When I did theater in high school, the tech crew would put a speaker in the hallway that was our backstage so that we could hear what was going on onstage, including lines said through microphones and sound effects.

One day, after the cast had been rehearsing for a while but while the tech crew was just getting started, I was talking to some of my friends backstage, very close to both the speaker and the men’s room.

One of them excused himself to use the bathroom, and I turned to do something else. A second later, music that the crew was planning to use for a set change started playing over the speaker, but since they hadn’t used the speaker before, they played it at an unbelievably loud volume. I jumped a mile because this was in no way expected, but they soon turned it down to bearable levels.

I turned around to see that my friend was even more surprised than me and was now lying sprawled out in the entrance to the bathroom.

Friend: “Well, I had to use the bathroom. Had to. It’s a past-tense need now.”

I am pregnant with my first child, and it is time to go have my first pregnancy appointment with my OB/GYN. I have been seeing her for a while and generally am very happy with her. She’s a nice older lady who never makes me feel rushed, but a downside to this is that she’s often running behind because she doesn’t rush the other patients, either.

Today, though, she is especially behind, and my husband and I are sitting in the waiting room two hours after the time when my appointment was supposed to start. I was already anxious because I have some health conditions that make me more likely to have complications, so I am eager to be checked out and make sure the pregnancy is healthy.

Eventually, we are finally shown to the exam room, which is not the biggest. There, we wait for another thirty minutes before the doctor arrives. At this point I am, I believe justifiably, on edge.

We have a brief discussion about the pregnancy and my health, and it’s determined that she needs to examine me. I go to get all set up in the stirrups, and at this point, I’m still covered.

Doctor: “Okay, [Husband], can you please stand over there behind [My Name]?” 

My husband does so.

Doctor: “Actually, could you move a little farther to your right?” 

My husband then squeezes even farther behind me and the exam table. But the doctor just keeps directing him this way around this cramped little exam room until he’s finally in a spot she’s happy with. She then turns around and starts adjusting things on the counter behind her.

I get confused when I see her start adjusting frames on the wall, and eventually, I figure it out. She’s rearranging anything that could be reflective so that my husband won’t see me once she lifts up the sheet that’s covering my nether regions.

Now it’s kind of funny, but at the time, two and a half hours after my appointment time, while I am incredibly anxious, it is irritating. I eventually get tired of her fiddling and exclaim:

Me: “Enough! He’s seen me naked before! H***, his involvement with my vagina is what made the need for this appointment in the first place!”

Doctor: *Taken aback* “Well, I was just looking out for your privacy.”

Me: “Look. Everyone in this room has seen my vagina multiple times. Can we just get on with the exam already?”

Doctor: “Yes, yes, of course. Apologies. I didn’t know you two were so… comfortable with each other.”

I still don’t know what she meant by that. Are there really couples at pregnancy appointments with an OB/GYN that would start pearl-clutching about their partner seeing them exposed?

Thankfully, the exam went well, and she was a great doctor through the rest of the pregnancy, though she did always act like she thought my husband was a bit odd.

Once upon a time, I worked in a moribund department store, and we were pushed to get customer surveys. A customer wrote this on a survey.

Customer: “I was in several departments in your store with my twelve-year-old daughter, and in children’s clothing and shoes, they were awesome! I was in juniors, and the young associate was complaining about her cell phone bill, and she used the word ‘frickin’. I was appalled! I told her I didn’t like her choice of words and expected an apology, but she just looked at me. I was shopping with a twelve-year-old, and we don’t talk like that in our house! I didn’t come here to hear about an associate’s problems or hear foul language.”

The manager wrote on this survey:

Manager: “This is why we minimize talking at the register!”

On a Friday at lunchtime, I’m sitting in my office talking to two of my colleagues. We’re all male.

Colleague #1: “Hey, [My Name], any weekend plans?”

I tell him my plans. He turns to [Colleague #2].

Colleague #1: “What about you, [Colleague #2]? Any plans?”

[Colleague #2] laughs.

Colleague #2: “Yeah. Hah! Babysitting!”

[Colleague #1] and I are intrigued.

Colleague #1: “Oh, really? Who are you babysitting?”

Colleague #2: *Looking confused* “Uh… my son?”

[Colleague #1] gives me an “Is he serious?” sort of look.

Colleague #1: “Your son? Uh… [Colleague #2]? That’s not ‘babysitting’. That’s called ‘parenting’!”

I did laugh at that one; he did have a point!

When I was younger, my little brother was very into a first-person shooter video game, and he was really good at it. He and his team enjoyed their games against other players.

One day, he had me come in to sit with him as he played. Then, he got an evil look in his eyes and handed me his microphone headset.

Brother: “Talk as if you were playing.”

Now, while I am older, I am of the same evil genetic stock as my brother, and I pitched my voice to sound even younger.

It. Was. Glorious. My brother cleaned house.

The amount of salt, rage, tears, and frustrated screaming produced by a bunch of sexist teenage boys on the opposite side was wondrous to behold. My brother was decimating his opponents, and they thought they were getting the crap kicked out of them by a little girl. Screamed sexism, new swear words, and creative (anatomically impossible) curses were learned that day.

His team was howling with laughter, and I found out that this evil plan was concocted by the lot of them. Some group had bothered my brother’s team for a long time with trash talk, verbal and in-game harassment, sexist comments calling into question gender identity and sexuality — the whole nine yards.

The plan was initially to turn my brother loose to destroy them with the team as backup. Then, the fact that my brother had a sister came into play, and I became part of the diabolical plan without even needing an explanation.

My brother’s team congratulated my brother and me on destroying the very souls of the opposing team. Apparently, the harassment stopped shortly after I made my diabolical debut.

Related:
Can’t Hear You Over The Sound Of Your Ovaries, Part 23
Can’t Hear You Over The Sound Of Your Ovaries, Part 22
Can’t Hear You Over The Sound Of Your Ovaries, Part 21
Can’t Hear You Over The Sound Of Your Ovaries, Part 20
Can’t Hear You Over The Sound Of Your Ovaries, Part 19