Man, I don't know what is wrong with me. Tonight, I pulled on my tightest jeans (sans panties of course, since its No Panties Wednesday, did you get the memo?), put on my tightest tank top, gathered up my art supplies for my art class, drove over there, walked up the stairs, pulled out my ticket, slapped it down on the table for "J" and then looked over at who the model was.
Oh fruck. It was Eva Braun. The Nazi Model. Ugh! I hate the Nazi Model. She is my absolute least favorite model. She's in her late 50s, so I guess she's probably not the actual Eva Braun (although she could possibly be Eva and Hitler's love child if my math is correct). This woman is one of the most boring models in the universe. Plus she's uglier than George Bush's armpit. Plus she's totally inert when she models. I always feel an overwhelming urge to run up and take her pulse and yell STAT like they do on ER, even though there's no discernible reason to do so, since I don't know CPR and don't have a defibrillator. And every drawing I have of her is exactly the same. And the funny thing is, she thinks she stunning. She comes down and looks at everyone's work between settings. Models don't usually do that. She also always comes to our shows hoping to see her naked countenance up on the wall, but guess what?? No one ever uses any of their drawings of her...
Because you're boring, Eva!!
So I did something I've never did before, I leaned over to "J" and whispered "I decided I won't be drawing tonight. I don't like Eva" and put my ticket back in my wallet and walked down the stairs. I met up with "L" the hippie chick who was just coming in the building. I told her I was leaving. She was startled. She said, "Why? Are you pissed at someone?" I said No. I told her I just didn't want to draw the Nazi Model. And she said, "Oh her. She's ok. She's a little prepossessed. You should come back. I love watching you draw. You're a great artist, witty. You're so talented."
And while that was nice to hear, I just didn't want to draw someone I'm bored with. So I went and got in my car and suddenly felt really funny. Wednesday night. Gee. I wonder what I can do tonight? I've only missed about 2 art classes in a year and a half. I don't even know what's on TV on Wednesday night. Not that I know what's on TV anyways, since I don't have cable. I drove my car over near a woman's house who used to be in my support group. I wanted to stop in and say hello. I felt like being sociable, but I was too shy to just stop, so I just headed over to where all McFlurrie Crack Addicts eventually end up...McDonald's. I am now officially addicted to McFlurries. Feeling happy? Gotta have a McFlurrie! Feeling angry? Gotta have a McFlurrie! Feeling okay because there's clouds in the sky and a blade of grass is growing in my front yard? Gotta have a McFlurrie.
I'm in trouble. I definitely see a trip to the Betty Ford Clinic in the near future.
Yesterday was definitely a McFlurrie-inducing kind of day though. It was like 99 freakin' degrees. And then you added in the humidity, which made it like 147 degrees. And that was at 7 a.m. Guardcat has taken to permanently sleeping under the furniture. I don't think I've seen her since May. I guess its cooler under there.
I had to meet a client at 12:30 for lunch and mall walk. I didn't eat breakfast because I figured I'd be eating lunch on the company's dime and I don't usually eat breakfast anyways. So I pulled up to the client's house and she's out on the front lawn with her room mate and her room mate's little girl. None of them seemed to be particularly moving fast, so I got out of my car. "M" my client had her hand wrapped in a big white towel. I immediately thought that her hand was hanging off by a tendon and she was bleeding to death (there's a reason my mom calls me a pessimist). She came up to me and said her room mate's daughter had just slammed her hand in the car door. I stink in emergencies for myself, but for others, I'm fine. I have a lot of experience. I've brought my mom to the ER like 13,290 times.
I told her I would take her to the hospital (although internally I was gritting my teeth, because I absolutely HATE ERs. I have spent so many, many hours waiting in dirty, filthy ER rooms with my mom. In our town, you have to figure even if you go in for a hangnail, that you're going to spend a minimum of 6 hours in the ER). Unfortunately, instead of going to the hospital right near her house, the one I'm familiar with (my mom's favorite), she decided she wanted to go to one of the one's up on Pill Hill (there are 3 hospitals in a 3 block radius up on a hill near the university). So I drove over there and promptly got lost. We kept driving in circles. I was trying to be humorous and "M" kept apologizing and it was about 120 degrees in the car, but I finally got her to the ER entrance and dropped her off. I tried to park there, but was immediately told to move.
And then came the wait. In the waiting area. With all the crack whores. The criminals in shackles. The people with bloodied bandages. And then my favorite....there was this woman who looked like Terry Schiavo. She was strapped in a wheelchair, drooling and lolling around. Well, that was all fine and dandy, until the projectile vomiting started happening. Groovy! Now I remember, why I didn't go into medicine.
I then saw the fattest little child I've ever seen in my entire life. She was a little African American girl about 3 years old. She was only about 3 foot high and she probably weighed about 80 pounds already. Her face was so fat, you could barely see her eyes. And she was wearing this big ol' hunkin' bling bling gold necklace. You know, like a gangsta rapper would wear. It was huge. And there was a massive charm at the end of it. It looked like a gold cast chicken mcnugget. And I was sitting there thinking, now what's the point of that? I mean, I remember as a kid having a pink Cinderella watch, but a giant bling bling chicken mcnugget necklace weighing 2 pounds on a three year old?
But by about 3 in the afternoon, after still not having eaten since the day before, I was about ready to yank that damn fool necklace off that little kid and gnosh me some bling, but her mother outweighed me by about 300 pounds, so I figured I better just chew on my glucose tablets and live to see my 48th birthday.
Finally about 3:30, we were ushered into triage, where we waited even some more. Random doctors would walk by and say, "Gee, you need an x-ray" and then continue walking. Now "M" is not a real patient person and she is given to loud outbursts involving the word "Fuck" if provoked and she was starting to get annoyed. I was trying to appease her by talking about movies and making fun of people when they walked by. She did finally get a nurse to give her some pain pills. I like "M" but she is a little bit of a drama queen. When asked how severe the pain was between 1-10, with 10 being the worse, she said 10. Now I think 10 would more likely be like a gun shot wound or hatchet sticking out of the cranial lobe. I've had my hand slammed in a car door before and while it wasn't pleasant, and yes, it did certainly smart for a while, it certainly wasn't a 10. There wasn't even any broken skin and she even made a joke that it hadn't affected her manicure. So I was never really worried that she was in severe pain. And eventually the x-ray showed that there was no broken bones (surprise!) and actually by the end of our time together I saw her grab her purse with her injured hand. So I kinda think she enjoys the attention she gets at the ER, much like my mom does.
But she told me afterwards, when we finally had something to eat, that I'm totally awesome, because I went to the ER with her, and I told her I really only went there for the air conditioning. Ha! Yeah, I actually told her that. She laughed.
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