Okay, I’m going to tell you something that you may not want to know. But, as we know, I am really open about my life* and only want to bring joy and laughter to your dreary days. This is my job as your Queen of the Universe. This following story will make you laugh. I promise. You wouldn’t think this would be funny but, unfortunately, it is.

*Except about my last name. My last name is not really Jones. But I am not quite ready to come out of the secret identity closet.

Anyway, you remember how I said I had gone to the doctor? So I come home on Wednesday and realize that there is a message for me. I play it and listen to my doctor tell me that she would like me to call her.

Hmm. Something tells me there might be a problem since, if your test results come back normal, you usually get something in the mail. It’s only when they want you to call them that there’s something to be concerned about.

On Thursday (yesterday), I call her. She is not available and I leave a message. She calls back while I am on the phone with a stock holder and leaves a message.

Deb: Hi. This is Deb. Please call me back as soon as possible. If I am with a patient, have me interrupted. I need to give you the results of your test.

Hmm. Again. Slight panic sets in. It is not good when the doctor says “If I am with a patient, have me interrupted.”

I call. I am placed on hold. A few minutes go by in which I decide to start biting my nails again (and I had been doing so well) since I’m a bit nervous.

This is our conversation:

Deb: Hi, Dana.
DM: Hi.
Deb: I got the results of your pap smear.

Let’s pause for a moment. At this point in time, I am freaked out. The last time I had a pap smear, over 2 years ago, it came back abnormal. This was during what I affectionately refer to as The Cancer Scare, Act Two. Act One was when, during the same physical that resulted in the abnormal pap smear, I heard Deb say “I found a lump.” So, having Deb say “I got the results of your pap smear” is a little frightening.

DM: Okay.
Deb: You have trichomonas. It’s a sexually transmitted disease.
DM: What?
Deb: It’s a sexually transmitted disease.
DM: I heard you! How? How is this even possible?
Deb: I don’t know.

Those of you who may not have read my blog very much may not be aware of the fact that I have been celibate for many years. Both my doctor and I are aware of this, however, so that’s why she said she didn’t know. Normally she would probably have said “It’s a sexually transmitted disease. That would mean it was transmitted by sex.”

Deb: I had to meet with my partners yesterday before I called you and asked them how it was possible that a woman who had not had sex for a long time…
DM (interrupting, a bit panicked): Eight years! Eight!
Deb: …Could have an STD. Apparently, this is very rare but there are cases of women in their 90’s getting this 20 years after their husbands died. It can take awhile to incubate.
DM (laughing hysterically): Well, I guess so. Eight years! Of course, there was the virgin birth.* Is it treatable?
Deb: Yes. Of course. You just take some antibiotics.
DM: Oh. Okay.

*Apparently God liked Mary better than me. She gets to carry his child. I get an STD. Gee, thanks, God. You shouldn’t have.

We spend the next few minutes talking about some other things, such as that I still have a mild case of anemia and then say goodbye.

I spend the rest of the day, shaking my head in disbelief and randomly saying “Eight! Eight years!”

Last night, Beth and I decided to go to karaoke. This is the first time that we’ve been able to go to karaoke on a night other than Sunday so it was very exciting (even though I am kicking myself this morning. Well, I would be kicking myself, if I wasn’t so damn tired). She had been having kind of a rough day so I told her my news in an attempt to cheer her up. It worked. She did laugh. Very hard. So did Bryan and Michael, when I told them.

This is my life, folks. Go ahead. Laugh. You know you want to. It is hard not to laugh over this and I guess I would rather laugh than cry. Because, honestly, the fact that I got an STD when I haven’t had sex in EIGHT YEARS could be extremely depressing, if it wasn’t so damn funny.*

*Or, as I told Johnny in an email yesterday, eight fucking years. Oh, wait, no, sorry. Eight NON fucking years!