The Master Mechanic and the Missing Testicles

Three years ago, after giving a manfriend a vigorous ride through truly exciting terrain, a little surprise resulted:

But I have no radiator–where the heck was all that fluid coming from?

NOTE: Terms have been slightly modified to respect the more delicate sensibilities of male readers.

I stop at the top. There’s only a length of hoohah hose long enough to fit a man’s hahhoo.

Here Be Dragons Vag Diagram

My Biggest Dragon Flew the Coop Long Ago

With my two autocidal diseases, I’m used to surprises. I didn’t rush to the mechanic. The next day, I was still leaking fluid, but also still breathing. I made an appointment with a friendly hoohah-cologist.

After shallow spelunking, and some sealant application, she shrugged and said “With you, who knows? Hold off on fun, and try again in a few days.”

That many days later, after more sealant, she said “Jeez, I don’t have a clue. Everything looks really healthy up there.”

Over the past three years, that same hose has leaked again after fun. Not often. Just often enough to make the idea of dating a new guy awkward:

“Hi, New Dude. Uh…listen: There’s the minor matter that I might spring a serious leak if we go uphill or take it above 55…”

Three weeks ago, I lost so much fluid my date and I almost headed for the 24-hour emergency garage.

I later googled like mad and finally discovered that my symptoms could indicate The Big C: Corrosion.

Last year, repeated fluid diagnostics had indicated corrosion somewhere under the hood, but but no scans or mechanics had found any.

I think, instead of the Big C, maybe a teensy bit of misplaced radiator material at the top of the hoohah hose springs a leak–

IF I have fun the same days I’ve applied the recommended additive for older engines: S-Trojan.

(Forget that Pro-Jetster-Zone junk for engines THIS old!)

I really need to get this tricky problem solved. This is my only vehicle, and I’ve noticed most dudes aren’t real fond of hoohah to hahhoo radiator fluid transfer.

They pretty much freak out at the sight of a little coolant.

I needed to see a Master Mechanic.


I was nakey, but only from the waist down. I was to be checked out by a tip-top corrosion doc.

I wrapped my nakey bottom in the gown and waited, after running out into the hallway just long enough to pee–and to show off my designer outfit.

Naked From the Waist Down

I Can’t Say I Was Overfond of Their Gowns

After about 15 minutes, the doctor entered. A tall, pleasant-looking man, he smiled and shook hands while introducing himself. Unfortunately, he shook like he wanted to best a male rival.

I inadvertently cried out from the pain. He asked “Did I hurt you?”. I answered “Yes—only a little.” My aching hand throbbed. He didn’t apologize.

I looked toward the door for the female resident or a nurse who’d join us, but the doctor sat down and asked his first question:

“I understand you believe you’ve had a hysterectomy?”


Me (calmly): “I find that question patronizing.”
Doc: “How is it patronizing?”

Me (teacher mode): “Well, what if I were the doctor and you the patient and I asked you: ‘I understand you believe you’ve had your testicles removed?’

Don’t you think you would remember? Do you think it’s different for women because our parts are internal?”

Doc (huffily): If you find my question patronizing, I don’t think this is going to work for either one of us.”

And he stood up and walked out of the room.

I was left there, pantsless and doctor-less. Still not knowing whether or not I have–corrosion.

I’d had to jump through hoops like a performing seal to get this appointment. There are very few Master Mechanics with his expertise. NOW what?!


Leaving the famous hospital (Geezers Die-Die, perhaps?), I spoke to a lovely woman in Customer Relations, asking: “What would you think if…?”

Upon hearing the question, the lovely woman’s face looked like she’d been hit in it by a hot iron. She called his words “unconscionable”.

My sister Meg said: “I would have been struck speechless.”

My friend A. said she would have had two thoughts in sequence:

“Does the doctor mean we women should have no confidence at all in any doctors or medical facilities? That when we’re told we’ve been given hysterectomies, we’ve instead been lied to and defrauded?

Or, does this doctor think I’m insane?”

My nurse friend in Pasadena laughed hysterically. She loved my answer, but said:

“You should have asked him if he was off his game because he was having his period!”

I snorted back. “I should have put on a dumb-bunny voice, leaned forward, and said:

‘Gosh, I’m really not sure, Doctor! Can you look down my throat and check to see whether my uterus is still down there?'”

The department mucky-mucks told me to write what happened, send it to the Complaint Department, and wait ten business days for a response.

Not one muck offered another doctor, or expressed concern over my still-undiagnosed condition.


This ugly visit happened the same week I learned a dentist has lied to and defrauded me, and

The same week a licensed plumber came to finish installing my dishwasher but instead flooded my kitchen floor.

Unending similar weeks led me to need a break from blogging. When one has bad luck magnetism as powerful as mine, one must sometimes withdraw to regroup and remuster the optimism required for normal human interaction.

I think of you guys, and miss your blogs, but I am still muster-less. I am even considering renewed thumb-sucking. What a warm feeling it was. I think I’ll give it a try tonight, while I hug my stuffed bunny. He has never let me down.

Yet. (sigh.)

–O. Babe

Thumb-Sucking Mandrill

My Baby Pic


Lord, Save Me From Helpful, Encouraging Men

Dear Dating Site Dude,
It is so refreshing to know that you believe in a “full and equal relationship between a man and woman”.
How lovely that I’d be “encouraged” to have interests of my own. For, without such encouragement from you, I would surely not think on my own to stray from our hearth, and would grow to resent my limited life, and you.
And I especially agree with your comment about domestic duties. I, too, realize that occasionally it would be more “convenient” for me, as well, to “lend a hand with laundry, cooking, and cleaning duties”.
I am curious, though: For all those other times–when it’s not convenient for either one of us–who will perform those duties?
Bred For Housework

Perhaps We Can Hire Out To the Bred-For-Domestic-Duty Subclass Within the Subclass? (They’s All Happy When They Cleans)

You are looking for a woman comfortable in a domestic role. Stop looking at skinny little things like me. Look for sexy women with more meat on their bones. I suspect odds will be better you’ll find more women who won’t mind cooking you up some fine meals.
Me, I’m finished cooking for a man. I worked full-time (many years of 65+ hours) and cooked and kept house(s) for men from 1977 to 2005. That’s long enough.
It’s MY turn. I’ll clean and do laundry, or most of both, but everyone can do their own d#mned cooking, or take ME out. I’m worth it.
I do wish you the very best of luck with your search.
–O. Babe


How Hot Cereal Made Me a Feminist

I lied.   Hot cereal didn’t make me a feminist. I suspect I was born one. But, when I was very, very (very) young, it did put a voice to my feminism.


HO Farina Still

“This Will Give Us Strength To Get That E.R.A. Amendment Passed, Sweet-Pea!”


But first, the REAL reason for this post:

I am asking today, if you have not yet seen it, to go visit this Freshly-Pressed post, If I Had a Dollar (Why I Am a Feminist). Its author, Anna Fonté, simply lists some personal experiences which have combined to make her a feminist–and then invites her readers to post their own reasons for why they are feminists.

Anna’s reasons are…big ones. Her writing is bare. I believe her post will become known as one of the classic pieces about feminism.

I chose not to add big reasons (I’ve got plenty.) Here is what I commented on Anna’s post:

Why I Am a Feminist

Because of the big stuff you said. And because of the small stuff. That isn’t small.

Because I could never get an A in Penmanship no matter how hard I tried–my letters were “too small and not slanty enough” according to my teacher–but the two boys who wrote teeny-tiny letters were awarded As.

Because my favorite commercial, for H.O. Farina, told the truth, when Willie said to Wilhelmina that he thought she couldn’t move a big rock ’cause “Hah! You’re a GIRL!”–Then she picked it up and threw it a mile!

Because I didn’t like girl games and Barbie dolls.

Because I was suspended for wearing pants to school.

And because they wouldn’t let me take shop and learn woodworking, but forced me instead to prepare for my future role by learning about different cuts of steak.

And because when my two girlfriends and I forced our way into Auto Mechanics class, the teacher refused the entire year to let us work on a car. And got away with it.

Because my brother told me once, after hearing me on the phone all afternoon with coworkers and vendors:
“No WONDER you piss people off: You talk like a man. Nobody likes that from a woman.”

Because, when my spouse was clearly irritated at me in public, those around clearly assumed I was in the wrong.

Thank you for your post.

Every DAY I trip over that rock, Wilhelmina!
    Move it, Willie!

Can’t–‘s too BIG!
    I’LL move it!

HAH! You’re a GIRL!
    (Heaves rock a mile!)

“Strong Wilhelmina,
Eats her farina,
H.O. Farina,
Creeeeam farina,
Smooth and delicious,
All boys and girls,
Love it so…

My Grandma’s Hands

My Grandma M. was the perfect white-person grandma straight out of storybooks: Baby-powder skin, silver hair, blue eyes, soft voice, gentle hands. But I used to be afraid of Grandma M.’s hands.

Scary Hand Shadows Approaching Bed

“No, That’s Okay. I Don’t Need To Be Tucked In.”

Grandma M. came to live with us for a while. My mom squeezed a third twin bed along with the two my younger sister Meg and and I already had in our one-person bedroom, somehow fitting it in along with our dressers and nightstands. Grandma had to share part-drawers with each of us.

Macy Girl, our big sister, had a HUGE room on the ground floor entirely to herself–the master bedroom, actually. No need for Grandma to climb two flights of stairs, or to share a bathroom with five other people. But make Macy Girl share?

It was a bit of a culture shock on both sides, living with Grandma, because Meggy and I were not neat, soft-spoken, dress-wearing little girls. However, Grandma knew we loved her, and we knew she loved us.

Starbaby in Pink

Some People and Things Are Just Instantly Lovable

The best part about Grandma coming to live with us was that she tucked Meggy and me in at night. We dimestore daughters weren’t used to that. It was wonderful being coddled and fussed over. Grandma would pull up our bedclothes with her old, wrinkled hands and very gently tuck the blankets around us.

On Grandma’s hands, the bones and tendons stood out, and you could see every blue vein. No wonder, at first, I was scared of her hands:

Images of old women, or even just parts of them–drooping noses, lined lips, sagging breasts, veiny hands–are frequently used in stories and films to portray ugliness or evil. It is interesting, isn’t it, that images of old men aren’t typically used that way?

With hands in particular, advertisers and Disney have conditioned us from childhood to be inspired by confidence in an older man’s strong hands–even ropey ones (think of an aged sailor), but to turn away from old women’s “witch” hands.

One comedian says about old-woman hands:

Old-Woman Hands Crossed

“No WAY will they ever touch MY junk.”

I guess he intends to give up touching his own junk when his own hands look the same way. His junk will be very lonely. Peeing will be a b#tch. Ah–but he’ll be in grown-up Dydees by then. Bet he thinks THAT happens only to old women, too.

I Dont Always Wear Depends

I outgrew my first fears, and came to love Grandma’s gentle old hands. When I became a grown-up, I heard Gil Scott-Heron sing a lovely song called “Grandma’s Hands”, and it made me think of my own grandma’s hands ever afterward. If you listen to it at the bottom of this post, you will know exactly how I felt.

My hands began to look like my Grandma’s hands when I was quite young–perhaps because of my diseases. Thanks to “Grandma’s Hands”, I have always been proud of my strong-looking hands.

F#ck Disney.

Fuck Disney By Ariel

They Told Me To Keep MY Big ‘Man Hands’ Hidden During Filming!


After Grandma M. tucked us in at night with her strong, gentle hands, she would sing the Starbaby song to us in her crackly, trembly old-woman voice. She sounded beautiful.

When I had my own children, I sang the Starbaby song to them, too.

Here I am singing it.

And that is how I am going to end this post.

I love you, Grandma.

Thank you for singing me the Starbaby song.


If you couldn’t understand my nervous voice, here are the words the way my Grandma sang them to me:

There was a star baby way up in the sky;
Grew tired and hungry and started to cry:

“Oh Mama, Dear Mama, I’m sleepy,” it said,
“Please bring me my supper, and put me to bed.”

Away went the star mother on wings of true love,
To the bonny bright Dipper that sparkles above,

She took it and hurried to the Milky Way stream,
Where brimful she filled it with rich milk and cream.

She fed the star baby with cunning and croon;
And rocked the star cradle:

The shiny new moon.

Song written by Bill Withers

Gentle hands;
Why then the fear?
What twisted culture
Have we here?

Don’t hate the gay,
Brown, fat, or fem,
But old and female?
Cool. Hate THEM.

Um…Guys? I love Disney. Little Mermaid is one of my favorites. I just get a little carried away when I’m up on one of my soapboxes, spitting into the online sea (that almost sound familiar, don’t it?).

There are plenty of things Disney has done that I despise–like pricing their parks beyond reach of yours truly, who used to go at least twice a year–but the eff-them sentiments expressed herein apply only to Disney’s sexist ageism.

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