Tuesday, February 15, 2011
What is it with me and doctors? It’s a conspiracy is what it is. Not only do they insist on weighing me for the slightest cough due to cold, they always manage to get in a fatty dig. I give you the allergist. Not my favorite person. Nothing personal. I just don’t enjoy being injected with all things evil, waiting 20 minutes to see if I die and then being sent home to scratch for hours on end. I could accomplish all of this with a simple yeast infection sans the $30 “specialist” co-pay. Every 6 months they insist I need to come in for a check-up. Porque? You see me every week, I’m not dead and not for nothing we aren’t friends. But I play along bcs I never know when I might need drugs. Yes, I am a drug whore as well as a fat whore. So what did they do….they scheduled my appointment on Valentines Day! Only the biggest fatty holiday next to Thanksgiving! Clearly this office is run by insensitive 1/4 Pounders! It would take a miracle to pry me me away from my giant heart filled with candy (that I bought myself mind you) for a visit with Dr. “I have the personality of paint drying” and her crew of mold spores! A miracle…or chocolate. When the nurse suggested I arrive at 10:45, I suggested she bring chocolate. Look…she weighs me. There are no secrets here. After marinating on the idea, I noticed a notation in her folder that read, “bring Kelly chocolate for 2/14 appointment.” It’s official. I have a Valentine.
I awoke on Valentines Day with a mission…sex and chocolate. I would get chocolate from the allergist and sex from…well I hadn’t exactly figured that part out yet. Plenty of daylight left. However comma, no amount of daylight could have prepared me for an unexpected visitor….Aunt Flo. Bitch. The one day I have a 98% chance of getting guilt sex and she decided to pop in. I say pop in…she was somewhat expected. I take this miracle pill that warns me when unwanted guests are coming….within a day or 3. I wonder why it doesn’t work on the rest of my relatives? Can’t be sure. Like an unruly bitch she came a day early. I really need to tie off my uterus or sell it on Ebay or something. Clearly I don’t need it. I won’t be duplicating all that is me for all the obvious reasons and I prefer donating blood to the Red Cross vs. Tampax, thank you. It’s useless. I wonder if the allergist can rip it out before she weighs me? It’d save me some embarrassment and another $30 copay. Frugal Fatty always thinkin. No such luck. I had barely crossed the threshold of all things itchy when the nurse said, “Kelly come on back on get on the scale. Oh and here’s your chocolate. I didn’t forget.” It was like telling me to use the cross walk but failing to mention I might want to look for oncoming traffic! I had half a mind to inhale the chocolate heart and then jump on the scale! Instead I used SIF reverse psychology. I refused to play nice. I asked her if she would be so kind to take my blood pressure first. Getting on the scales tends to send the numbers due north. She agreed. Phase 1 of operation “take your chocolate and your scale and shove it up your ass…complete.” 95/70. Amazing how the numbers fall into place when a SIF is in control. I had half a mind to phone the “Mercedes Mechanic” and tell him to update my chart. I feared mean nurse and decided to focus on the mission at hand. After scoring big with the BP it was time. The scale. I refused. I made her prick me with the evil serum first. The plan was…after being pricked with said evil serum I would step on the scale only to fall off as a result of severe allergic reaction…to the scale. I would just leave out that part and blame the dust mites. No one likes them anyway. She gave me the shots. Phase 2 complete. Once again I was ordered to slaughter. I refused. She threw me a look that said, “Look you fat bitch, I gave you chocolate, complimented you on blood pressure numbers that were most likely flawed and now you won’t simply step on the scale?” That is correct. SIF powers activated! I just looked at her and said, ” I weigh _____(8 digits). I know because I weigh myself every day like a good fatty.” She agreed to go with my number. And then nothing. I’m use to everything from shock and awe to “you don’t look like you weigh that much.” Nothing. I wouldn’t let her win this round. I said, ” I know. I don’t look like I weigh that much. There was this car accident and…well you understand.” Yes, I am still using that. It’s been a year now. It hasn’t passed it’s expiration until it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And it doesn’t. I fear it never will.
It was time to meet with the Dr. Very nice lady with a personality as dry as my nether region. As she was looking over my vitals I was dreading the snarky weight comments that were inevitable. She doesn’t buy into my excuse driven agenda. Perhaps why I require chocolate to visit. She also doesn’t believe drugs are the answer. Frankly I’m surprised they haven’t taken her medical license. We went through the usual. “Has anything changed?” Gee I don’t know…have you peeped my weight? I wasn’t bringing it up. I went with a sure thing. “No not really. I’m still in some pain from the car accident but I’m trying to work my way back.” She wasn’t amused. I told her stories of my attempts to eat fruit, how my throat would close and the trauma of being limited to chocolate and cheese. Didn’t even crack a smile. I had a half a mind to break out the allergic reaction scheme if she didn’t budge. Instead I let her tell me stories of the latest and greatest advances in allergic medicine. When I awoke she was asking about acid reflux and if mine was under control. Of course it was. I take Prilosec every day as instructed. Seems she has changed her tune on that. Apparently she now feels it may cause esophageal cancer when taken for prolonged periods of time. Excellent. I love how medicine works. Take this until we do more research and figure out it will kill you. She wanted me to see a GI specialist. Something about him sticking something down into my stomach and how it would be less than pleasant. Not. She even said, “I know you won’t go but…” But what? You are going to waste my time with the gory details of how you almost killed me and are now trying to make up for it by sending me to a Dr. who can actually SEE the french fries in my stomach. Ah no. I’ll take a flaming case of crabs for $700 Alex. With that she came around to the place where all of my other Dr.’s had long since been. “You know. If you lose weight your acid reflux will get better.” There it was. The dig I had been waiting for. The dig that made the paint not so dry.
As I was leaving the office I overheard her telling the nurse she was going to regift the chocolate she gave her. Of all things sacred! Is there no Fatetiquite in this world? Who regifts chocolate? Muderers. That’s who.