South Beach Nothin'

Dear Diary,

Last week I went to the doctor for a "check up" (I really just wanted him to refill my Xanax, tee hee!) Anyway, talk about invasive. The guy is like 60 and he's ALWAYS trying to be my gynecologist. I'm like, no thank you, I have a lesbian gynecologist who I'm quite pleased with so stop trying to give me a pap smear, you pervert.

Anyway, he asks me all about birth control, and am I trying to get pregnant. I say no (like it's his business) so he's like, there are lots of new options for birth control, blah blah. THEN (and I just about fainted here) he whips out this rubber ring from a drawer, one of these new-fangled birth control contraptions, and starts playing with it and describing how I would insert it, and how I can take it out while I'm "making love" and how most men say they can't feel it. Blech! I think I need a new doctor. Did I mention the totally unnecessary breast exam he gave me when I first went to him?

I think there was a point to this story. Ah yes; I got weighed and I've gained SEVEN pounds since my wedding. So of course I immediately went on South Beach, until I realized you're not supposed to DRINK. Are you kidding me? That sounds like a pretty shitty diet. So what's a girl to do?

Love, Fluffy