The WAITING Room

When I arrived at the doctor's office this morning, the lights were off and the door was locked.
This was an Annual Exam. I wasn't sick. I wasn't being fit in as a favor. They knew I was coming, and they'd known it for a YEAR.
I scheduled the FIRST appointment of the day (a year ago) specifically because this doctor has kept me waiting for hours in the past (the same doc who once told me a procedure would cause "some discomfort" in my 20s, and I then had to explain to her we obviously had different definitions, because I thought "some discomfort" would constitute oh, maybe, beard burns on my inner thighs...)
I don't want to tell her how to run her business (let's sayyyy), but: if the office opens at 9, and the first patient is scheduled at 9, here's what let's do: everyone shows up at 8:30; drinks their coffee; catches up on last night's "World's Biggest Loser thinks He Can Dance" -- and by 9, the lights are on, the doors are unlocked, and the patients are all naked on a slab.
At ten after 9, I was sitting in the hallway, with my back up against the door, so they couldn't miss me when they opened it, and I fell inside.
Then they handed me a stack of paperwork that included lists of questions they definitely knew the answer to, like how many pregnancies I had under my belt (still Zero -- they see me once a year; they'd know).
The last time I was in a doctor's waiting room, I read this freakonomics blog on the BlackBerry that assured me that ME waiting, instead of the DOC waiting is the most efficient use of time, but I'm not buying it.

http://freakonomics.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/03/19/is-the-waiting-room-necessary/

By the time I filled out my forms; got called back; and got undressed I was already an hour behind on the rest of the day...and in NO MOOD for the P.A. who showed up.
Now, I am perfectly happy to see P.A.s and Nurse Practitioners when I'm sick. They've always taken good care of me (I hasten to add -- since they might be quick with the ole air bubble in the syringe). BUT, I don't think it's too much to ask to see my DOCTOR, once a YEAR. She knows me; she knows my history; and she should have some anatomical sense after all these years of what's changing and what isn't. (The one thing she clearly doesn't know is how to keep good help, because there's a different nurse and P.A. every time -- but I wasn't there for personnel or management tips.)
Every time I make the annual appointment, they ASK if they can schedule me with the P.A. and every time I answer, "why? did my check bounce? -- because if it didn't, put me down for the Doc."
And that's part of the irritation -- I pay enough in healthcare premiums every month to insure a small third world country -- and I'm very, very sure she is more than adequately compensated for her time, whether or not it's her, or the P.A. who sees me.
I was madder than usual today because they made me late to get my hair cut, and the Salon, unlike the doctor's office, runs like a well-oiled machine. No time is wasted, but no one is double-booked, and the only wait-time is whatever you spend under the dryer -- where they dip your hands in paraffin and put them in little gloves and then bring you superbly trashy magazines and whatever you want to drink.
I am pretty sure Troy would probably throw in a breast exam if I asked him.

Ambien Strips?!

Talking to pal Kimmy last night, we had a nice chat about the miracle of those Listerine pocket strips that dissolve on your tongue, and she mentioned that products like Theraflu etc now also come in convenient strip form.



My idea?

Ambien strips.

I, of course, have no scientific aptitude whatsoever -- but I sure do know what the market will bear.

Can somebody get on this please?

I Licked It. And I Liked it. Really.

Uh-Oh.

I'm reading Professor Kakie's Facebook tonight and I see she's posted a link to this New York Times article:

FTC to rule Blogs Must Disclose Gifts or Pay for Reviews


http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/06/business/media/06adco.html?_r=1&ref=business

Since I suck as a blogger, that link probably won't work, so here's the gist of what the New York Times said:

"For bloggers who review products, this means that the days of an unimpeded flow of giveaways may be over. More broadly, the move suggests that the government is intent on bringing to bear on the Internet the same sorts of regulations that have governed other forms of media, like television or print."

To which I say: WHAT? Bloggers get an unimpeded flow of giveaways?!

And parenthetically: where do I sign up?

Now, I work in the newspaper biz, so I am very aware of the practice of "pay to play," and I have never, ever engaged in it. There are plenty media folks in this town who will happily pucker up whenever an advertiser says "we'll pay you X if you say Y." Lots of people ASK for that kinda consideration, but no one's ever successfully gotten it. Not from me. Not from anybody I've worked with, or for. Even the delightful studio advertisers are painfully aware that if a movie sucks (for example), I'll be the first to say so. Out loud. In print. Online. On Facebook. On Twitter. Anywhere I get the chance really. Even if I got a free pass, or hosted the Sneak Preview. I often get free tickets to fancy parties, and I'm sure the hosts know I'll probably write about it... but they definitely never know what I'm gonna write (and it's not unusual for me not to get invited back).

If I like something, on the other hand -- for example, Bacon, Ambien, and Sam Shepard -- I'll say that too. Ambien certainly SHOULD put me on their payroll, but no, I pay for it just like all the other mortals do.

As a blogger, however -- clearly a naive and inexperienced one -- no one's ever even suggested any "promotional consideration." Hmmmph. I'm feeling kinda offended actually. Because I would totally be the Kathy Griffin of Lexington's D-List given half a chance. (I still remember her getting that sofa paid for on Season One of the D-List.)

Now that I'm learning how all this stuff works though, let me make it clear: I bought the Box of Bandit Wine that I served on Friday. The obvious delight and glee on Jupiter's face is clearly unforced. The subsequent endorsement from our favorite stereotype-busting corporate lawyer who I enlisted/forced to bartend was equally genuine and unsolicited: "Maybe I was just thirsty, but..." (I am pretty sure he said it was OK to quote him on that... And if it isn't, I am pretty sure he will sue me or enjoin me or something). The Wine Boxers are now following me on Twitter, which is funny, because I order maybe two drinks a year (and I rarely finish those).

As for my college buddy who saw me at the Food Show the next day -- she DID give me that fabulous pillar of salt in which we can now serve margaritas. I think she gave it to me because 1. She knew perfectly well I would be a poster girl for the "Lick it. Love it. Live it" campaign. And, 2. She went to college with me for heaven's sake, and as a classmate, she definitely has first-hand experience of my ability to get the word out (for both good, and for evil).

Because of course, here's the double-edged sword of giving me stuff, or telling me stuff, or even knowing me -- if something sucks, I'll say it sucks. And to anyone who then seems surprised, my response is always the same.

It's a variation on the famous tortoise/scorpion story where the scorpion asks the tortoise for a ride across the river and the tortoise says, Forget it, you'll sting me to death. The scorpion says he won't, because that'd be stupid, since they'd both drown. Halfway across, the scorpion stings the tortoise and as they're sinking, the tortoise asks why. And the scorpion says, "it's my nature."

The version I learned from my grandmother (subsequently embroaced by one of my favorite boyfriends from my 20s, for reasons that soon became obvious) was about a Woman who's walking through a blizzard and comes upon a snake who asks if he can take shelter inside her shirt, for warmth. She says of course not, because he'll bite her. He says No, no. They both need the warmth, and if she dies, he'll die too. So she puts him inside her blouse, where he promptly does bite her, and as they're both slowly succumbing to the cold, she asks why. His answer is, "You knew I was a snake when you picked me up."

So that's what I say to anyone chagrined by what I write: You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.

I shoulda known that boyfriend was a little too fond of that expression, and it is absolutely true that he already had a perfectly good girlfriend when I met him.

To mix the metaphors, he turned out to be a hard dog to keep on the porch...but I DID know he was a Snake when I picked him up.

Here. Lick This.

I went to a food show yesterday and ran into an old college buddy who handed me something and said, "here. Lick this."

So, I did.

And then I said, "hey, what about swine flu and all that?" And she said something fairly complicated about salt's anti-microbial properties or something.

Here's what I remembered: she lived on the same floor I did freshman year, and she was smarter than me (smarter than I? smarter than I was?)

I also just tend to revert to college behavior when I run into college classmates, so if one of them hands me something and says "here, lick this," then I just do.

It turns out, it's this pillar of salt you can pour drinks into -- like margaritas. It was delicious. (She also had these slabs of salt you use as, like, a cutting board?)

Man! That is almost as great an idea as the box of wine I bought Friday night. And then served to people. And they drank it too.

I didn't have any, but I was just so in awe of the marketing genius I HAD to buy it.

Instead of branding itself as the drink of choice for Alcoholics who have no time or money to fumble with corks, it re-positions itself as the eco-friendly portable drink of choice for the bohemian bourgeoisie (wouldn't it be great at Shakespeare in the Park we marveled?)... Just add a straw and it's the perfect juice-box for grown-ups.

On the back of the box, it says: Why Bandit, and lists ten reasons. Among them:

2.

Thirty three percent more wine, and then it does the math, 1 liter vs. 750 ml. Now, like everyone else, I refused to learn the metric conversions when I was told to in the 70s -- and it's one of those few vestiges of American Imperialism that still seems to serve us well (but consequently, I don't actually know what 1 liter vs. 750 ml means. But I do know thirty three percent more is probably better.)

3.

Lower shipping weight = less fuel emissions (Barbara Kingsolver would surely be proud).

5.

No corked wine. I vaguely recall reading something about corks being endangered, or causing mercury poisoning in tuna, or whatever, so maybe that's good.

8.

Made largely of Renewable Resources. Of course, "renewable resources" is just
another marketing ploy (it could be made out of small children for all I know...or care, for that matter... because...

Number 1? You can crush it on your forehead.

I thought Jupiter was just making that up, but I'm looking at the label right now and that's what it says. Right above 1.866.JugBoys, which characterizes them as "liberators of fine wine."

About the only thing it doesn't promise is to get you laid.
But maybe that's implied? Understood?
Not sure.
Perhaps you have to buy it in sufficient quantity?
Will report back.

Dick and Julie

"I think the dozen people who click onto your website while they take their coffee breaks will manage to carry on if they don't get to read about your sauteing thorny vegetables in butter for one more day."
--Julie and Julia

One of the things I got for my birthday was the book, Julie and Julia, which I just started. And I'm far enough in to have read the part where she confesses to not knowing who Richard Hell is.

I know who Richard Hell is. I've even talked to him on the phone, during which I took cheesy delight in addressing him as Mr. Hell. (I knew his real name of course -- he's FROM here -- And it isn't Richard. And it isn't Hell.) I thought it was pretty funny, and I'm pretty sure he thought I was a dork, but the surprising thing to me was, either way, he was a good sport about it.

And either way, the book has made me think that there are probably A. people who know who Richard Hell is, B. people who don't, and then subsets of people who would admit to that, and then people who would not.

I figure I'm admitting to reading Julie and Julia, which is far more embarrassing than any of the above. But I wanted it, cause I love food and I love writing about food, and it's entertaining, even if it isn't well written. By and large, it reinforces the fact that there are often BIG differences between bloggers and writers -- some people are both (Dana Jennings is one of my favorites off the top of my head), but a lot of times they're the exceptions who prove the rule. This girl Julie, who wrote the book, doesn't pretend to be a writer -- she's actually an Actress -- employed as a Secretary.

(At my first job, I was a writer, employed as a "marketing assistant," which is the euphemism my Engineer Boss was kind enough to call me, because he felt bad about calling anyone with a master's degree his secretary. It was the 80s. I think he felt extra bad because his daughters both had liberal arts degrees like mine and I'm sure he was hoping someone would take pity on them someday and give THEM a job. All I know is, he worked harder than any other boss I've ever had. He was the BEST boss I have ever had. He is the Boss by whom I went on to measure every other Boss. And I was very, very glad to make his coffee. My time in carpetland with him was time well spent. At my next job, I had a real, old-school secretary, who knew actual shorthand and actually preferred to be called a Secretary and not an Assistant. I put in four years at that stop in carpetland and it was much, much harder. But I also made a lot more money.)

----
I was just thinking, on my last birthday, I didn't even know HOW to blog (I did sorta know how to MICRO-blog, which is what I was still calling Twitter at the time, and that's because I was doing it wrong).

I still think Writers and Bloggers have very different jobs, and I'm still sorting out the two. And by "writer" I don't mean "novelist" -- which is the kinda thing any Writer will be asked about sooner or later if they go into writing as a profession. (No, I don't write Fiction. At least not on purpose. I don't think it's any more or less legitimate, or interesting, or serious than non-fiction -- just different.)

I'm also not a Journalist -- they have schools for that, and I didn't go to one -- I'm just a writer who sometimes writes about the news.

I love to cook -- but it doesn't make me a chef. They have schools for that too. Again, I didn't go to one. Chef Baby Brother did. That's why we call him Chef Baby Brother.

The blogging thing? Eh. I'm still figuring it out as I go.

God Bless Chris Rock

This is what I've been telling all my girlfriends for years in terms of developing a certain imperviousness about body image (and if they don't believe me, maybe they'll believe Chris):

"Men do not care. There is no point in the history of the world where men were not sleeping with the women in front of them."

Fuzzy Math

A british study last week made big news when they announced British men claim to have directly slept with nine partners each while women say they have had 6.3 partners (calculator is at www.lloydspharmacy.com/sexdegrees.)

The point the study was making was that thru indirect contact, this meant the average Brit had about 2.8 million sex partners. Not factoring in Mick Jagger, of course.

I couldn't get over the six and nine.

Seriously?

Are these particular Brits surveyed Amish?

Did they GO to college --- cause where I went to school, the only real dating etiquette centered around whether or not to Swallow on the first date.

So I'm not buying the six and nine. I feel certain in 12 years of Catholic school I was probably taught by nuns and priests who could top those averages.