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Thursday, Jan. 15, 2004 | link I just, while buying the blandest soup on the planet at a deli near work, ran into my nurse practitioner, yes, my very own hole-poker! I couldn't place her for the life of me, which is funny because I've been known to mistake celebrities for people working in my gynecologist's office, and sadly not only is the reverse not true, but I didn't even manage to mistake my nurse practitioner for a minor celebrity. All I could muster was a "don't I know you?" squint and a "wait aren't you..." tilt to my head. My dumb was semi-understandable because her hair is totally different, all cut short, and dyed and streaked with a new set of colors. Plus I work miles and miles away from my doctor's office, so it wasn't readily on my mind. But more than anything, it's that she's ... my lady-parts doctor! She just does not make any sense standing there with a yogurt, getting change from the guy at the register, putting money in a tip jar ... Wow, how awesome would that be, tip jars at the gynecologist? Like, if there were "comedy gynecology" just like there's comedy driver's school? Oh man: "Could you scooch down a little? A little further? A little further? WHOA! Not THAT close! I JUST WANT TO BE FRIENDS!" "Uh, I think I just lost my watch? And MY INNOCENCE?" "Hello ... ello ... ello ... ello! Echo ... echo ... echo?" "Talk about dishonorable discharge!" Annnnnd take care. Thanks I'll be here all night, try the veal, etc. (Note: Veal? At the hole doctor? I just grossed myself out. My nose is actually wrinkled. And that almost never ever happens. Dear diary!)
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