Dealing with the FBI

Monday, January 9:

I finally remember to call my doctor for an appointment.

Now, my OB/GYN seems like a great person. But her front desk people make me want to scream. They are rude. They disconnect me. I have to call back. I explain again I think I’m pregnant and need to come in to see for sure. They don’t care. People get pregnant all the time. I’m not special. They are cold. They are the FBI: Frosty Bitches of Ice. (Forgive me, God.)

The FBI begrudgingly give me an appointment. I cannot see my doctor; I have to see the nurse practitioner, whom I’ve never met. And I have to wait two and a half weeks.