dr. e and his magical prescription pad

What the shit is it with old male doctors and not listening to a word that comes out of my mouth?


Could it BE that they legitimately cannot hear me? Perhaps I'm speaking in tongues or something? All I know is that it's becoming increasingly obvious that we're not equipped to communicate with one another effectively.


My allergy specialist is a great doctor, really- As well as a cheerful old man who reminds me of a shorter-bearded Albus Dumbledore... and instead of a wand to magic my ailments away, he has a prescription pad that he uses to give me written legal permission to try all kinds of allergy and asthma medicines and potions. Not as cool as a wand, but I'm hoping it'll miraculously cure me much the same way. Truth be told, I was genuinely looking forward to my appointment, and not just because I needed like 234873874 new prescriptions.


Yesterday though, we just did not click. I don't know what it was. Maybe I was the last appointment of the day, maybe Dr. E really is finally going senile. Whatever it was, I don't like it. I like to trust that health care professionals are actually intelligent and engaged in making me and those I care about feel better. And anyone who is sick, really. I don't like to have to interrupt to get my point across or pull out the "Now you listen to me!" finger, because I find it disrespectful and I'm not trying to piss off someone who potentially holds my health and happiness destiny in their old, gnarled hands.


In fact, I've only really gotten mouthy with A SINGLE nurse in my lifetime. I was in college and not even the patient. Anyway, that hospital blew... coughghettocoughcough.  They admitted my best friend for an appendectomy and it turned out that she had cancerous cervical cysts.


Um, made a major mistake lately? Guessing it's NOT as big as that one was.


Good times.


Back to yesterday.


I get in there and get my shot and wait my turn and sit in the waiting room and then good old Dr. E saunters in and.... I get the distinct impression that this old coot is trying to usher me out the door as quickly as he possibly can.  As in, not asking me the general questions I've grown accustomed to in yearly check-ups, and I happen to have negative answers already prepared. I was going to brace him for the news that I'm living with a Mastiff with a semi-apologetic joke.  I HAVE STUFF TO SAY. I LIVE WITH A GIANT DOG IN A DEATH TRAP AND I LOVE TO GARDEN. THIS ISN'T WORKING. I NEED MORE DRUGS.


So, um, NO, dude we're not rushing this along. We're on my time. You wanted to check-up. Check. Me. Up.


Because you know what? This isn't a exactly a breeze for me, either. I had to endure asking my boss to leave work early (cringe),  drive my hot-box of a car AWAY from air conditioned home to your office, I paid a $250 deductible that I've been dodging since January, I burn a lunch hour every week driving up to your office to get a healthy dose of my own worst allergens shoved into my veins at the cost of $22 a pop, and I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE FOR SHIT.


NO dude, you're going to FIX THIS.


WITH COPIOUS AMOUNTS OF DRUGS.



So, I quickly but firmly showed good old Dr. E the writing on the wall. You know, my hobbies, my symptoms, my living situations, the way the air is killing me slowly, etc.

And you know what he said:

"Oh dear, you're just a disaster. Dear, dear, dear, you're an allergist's nightmare. I need to go make a copy of this form because it's not going to hold all the perscriptions I need to write you. I think it's time to pull out the big guns."

To which I smiled sweetly and nodded.

Fucking right.

Here hoping I'll be feeling much better. Very soon.

Xo Sara

well, that wasn't very smart

As I've mentioned, I became afflicted with a soul-crushing case of food poisoning this past weekend. As did Manfriend and my mother. Since my parents had three different restaurants cater in food for my brother's graduation party this weekend, it's hard to determine which culinary genius is at fault.

Obviously, I blame my brother. Had he never been born, he'd never have graduated from high school and warranted a grad party that required the services of two more restaurants than my own 2004 soiree. Although, he is a football player, so his army of numskull friends throw back a lot more food than mine probably did.

I also blame him for what's happened thus far this afternoon.

As is common procedure for birthdays in my department at the office, the honoree chooses a place we all order food from and one person fetches it for the rest of the flock. Pretty standard.

Today, the birthday woman, who is otherwise my favorite co-worker, picked a shitty restaurant that I hate, but everyone else seems over the moon for.

Being that I just took on a full-time unpaid campaign job in addition to this joke of a vocation and I had a four hour long training last night for my other volunteer group- I have a shit ton of email to pretend to read and today was also the last day of the week I can get my allergy shot. Plus I just started a new book and I was going to try to squeeze in a couple of pages.

I. Had. Shit. To. Do.

Please don't think I'm complaining either, I crave this flurry of activity and the earned exhaustion of being fully engaged in every ever loving thing I cram into my waking days.

But seriously, every lunch we have together, it's the same stories about one co-worker's family and the same collective awkward of watching each other eat because we don't have anything new to say.

But, I like this broad, so I suck it up and kiss my congestion-free weekend goodbye.

And you know what I ordered on my still-delicate empty stomach?

A fucking greasy-ass burger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake. My regular.

Arguably the worst decision I've ever made. I've been eating healthier for the past several months- Like, where I once would have consumed the entirety of this meal with ease and regularity, I honestly can't remember the last time I hit up fast food.


I've been cowering in my cubicle since the meal wrapped up. I feel like I have food-poisoning again. And just.... blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And a sloth. A SLOTH.

Me right now. Only not smiley because I feel literally within inches of death.

Maybe it was too soon after the illness or maybe my body hates grease now, I don't really know whats going on in there. But it's really not good. Grease and I are taking a serious break.

XO Sare

c'mon doorman, be a sport

I'm now on day two slash three of leading a fully semi-functioning life sans cell phone or any sort of food product.

Not by choice.

And to be honest, I really hope we can call an end to both of these deprivations today because I'm getting a little shaky with hunger. And also, I haven't been in touch with virtually anyone. I FEEL SO DISCONNECTED.

But I guess it could be good in the long-run because I will be marginally thinner and look socially discerning as a result, or something. Neither of which I can honestly say have ever even registered a blip on my worry radar.

Blah, I'm hungry.

The short of it is that I got food poisoning and also I'm generally careless and left my cell phone on the eleventh floor of a building downtown that requires keycard access to the elevators. Assholes.

So, now that I'm able to scrape myself out of a horizontal position without bile spewing itself out of my body in one way or another, I'm going to mosey on downtown after work, slap on some lipstick, and hope that my still-pallid complexion makes the doorman pity me enough to buzz me up to my phone.

Wish me luck.

XO Sara

my body is at war.

So, hey.

There is such a thing as having zero dignity left, and I've been there. Recently.

It's called a 24 hour 'bug', and it always wins. You see, even the strongest of intestinal fortitude can't stand up to such a formidable foe.

This little virus proclaims "I will fuck with all of your plans, and there is nothing you can do about it until I'm finished!" And it's right and it's serious and it makes even seeing a picture of any sort of food item make you scamper to the bathroom to kneel to the porcelain god.

Without going into all the details, I've been expelling bile from every viable hole in my body for the past 36 or so hours. Neon yellow.

It's ugly.


ANYWAY.

Since I actually have less than a second of spare time this week to deal with illness, I'm back at work today. Partially because I discovered yesterday that daytime television is teeming with commericials for the elderly, unemployed, uneducated, and those in need for personal injury lawyers- None of which is my own personal demographic. And partially because if I didn't come to work today, I'd be burning ALL the PTO time I've managed to accrue. ALL OF IT.

Nothing bums me out more than realizing that I actually give one good goddamn about accruing PTO. Ok, well maybe a couple of things, like when someone eats the last granola bar and leaves the box in the pantry. But, nothing about my own character.

But, um, no way I'm wasting my precious few hours of paid escape on being ill.

So, yeah. Awesome.


Also,


I'm taking the GRE in the morning.

I should definitely be freaking out about that right now, but it turns out that slipping while you get out of the shower because your center of gravity is out of whack and falling on your ass, causing you to puke all over your soaking wet, naked, miserable self is sort of distracting.

Here's hoping I make it to the exam.

XO Sare