Mood: Itchy & Scratchy
Drinking: Sugarey Tea
If I had known that I would be wasting so much of my week sitting in waiting rooms in medical facilities yet again, I probably would not have so blithely posted my little ditty about how much waiting rooms suck. It’s cosmic payback. Such a bitch. Here I was all healthy and cocky, thinking my waiting room days were behind me. Silly, foolish little girl.
I shan’t bore you with the miniscule details of my five days of scratchy suffering. The nutshell version is that I woke up one day last week with only one eye. The other eye was still there, but completely useless and swollen shut. I looked like I had been hanging out with Brad Pitt in Fight Club, all testoterone posturing and yelling shit like, “I want you to hit me as hard as you can!” And then Edward Norton took a big swing and popped me right in the eye and tadaaaa…big swollen yuckiness, kinda like Jared Leto after he got his angelface beaten to purple smithereens.
Sadly, there was no Brad, no Edward, no Jordan Catalano and no masochistic punching going on. Just me, my dog and some poison oak. (Of course, it took four days and three different doctors before someone in the medical profession could narrow it down to the vile plant. That’s why they get paid the big bucks. Bitter, bittter, mutter, mutter.)
The first doctor (in urgent care, you should never go there), he looked at my punchbag eye and did a lot of “hmmming” and then said, none too confidently, “Yes, you seem to be having a severe allergic reaction.” Didn’t matter that I’ve never been allergic to anything in my life. Nope. Sudden and violent onset of inexplicable adult allergies, that was his diagnosis. So he writes me out a little white pharmacy slip and sends me on my way with the comforting words, “Don’t worry. This is as bad as it’s going to get.”
The next day I magically developed even more red itchy bubbles, all over my face and neck. Looked like the miniature pimple monster sat down and shat all over me. The only improvement was that I could see out of my right eye once again. I started wearing a baseball cap. And girls, I don’t do baseball caps.
The next day I went back to urgent care (even though I already said you should never, ever go there). New doctor, new diagnosis…sort of. She made me get buck naked so she could see all the new itchy spots and did an uncomfortable amount of, “Hmmmmm. Huh. Hmmmmm. Shingles? No. Hmmmm. Herpes? No. Hmmmmmm. Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. It is a bummer, though, since it’s all over your face.”
And I was left clutching my little hospital gown, stammering, “Uh. Did you say herpes? Because, are you crazy? People don’t get herpes all up on their eyebrows! You’re fired!”
Finally, Doctor #3 (Name: Pan of Potatoes or Pan of Tacos or something having to do with a pan) takes a look at me for about .3 seconds and says “Have you been hiking lately?”
Me: “Um. I took my dog to the beach?”
Panoftacos: “aHA! POISON OAK! Your dog gave it to you.”
Me: “No more Scooby Snacks for that little bitch!!!”
That was a fat nutshell of a story, but believe me, there’s a much longer version I’m keeping to myself. And boring my family to death with. (It involves me repeating the words, “No, really, I look like a friggin’ pufferfish!” over and over and…) But yeah. Moral of the posting: Don’t get all big headed and thinking you’re funny posting about how waiting rooms are evil because those waiting rooms will get you. Every. Single. Time. They’re all out there. Just waiting.
And before you know it, as much as you try to avoid it, you’ll be sitting in an uncomfortable chair, trying to hide your swollen puffy eye with big Jackie-Os, pretending to read a 2-month old People cover story about how Julia Roberts named one of her poor kids Phinneas and watching 1, 2, 3 hours of your life slide away into oblivion while a fat woman in the chair next to you farts on the vinyl and pretends she was just scooting around.
Waiting Rooms: 3
-Lo, who’s all hopped up on steroids now and just waiting for the irrational rage and excessive bloating to kick in.