This post was originally featured on Barefoot Foodie over a year ago.  In honor of Ovarian Cancer Month, and the importance of seeing your doctor regularly, I thought I would re-live, again,  it with all of you.

Last night we went to a bonfire in the fields behind a friend’s house.

I was ill prepared, donning a sundress and flip flops, but, I have hiked my skirt up for nastier situations (hello high school), so hurdling knee high corn wasn’t an issue.

We had fun, the boys had fun, there was plenty of Busch and Skynyrd to go around, the night was a success. In a moment of classiness (read: I’m a lazy ass), I decided that the house was a hike I didn’t feel like making, and decided a squat and pee was my best bet (just a little trick I picked up as a debutante).

The squat and pee is a serious country girl skill, there is a lot of balance work involved, discretion, and ingenuity because, well, you gotta find something creative to wipe with that won’t leave you itching your ass for the next two weeks.

So, yes, I squatted. I peed. Things went off without a hitch, no drunken friends finding me and trying to push me over, no poison ivy leaves, and no pee on my underwear…because…ummm…I wasn’t wearing any.

This, my friends, could be a whole post in itself. I only wear underwear when I am involved in some sort of sport, other times, I opt out. It’s not to be sexy or scandalous, it’s just a comfort issue.

Period.

Oh…and I guess during that time, too, duh.

So, the night ended, we went home, went to bed, the end.

Except!

This morning I had to go in for my yearly. Sweet Jesus, I am turning into my mother. Anyways, I went in for the pap. As I am sure most women can attest, it isn’t something I looked forward to, it’s a necessity to keep my lady parts healthy and in working order.

I arrived early, as the OBGYN is the one place I am guaranteed to feel hot and skinny with all those chubby preggos hanging about. Hubby wanted me to at least take one of the boys with me, but I put a stop to that nonsense at once. Nothing like chasing a toddler around the room half naked, getting all sweaty in areas I need to remain cool and dry.

Hub: Seriously, can you just take one of them?
Me: It’s too hard hun, they get into everything, plus, there are pictures of vaginas, like, all over the walls…don’t you think they are a little young to see vagina pictures?
Hub: Yeah, maybe that isn’t a good idea.
Me: Well, if you think so sweetie, you’re the boss.

I got called back, weighed (whores!), and given the 5cmx5cm not quite a gown to change into.

Everything was going swimmingly.

My OB is a doll, super friendly, and super quick (the best quality one can possess when they are in charge of sticking cold metal things inside of you).

I was laying back, trying to act engrossed in the faux conversation we were having to distract the awkwardness of her rooting around in my lady hole, when she stopped me in the middle of my fruit salsa recipe and pushed her chair back.

What?

“Hmmm.”

What?

Cancer?

I have cancer?

You can see it, am I going to die?

“Um…”

Tell me!

Wait, do you see a baby in there?

IS THERE A BABY IN THERE!?

She reached for the longest pair of tweezers I have ever, EVER, seen, and pinched my vagina so hard I almost passed out.

“Got it!”

Excuse me?

“Look, you had a tick on your labia.”

Labia. Tick. Die. I want to die.

This, darlings, is why you always wear underwear in a cornfield.