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The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A tale to breathe or not to breathe

good night sleep
The road to a good night’s sleep is fraught with danger and excitement.

A real queen of refinement strives in all things to repress bodily functions and auditory emissions. Truth in advertising, I now ashamedly confess that I snore in my sleep. Oh, the horror! When I was in my 20s, my roommate told me that I purr rather loudly in the night.

As years progressed, the “sawing of logs” escalated from a mere “wheezing and blowing” to an all-out “sound of a bull moose in Rutt.” It became such that roommates would sleep in another room. God bless Mr. Pap Smear. He can sleep through an atomic blast. When the Logan Queens went on group camping trips, they would segregate me in a faraway pasture. It was a source of neverending shame for this emerging princess. Eventually, I had the operation where the surgeon goes into the throat and cuts out the soft pallet and the uvula to make the airway larger, and the snoring stops. Gratefully, the procedure greatly diminished my “sounding like a steam engine” to a gentle purr.

Over the years, as this princess has become a queen of somewhat “enhanced gravity” and “physical imensitude” the nocturnal breathing problems have returned and even worsened. Thus, I took a home sleep study that showed I have Sleep Apnea and I wake up at least 127 times an hour to take in a breath. The doctor says it’s time for a C-Pap machine to help me breathe in the night. So, I went to LDS hospital Sleep Clinic for a C-Pap machine fitting.

It was 8 p.m. as I entered the clinic, prepared to stay the night and tortured with all manner of sleeping aids. I prayed for a pretty boy nurse to ease my anxiety. Glory be, the technician, Trent, came whirling around the corner and left me stunned by his beauty. He was 6-foot-2, jet-black hair, and soulful brown eyes that could search my soul. His biceps filled the arms of his lavender hospital scrubs completely. You could launder clothing on his washboard stomach. The package in his pants was ever so prominently displayed, not to mention those buns of steel. OH! MY! GAWD! How am I to breathe naturally with this “Heavy Breathing Initiator” in my vicinity? So, dreamily, I sat there as he instructed on the different types of masks to choose. Since I’m extremely claustrophobic, I decided on a simple nose piece that didn’t cover my face.

Then Trent prepared me for the study. It entailed wire electrodes all over my head and body. I barely contained myself as Trent straddled my legs, measured my head, and drew marks all over the place with a grease pencil. Of course, in this position, there was only one thing I could look at in the universe. There were only a few inches from my welcoming mouth as stroked through my hair, and the fabric of his shirt drooped and brushed my cheeks, the scent of soap and a light musky fragrance wafted from his chest. He breathed ever so slightly into my ear. I was in heaven. Surely Trent and I could run away from the hospital to the beaches of Tahiti and live happily ever after. I’m sure we could have made beautiful babies together.

However, I was drawn back to reality when Trent needed to place an electrode inside my shirt. He reached inside my neckline, and his hand stroked my naked chest, and then suddenly, horribly the magic disappeared as he counted down to the third roll of fat to place the wire. Oh, the shame. Then to immediately repeat the horror by counting down to the third roll on the left side. Next came the gluing of electrodes to my head, in my hair. It was slightly uncomfortable as Trent grounded each wire with a patch of glue. It went on for about 30 minutes. Finally, the mask went over my nose. I looked like a Borg from Star Trek. “Resistance is futile!”

I fell asleep quickly, knowing that Trent was watching me on camera. I dreamt I was on a spaceship, and there had been rupture of the hull, and the air was escaping into space. I was gasping for air, and couldn’t understand why Trent hadn’t put up a force field to seal the air leak. The valiant rescuer came into the room, adjusted my chin strap, stopping the leak.

Alas, 5 a.m. arrived, and Trent kicked my pile of Borg roadkill unceremoniously out. Well, I had only one course of action — bacon, egg and cheese biscuit at McDonald’s drive-thru.

This story leaves us with several important questions:

1.    When camping, did my “calling of the hogs” function as a warning beacon to frighten off wolves and such?
2.    Could my “night thunder” have been used as a fog horn for lost hikers?
3.    When I had the surgery, should I have claimed I fell among cutthroats?
4.    Did choose the small nose piece because it’s easier to bedazzle?

These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.

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About the author

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear is a Matron of Mayhem who was born and raised in Cache Valley, Utah. She hosts Third Friday Bingo and the Big Gay Fun Bus.

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