DermerDays

Today I went to Starbuck's, as I often do mid-day to purchase a tall mocha light frappaccino. What, you might be thinking, no macchiato? Well, the macchiato is my morning drink and, in the summer, I often treat myself to a frappaccino during the work day. It gets me out of my office and it is tasty. Today, I even opted for a tiny shot of whipped cream. Living it up I am.

I walked in the door and my eyes immediately met those of a man seated in a chair directly across from the entrance. "Who is that. . ." I thought and immediately I knew. It was the incompentent and disgusting, Dr. Violin (not his real name). The momentary lapse in recognition was a result of the fact that I have only met him once and, at that meeting, he was wearing his scruffy white coat and we were in his offensively scummy office.

My oncologist and I have a running source of contention -- she wants me to have a colonoscopy and a mammogram. I would prefer to never have another medical procedure again as long as I live. That's one of the reasons I'm walking around with a chipped tooth (but, that's another story). The statistical probability of me being struck by colon cancer is higher because of the uterine cancer -- there's some sort of genetic connection between the two. I think the only thing worse than what I have already been through with cancer would be to find that I have colon cancer. Thus, no colonoscopy. What you don't know can't hurt you -- that's what I always say.

At my last cancer check-up, in order to further her subtle plan of forcing the colonoscopy issue, she offered to find me a primary care physician. The man who was my PCP when I was diagnosed is now a cancer patient himself and not practicing medicine. Funny how the world works. Anyway, I made an agreement with my oncologist, a compromise at the time, that I would have a colonoscopy when I turned 40. Unfortunately, that date is fast approaching. So that, combined with the fact that she wants my PCP to monitor my blood for god-knows-what, caused her to offer to find a PCP for me. She then passed the task off to her appointment manager, Jen. Jen is very nice and tried very hard to find me a PCP. Finally, she just had to resort to setting me up with a Brigham-affiliated physician that she did not know -- Dr. Violin.

When I arrived at Dr. Violin's office, I knew that I was in trouble. Although it is located in Brookline, it is the scankiest office I have ever had the displeasure to enter. I knew when I walked through the door that I should turn back around. In the waiting room were seated several people who may or may not have been breathing. Plopped in the center of the floor amonst the seated patients was a huge, dirty ladder with a man poised at the top attempting to change a light bulb in the 1950s-era fluorescent lights. Dust and other non-identifiable debris was crumbling down around him as he struggled to replace the bulb. I do not believe that the bulb replacement could possibly do much for the dingy, dank environment in which I suddenly found myself. The next thing that overwhelmed me was the awful moldy, musty smell that filled the air. The receptionist was behind a glass window and I had to sign in on a sheet of paper -- so that she would not be forced to interact with me, I assume. I should have ran away. I wanted to get it over with, however, so I carefully stepped around the ladder after I signed the sheet and sat down in a dirty chair. The smell was overwhelming. The magazine selection included two issues of Good Housekeeping from the 1970s and one Sports Illustrated that was slightly more recent. A man was already reading the Sports Illustrated, so I tried to find something interesting in one of the Good Housekeeping magazine. No good. I sat and tried not to look up because I was afraid that the falling debris might end up in my eye.

Soon, a short, round clammy-faced man came out and called the name, "Rachel." Okay, not uncommon. Most people cannot find a way to distinguish between "Rachelle" and "Rachel." I corrected him and cringed when he shook my hand with his limp wrist and clammy palm.

"Right this way," he muttered.

He lead me into an office that was, surprisingly, even more skanky than the waiting room. There was a sliding glass door leading outside from his rather large office. I found that odd. He had a desk and a computer and beside his desk, close to the glass door were two high-back purple arm chairs facing each other.

"Please," he said as he gestured toward the chair closest to the door. He sat down and I looked for a moment at the disgusting, smelly chair and decided it might be rude to go back out into the lobby to get the Good Housekeeping magazine to sit on so that I would not make contact with the dingy chair.

"What brings you in?" he asked.

"Well, I need a new PCP so I am shopping around," I replied. I wanted to subtly make him aware of the fact that I will not be coming back to his office again as long as I live.

"Okay," he slowly warbled. "So, how has your health been in the last couples of years?"

Are you fucking kidding me??? I almost fell off the disgusting chair, but did not because I would have landed on the even more disgusting shag carpet. How has my health been. Holy shit. Can you read? Do you bother to check my record before meeting me for the first time?

"Uhhh, did you read my file? Don't you have access to my records?" I asked, looking over at his computer. He's a Brigham affiliated physician -- his computer links directly to their database of patient records. He has access.

"Well, I glanced at it, but I didn't have time to study them carefully," he replied. He lied. I know he was lying. He did not bother to look.

Yeah, I thought. You've been too busy not seeing the two patients who have been sitting in your waiting room since yesterday. "Here's the deal, dipshit, read my records. I had cancer, you asshole." I said. Okay, I didn't exactly say that, but I did not mask my agitation. I did told him that I thought it would be appropriate to look at my records before seeing me. "Do I really have to recount my entire story for you when you can gain an understanding by simply taking the time to read?"

Then he began asking me the most bizarre questions as if he was reading off of a script. He did have a clipboard in his hands and it probably was holding a script. "Do you enjoy an alcoholic beverage with a meal?" he asked. That's a real, direct quote. And he delivered it completely deadpan. I know I should have ran out at that point. But, no, I did not. I thought, well, I can at least get the blood work out of the way and then find a new doctor.

Instead, I laughed. "I don't really drink too often."

He lead me into the exam room and handed me a jonny, "please put this on."

"Why?" I asked, incredulous.

"So that I can do an exam," he said in the most patronizing way imaginable.

"What sort of exam?" I asked. "I just saw my oncologist and she did a thorough exam." You're not even going to be my doctor, butthead, so I'm certainly not putting on a jonny. Besides I've had enough jonny-wearing to last a lifetime. Jonnys are bad and unnecessary in most cases.

"Well, now," he said, dripping with condescention, "I need you to put this on so I can do an exam. Look, it's a nice, comfortable jonny." He waved it around with his limp wrist. "It ties in the back. You can leave your panties and bra on. It's fine," he claimed.

Fine. right. Gee, thanks. I'm so happy that you will allow me to leave my "panties and bra" on. "No. What could you possibly need to do that requires me to wear a jonny?"

"I need to listen to your heart."

By all means, I should get naked, then. "I don't need to wear a jonny for that."

"Well, it's easier for me if you do."

Easier for him?? "Easier for you?" I asked. "What about what's easier for me? I am not wearing the jonny."

"Well, I will go read your file and think about it."

Think about what? Are you going to call your nurse in to hold me down while you strip me and put me in the jonny? "There's not much to think about since I'm not putting it on."

He then left the room and a woman with a needle came in to draw my blood. I am quite certain that she was not a phlebotomist or licensed in any capacity. My evidence for this statement is the fact that, in order to draw my blood, she pointed at my arm and grunted. When I raised the arm, she made a fist with her hand, released the fist and pointed again at my arm.

Being a pro, I asked, "you want me to make a fist?" She nodded.

I made a fist and she swung her arm back, grasping the needle in her hand and quickly plunged it into my arm. At least I got the blood work out of the way. Dr. Violin returned and made some listening-to-your-heart gestures, told me to call his assistant if I needed a referral and then stuck out his clammy hand and said, "I'm happy to be your primary care doctor."

"Ha ha ha ha ha. You are sooo not going to be my physician nor will I ever set foot in this office again," I said in my head as practically sprinted out of his office.

What the F*ck was he doing in MY Starbuck's?

Posted by at 3:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Well, apparently I do. I get a new car about every two to three years. For no good reason, really, other than that I want a new car. Recently, I purchased a new VW Passat Wagon (see last entry "Trousers" for more on the wagon).

I had a 2001 Passat Sedan that I really loved, but it gave me so many problems that I finally abandoned it for a more reliable Japanese car (Toyota Solara). I also had a new beetle, but that, too, was chronically plagued by issues. There was some ignition coil thing that was just never-ending. Anyway, after the Passat, I determined that I would only purchase reliable Japanese cars. Unfortunately, I was once again seduced by the driving experience offered by German automobile manufacturers. I have no will power.

On Thursday of last week, I got into my car in the morning and pushed in the ignition switch (new VWs have these nifty keys that look nothing like keys and are simply rectangular pieces that fit into a rectangular slot in dash and, when pushed in, start the car). A loud binging sound was immediately audible and I looked at the dashboard screen to see the following warning : Left front dynamic light inoperable!. Then, it simply displayed AFS inoperable - Check Owner's Manual and an orange light bulb icon started flashing incessantly. Guess what the owner's manual said -- yes, that's right, take it in for service. Like I really needed to spend time looking that up.

AFS stands for Advanced Front lighting System and describes a function that allows the bi-xenon headlights to automatically adjust according to driving conditions and to turn dynamically as you turn a corner. Pretty cool, right? Yeah, when they work. My car is a mere two months old with only 2000 miles on it. What's the number one reason for buying a new, expensive car? No mechanical problems (because it is NEW).

I called my VW dealer and spoke to a technicican who immediately questioned my report.

"AFS?" he asked. "There's no such thing as AFS. Are you sure you don't mean blah?" (He didn't actually say "blah" but I can't remember exactly what he said.)

"No," I replied with irritation, "it says AFS."

"There's no such thing as AFS," he stated.

"Well," I said, totally pissed off, "I am sitting in the car reading the message on the dash that the car is displaying and, unless I suddenly forgot the alphabet, that's what it says. A as in Apple, F as in Frank, and S as in Shithead."

"Hm," he said. "So, you wanna bring it in?"

"Uhh, yeah. That's why I'm calling."

"We can get you in on Tuesday."

Tuesday. Great. New car, broken headlight and no fix-y for days. I am reconsidering my decision to purchase the VW. I love driving it, but there is nothing worse than spending time at the VW dealership waiting for the car to be repaired. That's what I did this morning.

I got to the dealership bright and early, hoping to get it taken care of quickly and get myself off to work at a reasonable time. Yeah, right. That's the other thing about VW -- no repair can take less than two hours. In this case, I sat at the dealership for three hours only to be told that the part had been ordered. Ordered! So, now I will be forced to return when the part comes in so that I can sit for three more hours for them to replace the bad part.

This makes me angry.

Posted by at 8:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I was going to write a long, thoughtful piece about the attire of the lower half of the human body. Initially, it was going to be titled, "Pants," but then I found out that the word pants has multiple meanings depending on the country in which it is used. Then, I was complemented on my trousers this morning, but not with a straight face. Someone overheard the crooked faced compliment, mistook it for an earnest declaration and began reciting the history of the use of the word, including the fact that trousers are for men and "slacks" is the term for women. Well, I digress and I cannot really top these fun facts. So, here's my real entry:

I was listening to Run DMC's Walk This Way as I pulled up to the parking garage entrance this morning in my Passat wagon. Before I reached the entrance, I noticed two of my colleagues, Stephanie and Jason, standing on the sidewalk chatting. I pulled over and rolled down my window. They both broke into uncontrollable laughter, Jason sputtering that I, white chick that I am, could not possibly be listening to Run DMC. Stephanie added that, not only was I a white chick listening to the rap music, but listening to it in a station wagon.

I do not drive a station wagon, although I have a fear that I do. I was reluctant to purchase the Passat wagon, wavering several times and eyeing the sedan because of the wagon's affinity to the station wagon trope. However, the functionality of the wagon was, in part, my justification for purchasing a new car. And, I think the Passat wagon is quite a different beast from the station wagon. Visions of my parents 1970s vintage Ford Country Squire haunted my imagination as I considered the purchase of the Passat wagon. When I was very young, I remember spending hours in the back of that station wagon as we travelled to my grandparent's house in Wyoming. The good thing about the 1970s was that my parents never strapped us in -- we had free run of the entire back fo the wagon. They'd put the seats down and we had a large enclosed area to contain our playing, complaining, bickering and constant "are we there yet?" questioning.

My parent's station wagon was my first car when I got my driver's license at 16. They had tired of the vehicle at this point and saved it especially for me. And, at the time, I was not complaining about driving a station wagon. I also wasn't too worried about being perceived as a grown-up. In fact, you could hide a lot of folks in that car when entering the drive-in movie theater (you had to pay by the head, not the car). Going to the drive-in movie theater was one of the few things for a teen to do in Bozeman, Montana. I was not allowed to go to the drive-in movies. I am not entirely certain of the justification of my mother's "no drive-in" rule, but it was harsh since that was the activity of choice for most of my peers on the weekends. I went anyway. I snuck a lot of kids in with me in the back of the station wagon. Ultimately, my mother found out I'd been going to the drive-in and she grounded me for about a year. Someone left an empty popcorn box in the back seat of the station wagon and my mother found it during one of her fact-finding missions in my car. I always got caught.

Once I snuck out of my house to go see the midnight movie, another big event in small-town Bozeman that all the other kids were doing that I was not allowed to do. I saw Woody Allen's Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask. My mother was sitting in the living room, waiting up for me when I got home. Grounded for another year.

Anyway, buying a wagon of any sort mobilized all of these problems with my youth and the fear that I might be an adult. I worry that only grown-ups buy new wagons. So, when Stephanie called my sporty Passat wagon a "station wagon," I almost started crying. But I laughed instead. And, for the record, this is what my car looks like :

Hardly the same as the Ford Country Squire :


(If you are wondering, there is an entire website devoted to the station wagon. That is where I got this photo. Stephanie told me about this during her relentless mockery of my current vehicle.)

Anyway, I parked my car and walked to the Academic Affairs office and, as I headed toward my own office, I encountered Stephanie and Jason hanging out in his office. Unsuspecting, I chatted and joked a bit more with them and then went into my office to begin my day of hard labor. Then, I received an email from Jason. Here are the contents of this email :


WORD

Posted by at 11:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Recently, I accepted an appointment as the Chair of Photography at an Art College. In the Academic Affairs main office is a large bulletin board where all of the Academic Affairs folks have posted photographs of their pets. It's called The Pet Wall of Fame. Hmmm, I thought. I have dogs. I am supposed to be a photographer. Actually, not only am I supposed to be a photographer, I am the Chair of Photography. I should probably put a photograph of my dogs up on that board, I said to myself. I think I may have even uttered it aloud to the secretary.

Shortly thereafter, on a somewhat quiet evening, I pulled out the old camera and attempted to take a photograph of all three of my westies. Chaos ensued and the end result, about thirty minutes later, was my partner roaring with laughter and emphatically stating the question, "you're the chair of photography??" Then she said, "you're really just working at the one-hour photo place down the street, aren't you?" I told her to call my office. She said she was afraid that she might hear "Fast One Hour Photo, how can I help you," if she called my office. Then, she laughed again. But this time with more gusto.

Ha. Ha.

I had my people send a memo out to my dogs' people and we arranged for a formal shoot so that I could demonstrate my prowess as a photographer. We decided to go with a comfortable location -- our home backyard. The dogs felt that being in their own environment would make them most comfortable and able to present a more natural view of their individual personalities as well as the group dynamic. I showed up for the scheduled shoot on time, but Sara, our only female westie, was running a bit late. Something about her makeup. Anyway, we got started about twenty minutes later and ended up shooting for about an hour. Overall, I think we're all pleased with the results. I haven't gotten the final go ahead from the dogs for publication, but I think it's okay if I share the contact sheets here. Enjoy. And, yes, for those of you paying attention, I could not resist (a compulsion? perhaps) including my foot in the end.

Posted by at 11:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I still have much to write about that I have not had time to write about in proper format for posting, but, in the meantime, check these links :

http://www.nemba.org/digitalnemba/BostonMTBVideoAwards2006.html

I know I look like a total dork in the photo, but what can you do?

http://www.konaworld.com/news/E_News_CD.htm

Posted by at 5:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I have received numerous complaints about the fact that I have not posted a blog entry in quite some time. In fact, some complaints included an expression of displeasure at seeing my muddy face in my rain riding gear smiling back from my blog page. So, here I am, sitting in Peet’s Coffee, writing an entry. But, alas, this entry will only hint at things to come. I have some great stories to tell, but no time to write them down. Soon. . .

Posted by at 1:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)