In case of emergency break shot glass...
I’m currently undecided on whether I should do a serious post about my doctor’s visit yesterday or a humorous one. It is Friday so humorous might be more appropriate in light of the upcoming weekend but I haven’t done a serious one in a while and they tend to be shorter and quicker. Hmmmm….
Decisions.
Yesterday was my first visit to my very own voodoo witchdoctor of choice, Dr. Beesely. I haven’t had a checkup since my parts were factory new and, in light of my recent 35th birthday, a tune up seemed to be in order. Of course, the first time to any doctor means one very dreadedful fact of life: forms. Insurance forms, work forms, privacy forms, health survey forms, and of course, the dreaded “In Case of Emergency” form.
My family is 220 miles east as the crow flies and not of particular use if I should swallow my tongue gasping at the cute intern bearcub in the doctor’s office putting away files. As the universe has dictated that my lot in life is to remain a single solitary unit lest the moon spin off balance and fly into the burning sun, I’ve no one to rely on to make sure the doctors put me on a life support system that isn’t powered by TV remote control batteries. I’ve lived away from my family most of my life and it’s always bothered me that I really had no one to contact should a CODA bus jump a curb and ruin my day.
So here I sit, minding my own business, filling out forms when I come across the “In case of emergency” form and my mind goes blank. My family are all G.U.D’s. (Geographically UnDesirables) and my fiercely independent Lone Wolf man of mystery lifestyle is finally lined up to kill me; not through any heroic act of bravery or tragic Lifetime movie type of ailment, but through sheer indifference. My well intentioned gesture toward ensuring my continued good health had made me momentarily soul sick and I ached for a minute or two thinking about all my friends who are coupled and happy and have each other for holidays, birthdays and these damned forms.
As I stared at the box on the clipboard, looking up at me accusingly blank and unblemished, my leg began to cramp and I twisted around in the requisite uncomfortable waiting room chair and knocked my cell phone onto the floor. I let out one overly loud F word much to the chagrin of the lady and her delinquent child across the room and leaned over to retrieve my runaway electronics; thinking that somehow I was so unlovable that even my gadgets were willing to fall to their doom to escape my personage. The cell phone had landed on it’s side and flipped open to reveal the last few numbers I had dialed. The first number was Evil Friend Jack. The number before that one was Evil Friend Jack. And the one before that…. And the one before that…. A quick glance through my Dialed Numbers list showed that most of the last fifty dialed numbers were to Evil Friend Jack.
Evil Friend Jack is occasionally maligned by certain folks who write entries in Live Journal and who are named after characters from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood but he’s honestly the best person in the whole world that I currently know. Should one of my bacon wrapped filet mignon Atkins treats ever lodge themselves in my throat when the inevitable cardiac arrest occurs, Jack is the one man who I know I could trust to call my mother and hide my porn collection. We’ve been told by well-intentioned friends that we’d make the perfect couple if we both weren’t so disturbed by the thought of each other naked. * shudder * Basically, he’s the closest thing this socially anxiety stricken introvert with a smart ass attitude has to a best friend and I hope he’s aware of the fact.
(He’s clear on the matter now since he reads my entries occasionally to see if I’ve creatively disparaged his reputation yet again for the sake of cheap laughs and one-liners.)
So it was with a smile and a grateful heart that Evil friend Jack officially became my “In case of emergency” person in thought and in documentation. I signed off on the forms and handed them back over to the cute lesbian medical assistant at the front desk. She did the usual cursory glance over the paperwork looking for any glaring errors on my part, probably because I was grinning like an addled mental patient who rode the short bus downtown on a day pass from the institution, when she looked up and asked if Jack was my partner or immediate family.
“He’s my Evil Friend Jack, “ I said with a dumb ass grin on my face. “He’s about as close to immediate family as they get.”
Ok. That wasn’t my usual attempt at humor or seriousness. I think I ventured momentarily into the realm of heart warming. Jesus Christ, I must be coming down with something. I should go and call my doctor…
Decisions.
Yesterday was my first visit to my very own voodoo witchdoctor of choice, Dr. Beesely. I haven’t had a checkup since my parts were factory new and, in light of my recent 35th birthday, a tune up seemed to be in order. Of course, the first time to any doctor means one very dreadedful fact of life: forms. Insurance forms, work forms, privacy forms, health survey forms, and of course, the dreaded “In Case of Emergency” form.
My family is 220 miles east as the crow flies and not of particular use if I should swallow my tongue gasping at the cute intern bearcub in the doctor’s office putting away files. As the universe has dictated that my lot in life is to remain a single solitary unit lest the moon spin off balance and fly into the burning sun, I’ve no one to rely on to make sure the doctors put me on a life support system that isn’t powered by TV remote control batteries. I’ve lived away from my family most of my life and it’s always bothered me that I really had no one to contact should a CODA bus jump a curb and ruin my day.
So here I sit, minding my own business, filling out forms when I come across the “In case of emergency” form and my mind goes blank. My family are all G.U.D’s. (Geographically UnDesirables) and my fiercely independent Lone Wolf man of mystery lifestyle is finally lined up to kill me; not through any heroic act of bravery or tragic Lifetime movie type of ailment, but through sheer indifference. My well intentioned gesture toward ensuring my continued good health had made me momentarily soul sick and I ached for a minute or two thinking about all my friends who are coupled and happy and have each other for holidays, birthdays and these damned forms.
As I stared at the box on the clipboard, looking up at me accusingly blank and unblemished, my leg began to cramp and I twisted around in the requisite uncomfortable waiting room chair and knocked my cell phone onto the floor. I let out one overly loud F word much to the chagrin of the lady and her delinquent child across the room and leaned over to retrieve my runaway electronics; thinking that somehow I was so unlovable that even my gadgets were willing to fall to their doom to escape my personage. The cell phone had landed on it’s side and flipped open to reveal the last few numbers I had dialed. The first number was Evil Friend Jack. The number before that one was Evil Friend Jack. And the one before that…. And the one before that…. A quick glance through my Dialed Numbers list showed that most of the last fifty dialed numbers were to Evil Friend Jack.
Evil Friend Jack is occasionally maligned by certain folks who write entries in Live Journal and who are named after characters from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood but he’s honestly the best person in the whole world that I currently know. Should one of my bacon wrapped filet mignon Atkins treats ever lodge themselves in my throat when the inevitable cardiac arrest occurs, Jack is the one man who I know I could trust to call my mother and hide my porn collection. We’ve been told by well-intentioned friends that we’d make the perfect couple if we both weren’t so disturbed by the thought of each other naked. * shudder * Basically, he’s the closest thing this socially anxiety stricken introvert with a smart ass attitude has to a best friend and I hope he’s aware of the fact.
(He’s clear on the matter now since he reads my entries occasionally to see if I’ve creatively disparaged his reputation yet again for the sake of cheap laughs and one-liners.)
So it was with a smile and a grateful heart that Evil friend Jack officially became my “In case of emergency” person in thought and in documentation. I signed off on the forms and handed them back over to the cute lesbian medical assistant at the front desk. She did the usual cursory glance over the paperwork looking for any glaring errors on my part, probably because I was grinning like an addled mental patient who rode the short bus downtown on a day pass from the institution, when she looked up and asked if Jack was my partner or immediate family.
“He’s my Evil Friend Jack, “ I said with a dumb ass grin on my face. “He’s about as close to immediate family as they get.”
Ok. That wasn’t my usual attempt at humor or seriousness. I think I ventured momentarily into the realm of heart warming. Jesus Christ, I must be coming down with something. I should go and call my doctor…