Bittersweet

Yesterday I had my third pelvic exam in seven days. This was the least uncomfortable pelvic exam of the trio, and I'm not being facetious.

"Don't cry!" the nurse told me, as she jammed in the cold speculum with a little twist.

Why would I cry when I could just kick? I thought.

"I won't," I said.

Afterwards, I did what anyone would do under the circumstances; I treated myself to a copy of the British edition of the current OK! magazine.

In my opinion, the reason why OK! hasn't been so popular in the States is because the U.S. edition isn't chock-full of material about British celebrities. Us Weekly does a fine job of filling us in on Brangelina and Vincifer; what a woman really wants after a pelvic exam is to read about television presenters, footballers' wives, Posh and Becks, and Jordan, the enormous-breasted Page 3 model. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're really missing out. I'm serious.

As I sat drowning my sorrows in "The OK! Rich List: Which Celebrities Raked in the Most Dosh in 2005?" my cellphone rang.

It was Mrs. Harridan! She was in New York for the day on business, and had some free time.

A few hours later, we shunned a too-crowded Starbucks and headed for an empty Irish pub for an hour of pleasing, supportive conversation. She bequeathed me with the ring you see in the photo above. As I wore it home on the subway, ultimately headed for one of several tedious meetings this week, I swear, its fuzzy purpleness imparted a fortifying essence into my weary bod.

Thanks, Mrs. Harridan. I really needed that.