Small Hands, Happy Patient
I am currently in need of two things: a new dentist, and a new doctor of the ladyparts. The reason I am in need of both of these things at once is this: I have (relatively) newly-activated halfway decent health insurance for the first time in my life (thanks, real job!), and it's time for a tune-up, upstairs AND downstairs. This is not to say - let me emphasize clearly - THIS IS NOT TO SAY that there is anything wrong in either place.
Well ok, I probably have a cavity or four. IN MY MOUTH.
My primary requirements for both of these health professionals are simple and, perhaps surprisingly, the same for both:
1. Geographical desirability - near my job in glamorous Beverly Hills, or near my home in one of the less fabulous areas of fabulous Long Beach. Yes, I live my days straddling the vast economic Grand Canyon that is life in Southern California... one foot in the ghetto, one foot in Vanderpumpland. (Side note, I love Lisa Vanderpump beyond all rationale, for numerous reasons, not the least of which is her unbelievably fantastic, "is this real life?" name. And her adorable husband who got so MAD about that slimy little snake Cedric on the reunion show. And her sad little bald dog. Frankly, her whole "bawdy broad who says things like 'I feel like I got shagged through a hedge backwards' in the body of a gorgeous, classy British aristocrat with fabulous hair" thing. I. Dig. Her. Judge if you must.)
2. A willingness to dispense, and a spirit of generosity in such dispension, any and all anxiety- and/or consciousness-reducing drugs while I am under their expert care. I don't need 'em when I go home. But I'd rather not be "there" while I'm there.
3. Small hands. This one would seem not to need further explanation.
If you love your dentist and/or your gyno, please oh please won't you give me their name?