitars! By the end of the class, YOU will be playing America’s ‘Horse With No Name!’”
The Zadge hung her not-platinum head, so that it looked down at her beautiful uterus, and sighed. Then she took a deep breath, picked up her head and her guitar, gritted her teeth and started humming, “In the desert you can remember your name because there ain’t no one to give you no pain….”