I swear, I don't know what to do with myself some days.
Yesterday I wound up in the ER from 10:30pm to 7am. Yes, AM. They were thinking that I had appendicitis, but I kept vomiting from the pain relievers they had IV'd into my system, so they couldn't give me the contrast liquid you are supposed to drink so that your body lights up on the inside like a Christmas tree. Granted, a rather twisted Christmas tree, but you get the picture.
So the very cute young guy who is to do my CT scan wheels me on my gurney (so dignified, with vomit on my gown, my hair in an unwashed, disheveled bun) and chats nicely with me the entire time. I'm feeling good about myself as I make a couple of jokes and he laughs appreciatively, because I know medical personnel enjoy people with personalities.
As he wheels me back into my little ER bay, he says, "OK dear, I'm done with you."
Did this guy just call me "DEAR?"
As in the thing you call old, doddering women with grey hair and a hearing aid?
My official resignation from the "Hot Chicks Club" has just been written.
And here is some official ER music for you today... I love Pink Floyd and I would like to see them in concert. Now, would a "dear" want to see Pink freaking Floyd in concert?
I didn't think so.