Monday, October 24, 2005

Can you say upper respiratory? Crap, I sure can. I really hate getting sick, because when I do it generally means a few days in bed. Germs just beat the piss out of me. My body doesn't know how to have a regular cold, all it knows is succumb and worsen. *sigh* And then, because now I'm pissed for getting sick, I get into this moooooooooooood, where even the hairs on my head bother me.

So, that said, today will be my first Pet Peeves Day. Why not? I feel crappy enough and there are enough moronic in this world to supply me with a list that would last until doomsday. Let's start with doctors. A subject fresh in my mind right now.

The first thing is making the appointment. You have to wade through ten menus of instructions to connect with The Voice who makes the appointments. God forbid I should be having a heart attack. Then, after 5 minutes of pushing buttons, The Voice answers with a too, too happy tone and immediately puts me on hold before I can utter a word. *sigh* Sound familiar?

10-15 minutes later, The Voice comes back on and you tell The Voice you need to see The Doctor. Then The Voice gets into a long discussion about what your ailment is, repeating the same frigging questions over and over again, until, finally, The Voice tells you what time to come see The Doctor.

So, ok, time comes to leave for the appointment so you bundle up and get into your car, high on Sudafed, and drive yourself to The Doctor's Torture Palace. Everything aches and you can't breathe, you're coughing every 10 seconds with a sneeze thrown in now and then for good measure, and you're all sweaty from the the time you get there you're wiped, and all you want to do is get your meds and get back home to bed. Is that so hard? *sigh*

You sign in and give them your credit card for the billing, and they make you tell them AGAIN why you need to see the doc. For God sakes, are they blind and deaf? All they have to do is take a look the snot dribbling out of my nose and listen to the way I sound (which is similar to Elmer Fudd). Maybe they think I like torturing myself?

You'd think the worst was over, but not by a long shot. Now, you get to sit in the waiting room with a bunch of strangers who are even sicker than you, or at least seem to be. It's hot as hell in that room, and all the magazines are two years old or have titles like "Golf", or "Playtime" - definitely not your taste in reading - not that you could concentrate on reading right now anyway, but still. Some kid is whining in the corner, dribbling snot all over himself and the wall, while his mother ignores him. Never mind that the sound of him is like a high-speed drill boring into my skull. One by one people are called and led into the inner sanctum. Hours pass. You're just about ready to walk out when, finally, they call your name.

Yay! I actually feel a mote of happiness creep into my cells. But I should know better, because now I sit and wait, alone, in the examining room for another hour or so. *sigh* I begin to want to hit someone at this point, but I figure at least it's quieter and cooler and The Doctor will be in any minute...and then the door opens and The Doctor sails in, takes my vitals, listens to my lungs and heart, writes a prescription and, vamoose, is gone in a blur of white coat.

All that just to see The Doctor for 15 minutes, and millions of people go through this every day.
Why do we put up with this crap? Is it any reason why we all dread going to the doctor's office, even though we go out of necessity? I guess mom wasn't far off the track when she told me to try and marry a doctor.

So, I feel a little better now that I've expunged my angst. I still have this ordeal to go through though, later today. Maybe I should give The Voice the url for Cheesecloth Moon so she can read this. Heh, wouldn't that be fun?


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