So, This Guy Walks Into a Gynecologist's Office...

PODCAST ALERT

I have recorded a podcast version of this post so CLICK HERE IF YOU WANT TO LISTEN TO IT AS I KNOW YOU REALLY DO. As I've mentioned in my previous posts-that-are-also-podcasts, the audio version is not a straight read-through of the written post. I skip some of the written stuff and go off on other tangents when I'm on the microphone. Think of it as a set of twins that aren't identical, and one of them is uglier than the other.

The other day I mentioned that something curious happened to me at a gynecologist's office, but I'll eliminate all suspense and speculation that it was something worthy of a late-1990s Farrelly Brothers comedy with me somehow pinned to an exam table with my legs in stirrups as a nearsightedly wacky doctor (probably played by Ken Jeong) is planning to thrust into me whatever it is they shove into a particular orifice to determine whether a woman is pregnant.

A DIGRESSION THAT I THOUGHT WOULD BE BRIEF BUT IN FACT IS NOT
I consider myself a decent wordspeller, so when the Blogger text box flags a misspelling with that wavy red underline, I'm usually able to correct my error within one or two tries, but for the word "orifice" in the previous paragraph it took several tries before I gave up — which tells you how often I actually type the word "orifice" in my everyday writing — and typed one of my attempts into the Google search box. One of the suggestions was Orifarm, which sounds like a portmanteau of "orifice" and "farm" — "Orifice Farm" would be a great name for a horrible porn site — but is, in fact, "a fast growing supplier of parallel imported and generic pharmaceuticals."

When I went to the Orifarm site, I found myself falling into one of those Internet rabbit-holes that I fall into every now and them, like when I'm looking up who won the 1938 World Series, take a right turn at one of Stalin's purges, and end up learning about the history of biscuits. Anyway, the Orifarm site is in English, but its products are offered only in Sweden, Norway, Finland, and Denmark: countries which, for most intents and purposes, are the same place.

When you click on the "Denmark" section, you get a page that includes THIS:

Uh...when I drink a lot of beer, maybe.

I don't know what this product does, but I hope if I ever go to Denmark, I'll never be afflicted with any condition that will require a prescription of it. (Why is only the headline in English?)

SO ANYWAY
Oh yeah, the OB/GYN. Let me get to it before I digress again.
Here's the entire incident, in a candy-coated shell:

I cracked a tooth at the gynecologist's office.

Even that sounds pretty sordid, but the truth is, I was sucking on a Dum Dum Pop, and was bored/impatient with it, and I bit it, and just like that, my father's long-unheeded prophecy — "Ya gonna crack ya teets doin' that!" — came to artificially fruit-flavored fruition.

OH, YOU'RE THE FATHER? WHO CARES?
I had accompanied the pregnant-with-our-son Mrs. The Anthony Show for one of her appointments as we reached the home stretch of the nine-month period I look back fondly as The Time I Had No Idea What I Was In For.

Mrs. TAS had finished her battery of tests that made me thankful for the inventor of the very large, sight-blocking sheet, and after being completely ignored in the exam room, we went to gynecologist's office, where I was further ignored. Dr. Gynecologist was running through some stuff I didn't understand, and that was OK, because, as warm and nice as this doctor was, she talked to Mrs. TAS like I wasn't even there. I didn't take it personally, and neither should you, any of you readers who might someday become a father-to-be. Let me say that again:

You are going to be the father of a child. Half of the genetic material of this newest of God's creatures will originate in you. You will likely be providing for this child, either financially or in a diaper-changing capacity, unless you're some kind of asshole, and you will be one of the most important influences in his or her entire life, long after you're dead, and even you're not always appreciated by that ungrateful bastard. But until that baby emerges from warmer and wetter climes, no one in the medical community is going to give a shit.

So, I was sitting there, as much a piece of furniture as the chair I was sitting in, while the doctor chatted with my wife, not even doing that polite thing where you're make eye contact with both people even if you're really just talking to one of them, and I spotted a bowl of Dum Dum Pops.

THEY SHOULD CALL THEM "IDIOT POPS," AMIRITE?
The Dum Dum Pop has been around forever, and they make good candies to fill a bowl or dish, since you can buy them by the gross, and the flavor is rather powerful.

Hey, Dummy!

The only problem I had with these lollipops, prior to my dental incident, was that when you removed the wrapper, it looked like someone had already spent a hour sucking on it.

According to the brand's site, "I.C. Bahr, the early sales manager of the company, named the ball-shaped candy on a stick and figured Dum Dum was a word any child could say." As a father of two children, I know several words that "any child" could say, and "dum dum" is not in the typical child's vocabulary, but I guess it "Dum Dums" on a candy wrapper is an easier sell than "Poopy Pops." (Then again, what 5-year-old wouldn't want to try a "Poopy Pop"?)

The site's FAQ also answers the "Why are they so small?" query with this piece of corporate logic:

Most of our customers feel Dum Dum Pops are just the right size for a perfect treat. They are quick, convenient, and packed with flavor. They are just right for kids (and big kids too)!

Give me a break. "Most" customers? Did they conduct surveys? Are their phone lines constantly jammed with calls from people begging to tell them, "Thank you for the size of your lollipops, for they are already a choking hazard as you as you unwrap them!"

Next you're going to tell me that the "fun size" Snickers that's the size of Megan Fox's clubbed thumb is actually more fun than the full-size candy bar.

LET'S WRAP THIS UP
Anyway, I bit down on that Dum Dum Pop — I'm an impatient eater and have never sucked/licked a lollipop without biting down on it — and something just didn't feel right. I stuck my finger in my mouth, fished out the contents (the doctor and my wife were so locked in conversation that I could have pulled my pants down and sang Kanye West's "Gold Digger") and knew something was up when I saw a small, hard white particle among the shards of non-white particles.

Fortunately, it was just a small corner of a molar that chipped off, which wasn't an emergency and was easily fixed by my dentist who charged a lot more than my co-pay.

Meanwhile, my son was born, and two years later my daughter was born, and they've been chipping away pieces of me ever since.