Any way, even though it's Tuesday, I hope everyone had a great weekend. I got to have a few glasses of Sangria on Friday night with my wonderfully, beautiful friend, Lorraine. And now the count down is on to Honky Tonk Saturday but I am not going to say a lot about it except maybe a few times all week long. Last week was also D day with the allergist. I arrived at my appointment 20 minutes early as requested. The door was locked. Who tells you to come to an appointment and not leave the door open? Seriously, who am I going to rob? A bunch of nurses with 71 types of tree serum they inject into your body? Woo wee. That will make you high as a giraffe's ass. After calling and them letting me in, I fill out the necessary paperwork, go into a room and wait. A nurse comes in and asks me to blow into this contraption like blowing out candles. That went over smoothly. I failed with flying colors. Puh-lease give me some real candles will ya?
She then comes back in and says the doctor would be in to see me in a few. Oh, goody, I can't wait. NOT! Then walks in Dr. McHottie. I mean seriously, who would have thought that a snot doctor could look so good. Well, shitballs, if I knew that I would have dressed up for the occasion of checking my nasal passages and discussing my addiction to Kleenex tissues. I might have even trimmed my hose hairs and had my upper lip waxed since he was so up close and personal. He explains to me the process of the test which I didn't hear a word he said because I was focused on the once used to be hole in his ear from an earring which told me at one time he was a wild rebel. Grrr. He walks out, the nurse comes back and states the process again because I wasn't listening. Then it goes ding dong in my head. Am I wearing the most ragged bra I own? He can't poke my back with a bra that is now the color of grey with strings and stuffing hanging out. So I immediately ask to go to the restroom to see if I put on a good or bad bra. I run to the restroom, take my shirt off, see that I am good to go and Dr. Sexy pants can look at my supple back all he wants.
I go back in, the nurse says take your shirt and bra off and put this paper contraption on and lie on your stomach. Oh, this is getting better, the bra didn't matter, thank god I shaved under my arms. So, I am setting in this cold ass room thinking I am about to be up close and tit personal with Doc McStuffins and the nurse walks in and says, "Now I am going to administer the test on your back." Uh, say what? You? What happened to Snot Patrol? I just had an up close and personal conversation about by rhino area in which he was almost lip to lip and you are going to poke me? What a friggin, let down. At that point, I didn't care if she stuck my butthole. And then to make it worse, I fail some of the test and then she had to inject me 13 different times with needles to see if I was allergic to something else. My date with the Dr. Doolittle just went from dinner for two to Match fucking dot com reject.
After it was all said and done, he comes in, tells me I am allergic to basically the state of Tennessee, schedule an appointment to start taking shots every week and have a great day. I mean the bastard could have slapped me on the ass like a football coach and said, "nice job." Oh, well, that's what I get. It's not like I would have went out with him, he was married and had kids (see up close and personal) but it sure was good to feel wanted. That's right -wanted. He wanted my co-pay and I end up with nothing but a bunch of snot reducing medicine. Remind me that doctors are pimps next time I have the idea that any one of them could be Dr. McDreamy would ya! This is defiantly a classic case of getting poked and not getting kissed.