On a Scale of 1 to 10, 1000

Some buttinski baby decided it just had to be born today. Which considerably delayed my party. Which contributed greatly to Mr. L.'s Waiting Anxiety and my Overall Bitchiness Range.

I passed the time by planning how I was going to Photoshop the cute little smiley faced pain chart once I got out of there.

Two hours after the weigh in, pee in a cup, kiss my clothes goodbye, get an IV started, answer the same 20 questions for the twentieth time, sit on a bed behind a curtain that really doesn't conceal or deflect anything rigmorale began, I was getting edgy. Listen, my uterus was here long before the chick's across the hall and she's already done, outta here and eating lunch at Burger King.

And somehow I had morphed into a plural being (which may explain the outrageous co-pay; I am being billed as two.) A cheerful nurse checks in with "Things are running a little late because doctor had to deliver a baby. How are we doing in here?"

"Well, you're doing fine because you have all your clothes on, I just heard you ordering your lunch and you're getting paid to be here. I, however, am naked beneath a flimsy open backed gown whose little ties are all torn off, I haven't had lunch. Or breakfast. Or supper last night. And I had to pay for the effing pleasure. We? Really? WE???"