Wasted Potential, I Tell You What, Man.

Okay, so a CT scan is NOTHING like the Google search hits told me it would be.  There are no bindings, leather or otherwise.  There are no large, burly people.  It doesn't feel even moderately dangerous.  No one yells at you to lay there and take it.  Marylin Manson is not bumping through the stereo in a dimly lit room, there isn't even any lub....


I had a totally freaking coronary about the fact that I had no sitter for my kids.  My neighbor had agreed to be "on call" for my 10 year old, and he agreed to be paid $5 to watch his sister while I was gone.  Now, I'm a pretty crappy mom, but I haven't sunk that low just yet.  Yet.

So everyone piled in the car with every toy we could cram into a Dora backpack, and off we went to explore the wonders of the Canadian Waiting Room System.  Where there were toys, other people, and a wheelchair.  Yep, they would be just fine.

So, they called me back and thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster I didn't bother wearing my sexy underwear, because this is what they handed me to put on.

When they say that one size fits all, they're not kidding.  I could have put everyone in those pants.  Hey, did you know that 90% of the time, if you hover over my pictures, a love letter appears?  Try it, you'll like it.

And then, the moment of truth.  Also called, the moment I chickened out and could not bring myself to ask for permission to take pictures.  Because I try not to be a freak.  In real life.  Bygones.  I climbed onto the table and they slid me into the donut thing that had a shocking lack of powdered sugar on it anywhere, and we began.

You know in that movie Contact, when they finally build the secret alien swirling vortex thing, and Jodi Foster climbs inside of it and it's all whooooop....whoooop....whoooop until it starts spinning really fast and going whoopwhoopwhoopwhoopwhoop then the walls drip away and she is shot headfirst through what I imagine is an exact replica of the inside of Andrew Lloyd Webber's penis and then she lands in the middle of a Monet painting, on crack, and her dead father is there to greet her or something and then it's back through the Amazing Technocolor Dream Urethra and *poof*?  No one saw a thing but her?

Yeah, it was nothing like that.  Except the whooping.  There was a lot of that.  And they did make me keep my hands over my head the whole time (and Ms. Changes Pants While Driving?  SO loving you for the heads up on the pit shave before I left.  Really.  Excellent tip) There were also laser targets pointing right at my happy trail, which just made me mad on seven different levels, and a sticker over a small window on the very front of the machine that read, "Laser Lights.  Do NOT Look Here."

Oh, those people have GOT to be kidding me.  There is no possible way I could have looked at anything else.  And if little mutant babies start growing in my eyeballs, I'm totally billing them for the eye-epidural someone is going to have to invent and administer to my eyeballs upon delivery.

And then it was over.  In four minutes, start to finish.  Now, I have certainly had dates that lasted less time than that, but I think I just expected more, you know?  Some sort of pomp, followed by the slightest bit of circumstance?  Nope, nothing.  I asked the tech if we could do it again 10 more times, so I could milk the silence for all it was worth, and she said no.  Meanie.  There were more patients to be seen and a waiting room full of people to save from my toddler who had just stopped howling about the time I stepped out of the tube of doom.

On a happy note, I did remember halfway through the CT Scan that I was awfully happy it wasn't an MRI, because I just don't think my IUD and those magnets would care much about all that flesh standing inbetween their love.  So at least I had that going for me.