Camera Wands and Woody Allen

Women's business

First of all, I want to warn you that the following post, flying from my fingertips, is not going to be about disability. It's not going to be about how we do it except for the fact that I like to go to movies when I'm feeling on the edge, and today I skated right near the edge when I went for a pelvic ultrasound to check on what I'll call, here, women's business. I thought I was going to lie back on the examining table in a dim room and patiently allow the technician to first smear that cold jelly on my stomach and then run the little -- what do you call it, anyway? -- over it, searching for my uterus and all the lovely things that lie within. I've had three babies and more than three ultrasounds, so that's what I was prepared for, and that's what Claudia, the thickly-accented technician did to me. Lest you think I've suddenly immaculately conceived one month before my fiftieth birthday, I'll clarify that it was a bit of women's business that I was checking out that pertains to that fiftieth birthday and all the birthdays that will follow my half century mark.

 What I hadn't planned for, though, was the foot-long white wand that Claudia held over me after she gave me a towel to wipe the jelly off my stomach. She fit what appeared to be a condom over it and then explained to me that I would put the wand into my women's business. What? I asked, not quite understanding. There's little camera at end, and you will put in vagina until it goes to here, Claudia showed me a shortened bit of the wand, and I did as I was told. I lay there on my back as Claudia waved that wand all over and inside my women's business, taking what seemed like hundreds of photos, and it was most uncomfortable and perhaps even a bit humiliating and all I could think about was those southern states who have passed laws or tried to pass laws requiring women who are planning an abortion to have a trans-vaginal ultrasound.

Holy shit and shame, shame on them -- a million times over.

After being wanded, I decided a movie was in order and fled to the mall to see Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine. I love Cate Blanchett, and I love Alec Baldwin and I periodically love Woody Allen's movies, so it seemed like a good way to get over the wanding and whatever might come of the wanding, because it's really only in a movie, in the dark, in the theater, that I truly escape.

So, there's the how we do it part of the post.

Let me tell you, though, that I hated that Woody Allen movie, and it left me nearly in tears and more anxious and agitated than I've felt in a long time. It's a clever movie, like most Woody Allen movies, and Cate Blanchett is exceptional in nearly every way. It's even funny, here and there, but the humor is bitter and cruel and reminded me, again, of what I hate about Woody Allen's sensibilities. I honestly believe that he masks his own personal ugliness (both figurative and literal) with glamour and wit, and while I am often seduced by that, I wasn't this time.*** I felt slightly sick by the end, and I felt empty. This time, I found my car very quickly in the parking lot and burst out into the California sunshine, grateful that a movie is just a movie. 

Marking my spot

Twice invaded today -- by a wand and a Woody -- and I am going to take a long, hot shower. Then, I think I'll curl up this evening with Madame Bovary and a shot of bourbon. Because that's how I do it.











*** Three jokes in the movie -- about epilepsy, the word retarded and electroshock therapy referred to as Edison's treatment -- and the laughter in the audience at each did much to send me right over the edge upon which I was skating.