Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The White Coat.

I love doctors. It's something about the white coat that gives me warm fuzzies. A jackass with buck-teeth and an Alabama accent could slip on that white coat and he would be transformed into an instant genius in my eyes. You want to jam a needle in my throat to help a skin blemish? Sure! You want to write a "street legal" prescription and I need to pay you in cash? SOLD!

In other words, I don't care if it's a Halloween costume, people are definitely smarter in that coat. If a Girl Scout shows up on my front step in a white coat proclaiming that if I eat a sleeve of Thin Mints I will live longer, I will buy the entire case of goodies and the wagon they came in.

Everyone should invest in a white coat. Who said doctors and dentists are the only privileged peeps who get to wear that white coat? In Tunisia, teachers wear a white coat to protect their street clothes from chalk.

If my high school teachers wore that coat I would have actually listened to what they had to say. They would have been brighter, better looking, more interesting...smarter. If they british accent to top it off, I would have never gone home. I would have slept in the dirty halls of the high school, hoping the education would sink into my skin, making me smarter by osmosis. Jesus, a british doctor is a genius without even taking a test.

Mortgage brokers, insurance salesmen, advertising reps...just call yourself a doctor and somehow spin your sales pitch to benefit the recipient's health and you'll make a cool mil. The definition of a doctor is derived from the Latin word "doctus" meaning, "having been taught." So if anyone gives you shit about it, you can say you have been taught in that area, therefore they can go to hell with their accusation. If you want to say, "BOOYA!" it will be within your right.

I might consider buying a white coat and wear it around the house. It could give me an edge when it comes to calling the shots around here. "Listen to me, girls. I am now a doctor of mothering you, therefore I know what is best. You need to unload the dishwasher, do your homework and pick up dog poop in the yard. It's for the best, trust me. I am a doctor."

The dog may not understand that I am now a doctor, but I think he'll get the drift when I leave a prescription in his bowl asking him to un-shed his hair all over the fucking place. And since I am now his Master Doctor, I will explain that eating my flip flops for dinner will upset his digestive tract. I will know this without taking a medical test. That's how smart I will be once I get that white coat.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

The GPS.

My husband bought a GPS for me after I had a complete breakdown trying to get my daughter to a softball tournament a few weeks ago. It wasn't pretty. You know, the whole sarcastic conversation with construction that goes something like, "Oh this is fucking brilliant. ANOTHER road closed. Maybe next time we could have the tournament on the fucking moon. Unfuckingbelievable."

My poor kid in the backseat had a look of sheer terror. ARE we going to moon? She's obviously crazy enough to do it. Christ. I don't want to go to the moon, I'm kickin' it old school at a slumber party tonight.

So I have the GPS. It's great, but I can't help thinking we should take it a step further. I've already changed the voice to a masculine british accent. That way, if he leads me in the wrong direction, it's not his fault. He doesn't even live in this country.

Well, he doesn't live at all, but that's beside the point. I'm desperate to have this voice do more for me. I want to change it to a voice similar to Queen Latifah and have it shout out, "Oh, Mrs. Nordstrom, you lookin' damn fine today! Yeah, you go get 'em girl!" That would make me feel like a million bucks.

I want to reprogram it so when I drive more than 10 miles, it tells crude jokes to entertain my boring drive. I want it to ask if I've lost five pounds. I want it to adore me, dammit.

I fear I may be liking my GPS more than it likes me, which is an unhealthy relationship. I know this, but I can't stop. I've always been attracted to stoic men.

I worry about its feelings when I purposely ignore its command. "I know you said to take a left, but I need coffee first. You know this. We've been through this millions of times, you and I. Just hang in there." In fact, I don't even put this device on the dash anymore, I set it on the passenger seat like it's an actual british man going for a little holiday with me while I run errands. I haven't belted him in yet, but if it comes to that, I may need to commit myself to a padded room.

The point is, there's room for improvement. Look, I'm not saying anything crazy like having it arrive in the form of a blow-up doll, I'm just asking for positive affirmations for people like me who'd enjoy some compliments sprinkled into their day.