Doktora gittim.

"I went to the doctor."

Today my coworkers formed a small posse (mostly Jenny; she is one formidable woman) and told me that I should, in no uncertain terms, see a physician. I gave a sigh and resigned myself to their wisdom; it needed to be done. I have been feeling like a freshly-incarnated Haitian undead for weeks and yesterday, when I almost completely went around the bend and they sent me home from work at 4:30, they knew SOMETHING was afoot. I usually don't clench my fists and gnash my teeth when talking on the phone to needy internationals. Nor do I usually collect their hairs from our "lounge" furniture, weave it into wee dolls, and burn them into tiny reeking piles of ash with my Zippo. It happens to the best of us, surely.

So I went with heavy heart to Indiana University's Death Center. I say that because I need to be at the point of death to go there. Thankfully, these doctors and nurses are better equipped to handle the myriad problems that the IU population could encounter than the Death Center at my alma mater, UMaine. At UMaine, they have but three kinds of "issues" that they deal with properly.

1) They can help if you have gotten yourself knocked up.
2) They can help if you have a venereal disease and are currently leaking something dread into your undergarments.
3) They can help if you have the flu.

That's about it. For everything else they had these rather large, blue football-shaped pills that they gave out like candy. I think they WERE candy. After going to the Death Center once and getting a gallon bucket of them to treat my sinus problems, I used the remainder (after my body killed whatever it was naturally) to sweeten my tea. Placebos have their uses, too.

So I go to see the doctor, and--here's where you need to gasp--he came out to get me EXACTLY ON TIME. The clock hit 4:10, my appointment time, and I heard my name. Of course it was butchered, but Dominique Potato was eager to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. He ushered me into his office and started asking questions the minute the door closed.

Doctor-man: What seems to be the problem?
Me: Problemproblemproblemproblemproblemproblem.
Doctor-man: I see.
Me: Good.
Doctor-man: Have you been camping recently?
Me: Uh, no.
Doctor-man: Ah. Have you recently drunken anything that could have contained untreated human sewage?
Me: No. I am currently only drinking the treated kind. The kind with "extra pulp."
Doctor-man: Hmm. Have you recently eaten any rancid meat?
Me: Well, there WAS that flyblown carcass I peeled off I-37 the other day. Made a hell of a brisket.
Doctor-man: Have you been bathing in unorthodox places?
Me: Define "unorthodox."
Doctor-man: Like, under a cow while it relieves itself.
Me: What have they told you? No man, I gave that up.
Doctor-man: Uh-huh. When you cough, do your teeth hurt at the roots?
Me: What the hell kind of question is that?
Doctor-man: You have mad-cow disease and cholera. Here's a prescription for Flonase.

It was then that I noticed the small bone that he had piercing the bridge of his nose. Witch-doctor! I stood up and dressed hastily as he discarded his latex gloves and I uttered an incantation to protect myself from his spell; he pulled back his lips in a vulpine sneer and hissed at me. Using my bag as a shield and broken tongue-depressors as blades, I made my way to the door and beat a hasty retreat. That was a close one.

I guess I should have noticed the monkey's paw keychain sooner. Damn, for an anthropologist I can be so dense.

Sigh. No worries, readers: I am fine. With some medication and time I will be just as loveable as I was before. And by "loveable" I mean "bizarre."

I leave you with a quote from Noemi, with whom I work at the Office of International Whiny People. She picked up the phone, spoke briefly with a student and gave the phone to Jenny, for the student had told her that s/he "had just been talking to Jenny and had gotten cut off." Of course, nothing of the sort had happened. It was a plot to get Jenny on the phone. Noemi, who is currently battling her own dread illness, walked into the breakroom, scarf around her sore throat, and said:

"My God, they are so evil." Noemi is from Mallorca, Spain, and they way she pronounced "evil" was the proper, civilized European way: "eh-vil", not "eee-vil." I about made trouser-chili laughing. She's the best. My props to you, my Spanish sistah. You keep me laughing.

All the best to y'all. Post, please! Is anyone out there?

Dom (Demir)