The Adventures of Lesbian Friday
MORNING
The day starts with a shooting pain in my lower left abdomen, complete with a dull ache radiating all the way down to my toes. All I can do is grasp for painkillers and the dregs from my bedside waterglass. Ibuprofen and codeine are my old friends, and eventually I sink into a dark pleasant numbness, knowing that the alarm has already gone off, knowing that I should be having a shower, that my legs should be swinging out of bed.
An hour later I leave a garbled message for my team leader at work, letting her know that I’m no good for anyone right now and won’t be hauling my ass into the office. This call is marginally less obscene than the one made on Wednesday - this time I refrain from assurances that the drugs I’m on aren’t “illegal or anything”. No, the drugs I’m on just make you sound like a warbling idiot. Let’s just say that endometriosis and painkillers aren’t the best combination for eloquence and brevity.
AFTERNOON
“Kinder, küche, kirche”, says Doctor R, peering over his glasses. Doctors like doing that, peering over their glasses. I tilt my head and frown. “It’s a German saying, means ‘children, kitchen, church’, describing a woman’s place in society”, he explains.
The Official Business of Being Ill (procurance of my medical certificate and Panadeine Forte prescription) over, now it’s time for the real business of talking. Doctor R loves a chat, and we talk about why the person I’d lived with for nearly a decade has gone from being my ‘best friend’ to an ‘old friend’ to ’someone I’m hardly friends with’. It’s the typical script - he’s gotten a managerial job, a girl to settle down with and an impending mortgage (hence the German housewives quote). I’ve gotten a fondness for fast cars, a young DJ boyfriend and a growing collection of corsetry. He doesn’t visit the cat we once shared much. I am somewhat heartbroken, but there’s nothing I can do.
Then it’s Doctor R’s turn; his children have literally driven him out of home. There’s nothing wrong with his marriage, he simply cannot stand his lazy, socially maladjusted, electronic-device addicted, responsibility-averse teenagers any longer. Apparently the choices were move out or strangle someone; the former seemed less illegal than the latter.
My doctor has run away from home. Oh, and he’s planning on getting a Frank Zappa tattoo. Bless ‘im.
EVENING
I pat Courtney on the head as she mimics eating me out. She wears cat ears and a black bikini. Madison giggles and thrusts her breasts in The Boyfriend’s face. She’s been giggling for most of the evening, actually, I suspect that she may be quite ticklish. Plus, Courtney tends to nibble and raspberry her partners when she’s bored.
Strippers are good people to know. It’s downright therapeutic to kick back with a drink (don’t lecture me about painkillers and alcohol not mixing) and watch them prance about, being silly and naked. Work, health and people may be a pain in the ass, but having Lesbian Friday (yes, I know that they are only pretend lesbians) to look forward to is a great motivational sweetener to get through the week.