On Sunday morning I got up very early to help Laura raise money for ovarian cancer. Afterwards we walked to my car in the parking garage, only to find someone had hit it, leaving a nasty scrape along the back bumper.
“Oh, Pam. That’s…”
“Someone hit my car.”
“Looks like I’m buying breakfast. Hey, look! There’s a note!”
Nope. On my windshield were seven ads for other upcoming races in the area. Not one note from someone who hit my car.
“You know what’s crazy?” I asked. “Someone parked, ran a race for cancer, then hit my car and drove away.”
“That’s really bad karma,” Laura said. “That guy’s totally getting cancer.”
(Best joke of the race went to Laura’s friend, who admitted once we were finished: “Well, I’m glad that’s over-y.” wheee! too many comedy writers + seriousness = going to hell)
Later, while enjoying post do-gooder shopping, we passed a display advertising Desperate Housewives perfume. We stopped to stare.
“That’s not a word I want to smell like,” I said. “Desperate.”
Laura crinkled her nose. “Or Housewife. That’s not better.”
“Baby, you smell like a desperate housewife. Come closer.”
“I also don’t want to smell like any of the desperate housewives.”
“Pam, you just spent fifteen minutes debating buying Britney’s new perfume!”
“I can’t help it! It smells like Colors by Benetton, and it reminds me of the seventh grade.”
“Again, another smell we’re not supposed to yearn for.”
“Hey, all these perfumes are giving me an asthma attack.”
“Man, you are a mess!”
“(*wheeze*) I know.”
I saw my primary care practitioner today, who took eight vials of blood, cracked a number of inappropriate jokes, and did some kind of scratch test across my skin with his finger to prove I have a hypersensitivity due to allergies.
You know how when you watch House you wonder why people put up with the crap he says to them? I totally did that today, because I knew he was a good doctor. And by that I mean he thinks about his patients and knows his shit and therefore his bedside manner is gone. You know. Like House. In fact, in his waiting room was the EW with Hugh Laurie on the cover, and I don’t think it was a coincidence.
So he’s listening to me talk about all the allergy tests and every conclusion I’ve come to, and all of the supplements I’m taking. Then he drags a latexed finger across my chest and says, “See that red welt that immediately formed after I touched you? Your skin is extremely hypersensitive. Have your allergist fax me his results. But you should take a Claritin or something. Seriously.”
You know who I don’t want to be That Guy? The one who sees me when I’m wearing clothes made out of paper. Pull it back, Schecky. I’ll let you poke my stomach while I’m on my back, but don’t make a crack about my underwear.
He’s been a doctor to some of my friends, so I know it’s not just me he’s doing the schtick with, which is supposed to be settling, but somehow still isn’t.
I knew it was going to be even more trouble when he asked me what show I wrote for.
“I don’t know that one,” he said. “But I bet she does…”
He opened the door to the (Yep, you guessed it) Latina receptionist.
“You know Mind of Mencia?” he asks.
I swear her face didn’t move a muscle as her eyes looked through me. “Yeah, I know that show,” she said. It was like she was shutting herself down so she didn’t say another word.
So this will be a new, fun adventure. Dr. Inappropriate and the case of Why Pam Gets Blotchy.