I don’t understand my doctor. I’m torn between thinking I need to expand my horizons and thinking this is all an elaborate set-up for next seasons re-release of candid camera. I continuously find my self sitting there blinking at him with my mouth partially open.
“you’re going to do what?”
“I going to manipulate you meridians and den block you allergies.”
“oh yeah?” <blink> “so…how does that work exactly? Should I stand back or lay down?”
It’s constantly like this. I feel like he is a cross between Master Shifu of Kung Fu Panda and House.
Doctor Lo uses lasers on me. As he does this I sit there regarding him. Trying to understand. Looking to see if he “thinks it’s working”.
If nothing else – his treatments are WAY more entertaining than any other doctor I have been treated by. But I get pissed off when he uses the pressure points as a way to fuck with me. He can take you down to a runny nosed crying mess by artfully grabbing a pinch of you ear fat.
And that’s where I was Thursday night when I called my boyfriend from the parking lot outside the “wellness center”.
“I’m going to swing by the house and pick you up. We are going to Christopher’s. I need a drink.”
“Uhhhh…okay. Where are you? You’re not still at the doctors are you? You’ve been there for hours.”
“Stop talking. Be outside the house. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
So I swung by and picked him up and we went and sat at the bar at Christopher’s. I like it there. It’s clean. The bathrooms are nice, the bartender is funny and she picks on my boyfriend. (okay she may be the best part). But they have good food and you aren’t surrounded by idiot bar girls who are looking for an excuse to show ANYONE their Tattoo. That is something my boyfriend may miss a bit. He loves going into the Irish Channel down the road a spell and looking for some witless floozie and innocently asking “do you have a tattoo? I was thinking about getting one” (<<LIE) and inevitably they are just standing there with only their shoes on - within seconds - gleefully pointing out the deep meaning of their tramp stamp.
Bryant smiles. “I really like this bar.”
So we didn’t go there. We went to the place where the nice people are. And the food that I am allowed to eat is served. Where the gin and tonics are large and decorated with ample citrus. And they just keep coming.
Bryant immediately starts in on Meghan the bartender asking why they don’t have Stella or Harp on draft. This is his way of warming people up to him. Meghan politely answers and – just looking at him – you can tell he ignored every word she said. I resist the urge to inform everyone in earshot that his favorite beer is Corona. Or bottled mexican pee (as I call it). He spots the word Veal on the menu and becomes a founding member of PETA within seconds. Daring anyone to say that what they do to those poor animals is humane. But you see no one is arguing with him. He’s just throwing lit matches at all of us for fun. Asshole.
I promise to pay for dinner and Bryant can find no further issue with the menu or bar offerings. He’s smiling contently and looking at the wrappers of his cigars as if they meant something to him.
Meghan comes over and tells me she wants me to start blogging about Comenco. They are our home-owner’s association. I can’t remember what her personal gripe was with the association – and I don’t know too much about them other than the fact that they dislike how many vehicles Bryant has and pick on him every chance they get. But aren’t all home-owner’s associations supposed to be filled with the ‘vinegar police’ type neighbors? Completely mismanaged and in love with their own hand-writing. Spitting out memos akin to the late Hussain Ministry of Information.
It seams that the Better Business Bureau concurs with Meghan the bartender – as it gave Comanco an “F” rating. Hehe. I guess they ‘started with trust’ and then just threw that the hell out.
But Crofton is a strange place. I mean it’s a nice place. But it has always felt a little like having moved to Poland. The people are all human. But they suspect you of something. They all meet secretly after dark to talk about you in a ritualistic torch circle on the 7th fairway once a week. (Shit I should let Yenny in on that action - she's been looking for a circle cult). They all think you drive too fast and are raising your rotten kid wrong. And they are trying to find a way to keep the date and time of this years Christmas Tree Lighting ceremony from you. Because you ruined it for everyone one last year when you came.
I contemplated moving away from Crofton, recently. It was …well it was all day Friday (yesterday). I was planning on winning the $333 million dollar jackpot. My detailed plan was to win the money – buy all the homes INSIDE the parkway in Crofton and give them as gifts to any Arab, Jewish, Muslim or African American families that promised to get involved in community politics while simultaneously rescuing a LARGE (poorly mannered) dog.
I would stay in the area long enough to watch the lady two doors over die of resentment and then move to Eastport where I would have a house on the water. I like to watch busy marinas. It’d be a great place to sit back, drink some wine and watch rich people crash their boats into each other. And then yell at each other loudly. J I love that shit.
With all the money I had I’d have left over I’d just pay homeless people to knock bikers into oncoming traffic.
Bryant keeps waiting for the biker I yelled at down the street to come back and verbally thrash me. It’s strange – I haven’t seen him since that day. I would be helpless to recognize him without his asshole patrol helmet. I’m afraid he has another helmet and is flying under the radar. I image it won’t be long before we meet again.