Bedside Manners

I live in an area that's in constant development. Constant newness. We're on the outskirts of "town" but we're trying very hard to become town. To become destination worthy. We just got our first sit-down chain restaurant, a Home Depot, Lowe's....even a walk-in clinic. We are becoming so urban Minnie will soon start sagging her pants and writing rap rants about her smothering Mother.

For the past month everyone in the office has been sick. I had secretly started to pride myself in my resilience...taking my multi-vitamin every day and drinking my carrot juice. I thought I was somehow untouchable....like the germs trembled in my healthy presence.

Then on Sunday - I got sick.

Today I broke down and went to the brand new walk-in clinic. I called ahead to find out their hours, checked online to make sure I knew where it was. New clinic!, I thought. Should be fast and easy!

I walked in the shiny new door (no hand prints!) and breezed through the empty waiting room, smiling as I skipped. Well, half-skipped.....I am sick. As I dutifully signed in, the pinch-nosed nurse behind the sliding glass asked me if had been there before. No, I smiled. You haven't!, she shivered. Ummm, no.....aren't you new? Well, she sighed throwing her hands up, you'll HAVE to fill out ALL THESE FORMS and you'll HAVE to GIVE ME your INSURANCE CARD you know. Ok, I smiled.

After I was called back the nurse carrying the small laptop pointed for me to get on the scale. Given my recent weight loss I was happy to oblige. She started me out at 200+......note to the reader.....even at my heaviest, her choice was a bold one. I smiled lightheartedly and said, Oh No! I'm way below that. She growled suspiciously and slammed the weight counter down a notch. Then, almost as an intentional jab, she shouted my weight while typing it into her laptop. She shouted it. Now...I think all ladies know the universal Don't-Shout-Another-Ladies'-Weight Rule....don't we? I don't care if I weigh 105 - don't shout it. Ever.

She then grunted me into Exam Room 1 and checked my vitals. I tried to make polite conversation but she wasn't having it. I ended up leaving with an infection, a prescription and an irritated demeanor.

I ask you, when going to an Urgent Care facility, shouldn't I deserve a little (in the immortal words of Michael Bolton) Time Love and Tenderness?

Just Shoot Me

Our record company collected thousands of emails all summer on the Warped Tour. Understandably, we got some fake emails. My personal favorite is:

biteme@yeahright.com


Rowdy punk kids.

Naked

Sometimes I forget that The Glamorous Life is open to the public. That anyone on planet earth with an internet connection or a library card can access my personal-ness. Not that I'm writing anything embarrassing per se.....but on the occasion someone from my murky past comes back to haunt me. Or to say hello. Or both. Sometimes it's alarming...and sometimes nice. But it always makes me feel like some creep flasher - stunning onlookers with my private bits and pieces. This is one of the main reasons I haven't fully disclosed The Medical Condition I'm wading through. That's what I'm calling it now - The Medical Condition. Or TMC. Or The Thing That Hurts: Season 1. Or......anyway.....I say all this to say.....it's a weird thing, writing about your life in such a way and not knowing whose eyes are watching. It makes me want to censor. Cover up.

But at this point, why bother.

P.S. Hello to you Bryan Currie.