I had an ECG this morning, which stands for "recession induced stress fucking heart attack" for those of you who are uninformed. I was also supposed to have blood work done but noticed on the form with all the little boxes ticked off that I had to fast for 6 hours beforehand which means unless I can find a vampire to draw blood at 3am in my kitchen, it ain't happening. Fasting means no coffee, so unless they can come up with a blood test that skirts around caffiene, I'd rather die.
I had a lovely walk to the hospital though. Since I was going to the doctor, I put on the last pair of decent underpants our retriever (Free to a Good Home) hasn't chewed the crotch out of. I own a lot of crotchless panties now, which at least makes me feel like there's a glimmer of hope.
Walking toward the downtown core in the wee hours of the morning made me feel like I kind of had a normal life. I pretended I was a normal person, closing the door at home and walking to work at a real job where they hand out pay cheques and benefits and stuff, and where I'd be with real, adult people all day and take a lunch hour to work out, or scarf back fries at Bud the Spud, or have an nooner-laced affair with a wildly successful business man.
By the time I got to the cardiac arrest unit I was so depressed because I realized I don't really want a real job, I'd just like to make more money at the one I have. Plus, I realized walking downtown that whenever I put on decent underwear and get out in public all of a sudden I have to scratch my ass and when you work at home you can scratch your ass all day long and no one gives a shit.
So I get to the waiting room full of people that look a hell of a lot closer to a heart attack than I do and they call my name right way, only she said, "Cynthia Schwartz". I guess she didn't notice that I was 5' 10" and one pair of lederhosen away from herding goats in the Alps. Anyway I felt like saying to the fat guy next to me "you go first pal you're in worse shape than I am", but the nurse looked cranky so I didn't correct her for the Schwartz thing and went directly into the little dimly-lit cubicle with the comfy bed like I was told. She was all business because she wired me up and I wasn't even near that twitchy stage just before you start to drool and dream when she told me I could go.
Go? Fuck, I just got here. I didn't want to go home quite yet. I was comfy. This was an outing. At least give me a pap smear or something. I had good panties on.
So, after I got kicked to the curb, I was going to roam around the hospital gift shop for a while and pretend I had a sick relative upstairs or something, but I figured that was no fun so I just headed back up Jubilee Road in my skirt and good panties, looking like I was doing the middle-aged walk of shame after dancing at some cougar bar all night. I was going to side step over to Starbucks but figured for 6 bucks I could go home and scratch my ass and make my own coffee.
I hate being tired with a full day ahead of me, especially when I am tired for a stupid reason like having a baby, or watching Michael Jackson's last hurrah. While I was overjoyed to see Janet Jackson had major arm waddle while clapping, I couldn't help but think, what's with all the sunglasses inside and is it just me or is Smokey Robinson really Micheal Jackson's father? And did you notice that no one had any wrinkles? Smokey must be what... 97? Anyway, I kept watching just in case the King of Pop popped open the coffin and started moon walking like it was his big comeback or something. Then Brooke Shields made me cry so I turned it off, because I didn't want to look all puffy, just in case there was a handsome, yet desperate, cardiac arrest Doctor hanging around. I think Brooke must still have post-partum depression, but she looked good.
I wonder if Heidi's goats ever ate the crotch out of her panties.
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