Millie Noe has tennis elbow.
And that's weird, because she hasn't held onto a racket since she was a kid. Even then she did not play the formal game, with love this and love that. She batted the ball against the backboard or else bounced it over the net to her girlfriend.
It was steamy out there on the tar. And it was no fun chasing after the ball. Especially when, just as she would be closing in on the rascal, it would slip under the chain link fence. And then of course, it would roll to a stop, an inch beyond her reach. Naturally, she would stretch out on her stomach and try with all of her might to lure it back. But, if she did manage to brush it with the tip of her racket, she would inevitably push it further out. Once that happened, the only way to retrieve the damn thing was to go all the way to a corner of the court and out the gate.
It was just as excruciating for her to be standing on the black lava court, watching the same tennis ball retrieval operation, by her partner.
That is why she and her friend did not try to hit the just inside the white line or in the far corner of each other's court. As Millie would gently tap the lime-green ball, she would think, "Please God, do not let Sue miss it. I do not want to have to kill her."
Tennis was just not her game.
I suppose that one of these days, I, me, Millie Noe, should go to the doctor and have this elbow, that screams bloody murder, just because I squeeze shampoo into my palm, looked at.
But doctors are so annoying.
I know, I know. I am being insensitive. They took a vow after all, to save lives. And they work very, very, hard to get that degree. But does that give them the right to put a person on a scale?
And what's with all the questions?
What does, "How many alcoholic drinks do you consume in a day?" have to do with an ear ache?
When I was growing up, according to my father, it was rude to ask adults, "How much money do you make?" And, "Who are you voting for?"
This, he told me, was considered to be personal and private information.
And do you know what? Nobody ever had to tell me not to ask someone to undress and put their feet in stirrups. I just kind of instinctively, knew that.
Doctors, however, do not seem to have this seemingly, basic knowledge.
They ask awkward questions and they put you in dastardly positions.
Can you imagine if a friend called you and said, "Hey, I'm going to stop over today at 10:00 A.M. I have an elbow that is fucking, killing me and am I hoping that you can fix it."
And then, when your friend arrives, she has to sit in a room with a bunch of people who are covered with spots and are hacking up luggies.
Finally, your assistant calls your friend's name and leads your friend straight to a scale, has her step on it and after that, kindly asks her to pee in a cup.
First of all, women prefer to pee before they are weighed. That's just common sense. And second of all, your friend's elbow is going to have to hurt pretty darn much, before your friend is going to give you a call.
All she really wanted was somebody like that doctor on Star Trek to wave a wand over her arm and fix it.
Have I ever mentioned that I was blessed with giant knockers?
It's true. God was very generous to me in the department of ta-tas.
Unfortunately, I received the gift, in fourth grade and did not appreciate it.
Alas, today I am sporting the very same double A's.
While they were quite large on a ten-year-old, on an adult, they are not.
Put it this way. Once upon a time, my bathroom sink was clogged. I called in a plumber. The cause? Two pairs of pantyhose and one bra were stuck in the curly-que part of the pipe.
I know what you are thinking. "Wow! Your bra was big enough to clog your sink."
It fit down the drain.
Recently, I have been receiving invitations in the mail.
My doctor would like me to come in to pay her a visit so that she can take my already tiny breasts, put them into a vice and crank it shut.
Like that's not going to hurt.
What she needs to do, is work on her invites. Maybe add a little glitter to them or something.
It's like being asked to come to a birthday party dressed as a Piñata.
Nobody is going to show up.
I took a semester of psychology. So, I believe that qualifies me to say with complete confidence, that, guestless, childhood birthday parties, are what drives many people into the medical profession.
Since they have no friends, they can spend one hundred percent of their eight years in college, studying.
And the knowledge they've attained, along with that plaque they hang on their wall, gives them a license to search for flaws in everybody else.
It's the perfect revenge for playing, Pin the Tail on the Donkey and blowing party horns, all alone, year after year.
Not to mention, they are already experts at sending out dreadful invitations, which is standard for their field.
How about the one where they ask you to drink a gallon of sweet, salty, crap. Shit all night long. Come in the next day. And then be injected with a relaxing, truth serum, so they can stick a camera up your ass?
My dad never had to tell me that was rude either.
A few years back, I woke up with a dark spot on my face. It was located under my left bag.
At my physical exam, my doctor said, "Millie, I think you should see a dermatologist about that."
"Fine," I said.
"Now," she went on to tell me. "This guy does not have great bedside manner. But he is very thorough at what he does."
Heads up.
If you plan to see a dermatologist, do not schedule your appointment on the Tuesday after you return from a weeklong vacation of consuming pretty drinks with umbrellas, while floating around on a raft, whenever you aren't out in a boat, fishing.
All without sunscreen.
I entered the building quite frazzled. Because, living without a sense of direction and having no ability to parallel park, makes the simplest things in life, interesting.
I was greeted by a woman with skin as creamy as skim milk. If you were to pour her over your bowl of Raisin Bran, she too would give it that weird, blue, tint.
I lied my way through a form I'd been handed, asking about my hobbies and such. And was then called into a private room, where I sat on an examination table swinging my legs.
The door opened a crack and then a man in a long, white lab coat, wearing a headlamp, popped in.
I thought he was a miner.
That spot was on my face, remember?
He didn't seem to care.
The miner spent a little bit of time in every, single, nick, nook and cranny of, me.
He dared to go where no man had gone before. Well, not with a flashlight, anyway.
And he unapologetically, snapped pictures.
If I would have known that something like that was going to take place, I would have put on a different bra that morning, instead of the one-piece thing with the yellowed straps, that crisscrossed in the back and came without a latch.
I didn't even know how to get out of it.
"The spot on your face is harmless," he mumbles. "Would you like me to freeze it off?"
"Sure?" I answer,
Here is an interesting fact.
To a dermatologist, the phrase, freeze it off, means, burn the mother with dry ice.
When I left the place an hour later, I was missing a dime sized sample of my chest, to be sent in for a test, which he had carved out with an X-acto-knife.
The small, harmless, mark on my face, was already beginning to transform into a large, scab, complete with puss, which over time has morphed into a little pocket, which comes in handy to take on the overflow and act as a second bag, which is located under the first bag, which is under my left eye.
This is super handy on those mornings that just one bag is not enough to express how I am really feeling.
He also handed me a snap shot of a mole, a printout of the ill effects of clove cigarettes and a pamphlet about the harmful effects of the very sun that his receptionist has never seen.
The biopsy, came back negative.
Just like me.
Does anybody have Dr. McCoy's phone number or know what galaxy I can find the USS Enterprise in these days?
