Let's Look At Your Pussy - Then We'll Fix Your Face

So I went to a French doctor for the first time today. I've had this gnarley spot on my leg that has decided not to go away. I'm prone to skin cancer, since I char-broiled myself too many times on the nude beaches of Greece and beside the drunken poolsides of Old Mexico. So I thought I'd better have it checked out.

I've got some great Greek beach stories. Remind me later.

OK, so my good friend Marla Maples, my private concierge in Paris, called her doctor and made an appointment for me and for herself at the same time. Marla assured me that she would go with me to translate and if I had to get naked in front of the doctor, she would be glad to watch. What follows is my personal story of French socialized medicine. (Can someone call Michael Moore? This is important.)

First of all, the appointment was in the evening. Can you name any American doctor's office that is open in the evening? Oh, and Marla called that morning to get the appointment for that evening. Oh, and the doctor answered the phone and made the appointment herself. Buhahaha!

Second, doctors in Paris are in every neighborhood. You don't have to drive 30 miles to see one like I had to do in Arizona. I met Marla at her place and we walked one short block and pushed open a frosted glass door. What I saw inside could serve as the poster for socialized medicine. Tiny waiting room with 4 blue plastic chairs, dirty floor, nothing on the gray walls, no reception window or receptionist, no sign-in sheet, no mini kiosks with handy health pamphlets printed by your friendly corporate drug behemoth. Just one door, behind which presumably hid the doctor.

Marla continued to chat about her new boyfriend, while sitting shoulder to shoulder with a teenage boy who's head had dropped kneeward. I had a chair to myself but my knees were knocking Marla's on my right, and the cane of a little old black lady to my left. That's how small this room was.

Within minutes, the mystery door opened and a female patient exited, holding paperwork. Behind her was, I assumed, the doctor. She was a woman about my age, dressed in street clothes. No white coat, no stethoscope hanging around her neck. No clipboard in her hands. She called a name and the teenager woke up and followed the doctor into the nether regions. The lady with the cane stood up and mumbled something angrily and then sat back down again. Perhaps she thought it should have been her turn.

Marla was still talking. I felt a little funny. Like we weren't allowed to talk. (But I feel that way most of the time.) Marla's audience consisted of me and the old lady with the cane and we both stared with rapt attention at Marla and listened to the vicissitudes of divorced cardiologists in southern beach towns and their questionable marriage potential. I think I even shushed her at one point. Good thing she likes me.

In two minutes or less, the teenager came out and was again followed by the doctor. She called Marla's name. Me and Marla stood up. So did the lady with the cane. Except this time, she started to object loudly. The doctor listened, talked to her kindly and the lady sat down again, satisfied. In we went to the nether regions.

Again, a tiny gray-walled, dank little room, with an examination table on the left, walls lined with book shelves that were stuffed with what looked like files and then maybe medical supplies, a metal desk and two 70's gold-upholstered chairs in front of the desk. There was no sign of a computer anywhere. The doctor changed the paper on the exam table (there was no helpful nurse in the room) and told us to sit down in front of the desk. Marla and I had to stand aside so the doctor could squeeze behind the desk and then Marla stood aside so I could squeeze behind the gold chairs and then we both sat down. That's how small that room was.

The doc got out a pad of paper and looked up at me expectantly. Marla translated. The doc wrote down my name, after many spelling corrections from Marla, my age, after all of us trying to do the required month/day switch, and then asked about my problem. I told her, so she motioned me over to the exam table (Marla had to stand up to let me out) where I sat and lifted my pant leg and she prodded my "spot." Then I told her I had other questionable spots and she had my lift my shirt in the back. Oui, many questionable spots. You must go to a dermatologist as soon as possible.

She wondered why I hadn't just gone directly to a dermatologist. It's because I'm dealing with Blue Cross Blue Shield in America and they told me I had to go to a GP first. Me and Marla and the doc all rolled our eyes at the wastefulness of such a thing. Gatekeepers. Sacré bleu. Doc wrote down the name of a dermatologist in the neighborhood. Marla said she didn't like him and asked for another recommendation. Later she told me that he had gone ballistic when she brought the dog she was watching into the exam room. I had to guffaw at that. "What?" Marla said.

The doc asked if I would get reimbursed for this visit and I said yes, but not with much confidence. If I wasn't, she said, she wouldn't charge me for the visit. "Oh No!" The wealthy American with no fucking income says, "I'll pay!"

It was 22 Euros. Buhahahahaha! That wasn't the co-pay girls and boys, it was the cost of the examination. I told her you couldn't get out of a doctor's office for a routine exam in America under $85. We all gasped and shook our heads ensemble. Then we had a delightful parody as we all tried to make change. The doctor dragged out a zipped bag stuffed with cash, then out of her purse she got an Altoids-like tin and dug through there. It was like being at a garage sale.

Then we had to somehow create the paperwork required by BCBS. None of it looked official enough. I needed my "medical record," an itemized bill and proof of payment. I got a little hand-written note on the doctor's notepad (which Marla and I dictated to the doctor hahaha!), and a form with some things checked off, showing 22 Euros paid. That'll have to do. Who wants to bet BCBS will deny it.

Next, it was Marla's turn. The doc went to the book cases where the files were and this was when I noticed that there weren't actually file folders for each patient. They were manila envelopes. Somehow she found Marla's and dragged it out and opened it. She emptied the contents on the desk. Little pieces of paper with some handwritten notes, some official forms, folded and bent. Just a mess of papers. She dug around, looking for some record of the last time Marla ordered these prescriptions. Within seconds she found what she needed and she wrote Marla a bunch of prescriptions and then we all shook hands and exited.

The little old lady in the waiting room was glad to see us all.

So where does the pussy and face fixing come in?

(If I was telling this story at dinner, we'd be eating desert by now. Dirty minds, please go there.)

On our way back to Marla's, I had to compare my experience with American doctors. Just think of those doctors offices where multiple doctors work, where there are nurses and technicians and lab workers and receptionists and accountants. Everything is brand spankin' new, cushily furnished and smelling clean and medicinal. The reception and medical records area is bigger than the combined waiting and examining room of my French doctor's office. You had to make your appointment at least three weeks in advance, unless you are dying. And if that's the case, you'd just go to the emergicare center next to Safeway. You always have to wait at least a half hour to be called by the nurse. Then, after the nurse takes your temperature and blood pressure, weighs you and records your height, asks you the date of your last period and how many pregnancies you've had and what brings you to their establishment today, you have to wait in an examining room, one of at least 5-10, for another half hour 'til the doctor comes in. Then you have to tell him the same story again. When finished, you have to go back to the receptionist and settle the bill electronically. I wonder if they even take cash anymore.

Marla nodded through this diatribe, until I came to the part about how gynecologists in America are all now turning their practices into spa experiences. They aren't making enough money being doctors. So now they are offering "other services." This includes every surface-altering procedure up to, but not including, surgery. This would require a plastic surgeon as a partner and then they'd have to share the wealth with him. Instead, just hire an aesthetician, buy some of those machines that steam or shave or burn layers off of your face, get a whole bunch of chemical peeling potions, some hypodermics full of lip-plumping solutions et voila, you have a shiny new multi-million dollar business.

Before I left to come to Paris, I went to my gynecologist in Arizona, the pert 50-year-old woman who looks 25. When I had shut my legs and sat back up on the exam table, and she and her $300 designer shoes were leaning jauntily against the counter as she scribbled on her clipboard, she said, "And don't forget to take our little brochure over there. We offer many aesthetic services that can refine facial wrinkles, tighten your skin and enhance your beauty."

Thanks for peeking at my pussy. I think I'll pass on the $450 facial package.

Photo of Sarah Silverman fixing her own face into the shape of a vagina, courtesy of John Shearer/Wireimage.com and stolen from MTV's website.