“Let me check the computer for your doctor’s order for this mammogram,” said the technician.

“Ok, but is that really necessary? Would I be here, having the most sensitive parts of my anatomy squeezed between plates, if my doctor didn’t order it? Are there women flitting from clinic to clinic having frequent, unauthorized mammograms just for the fun of it?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Ma’am, ” she sighed.

As if the procedure were not awkward enough, I’m one of those women whose anatomy requires the addition of two small stickers with what appears to be a tiny b.b. in the center of each. I call them “mammo ammo.” They’re placed in the standard erotic dancer position. The least they could do is attach a couple of tassels to them. It would make the occassion more festive, as well as give me a couple of souveneirs to take home.

“This is my last appointment of the day,” she said. “Let’s get this done so I can close up and go home. Step up to the machine and I’ll get you positioned,”

“Last year I figured out a way to do this at home,” I said as she cranked the upper plate down. “It involved an old wringer washer, a flashlight, and a camera. I can’t say any more,” I whispered. “I have a patent pending. This could be even bigger than the home pregnancy test.

“I was a little worried,” I added, “when the photo showed what looked like a tumor, but it was just a tangled lump of towel lint that had stuck to the wringer after the last load of wash. I had an 8 by 10 of the homemade mammogram printed for the fireplace mantle, as well as a dozen wallets and some Christmas cards. Would you like to see them?”

The technician had no comment. As a matter of fact, she seemed a little annoyed, but tried to remain professional. After every change in position, as she uncranked me she said, “Good job!” in an encouraging tone, as if I were a toddler in the midst of potty training. Good job? I am standing and firmly pinned into a vice. What job did I perform? Is she talking to “the girls?” The last time they performed any useful work was before I weaned my son back in 1977. Since then, they’re basically useless, lazy apendages. Whew, I feel better getting that “off my chest.”

“I still have a few bugs to work out regarding the ‘at-home mammogram,'” I added. “I need some kind of a timer to let me know when to remove the woman from the wringer. As a general guideline, I’m planning to suggest removal when the breast is just the right depth to insert into the slot of a CD player. This method has some flaws, not the least of which is that it takes five or six pushes of the eject button before it can be removed.

“Miss?” I called. “Excuse me, but haven’t you forgotten something? Get me out of this vice! Miss?”

Wasn’t that the front door slamming? sigh. I wonder what time this clicnic opens tomorrow morning.