There are things you should know about granny and other saucy old broads. True, you are used to quick Twitter messages, but since I am Twitter-less, I urge you to keep reading to the end where, I guarantee — before the year is over — I will get to the point.
In the past when I shouted, “Is there a doctor in the house?” in a crowded venue, it was usually to introduce him to my niece. Since she does incredibly well on her own and in fact, has a restraining order against me for mentioning her, I choose now to shout that at an actual doctor’s office, where they frequently keep me waiting an hour and half beyond my actual scheduled appointment.
My primary doctor is a "recommendologist." Whenever I see him for any reason, he says I have a virus which is Latin for “I don't know what the hell you have.” Then he recommends a specialist, usually one not covered by my insurance.
Though my days are fully occupied searching for keys and plucking the hairs on my face, to others sitting in a doctor’s office, this time spent waiting might seem wasteful. But in fact, it is most enjoyable and is the only reality show I watch. The waiting areas are usually mobbed. My number — as in take a number and sit down, lady! — was 48, so there was a lot of time to observe.
I heard one woman mumble as she reviewed her multitude of medical forms to fill out in order to be seen by a specialist: “Left nostril, heart valve, ear, buttock, pinkie toe on right foot, pinkie toe on left foot …” Then she frustratingly stood up and burst out in song, “all of me; why can't they take all of me?” I sympathized and hummed along.
Another fellow in the room had been waiting so long that he called the receptionist from his cell phone while in that very room wanting to speak directly to the Urologist. She asked if he could hold and he shouted “if I could hold I would not be asking for the Urologist, you*%$%^!” He had a point. We applauded, then washed his mouth — and ours as well — out with a Gray Goose liquid.
Go figure; when doctors were on strike, I stayed healthy. I had so much leisure time once that I went to a palmist for fun. She said I would meet a tall, dark stranger and … he would remove my gall bladder. I went to another palmist for a second opinion. She removed my ring.
Which leads us to … my dear Justin Timberlake, I simply loved you on Saturday Night Live and your week guesting with Jimmy Fallon, also brilliant. Wowie! You are now considered one of the most talented people in the universe, and by now you must know how much I appreciate you. I may in fact be your oldest groupie.
But, about that movie you did — “Friends with Benefits” — I happen to like the title and the idea. I even agree with the premise of friends with benefits as a way of life. Justin, as much as I admire you, we do have our creative differences in movie making. And with the definition of “friends with benefits.”
Firstly, my film would tack on an added scene that would feature a romantic rendezvous with a man. But more importantly, this man would include me on his health insurance plan. This, for me, is the actual definition of “friends with benefits.”
See you at the Oscars, Emmys, Grammys and any other place they give out awards. You are simply awesome!
P.S. Do you happen to have a single ole granddaddy on Medicare?
