The past week and a half in Perps has been spent dodging rain drops, shivering in a shower without hot water (something’s going on with my hot water heater, though I don’t know what), and watching the Wire with Kili, while crying over the fate of Bubbles and the other characters in the show. Not much to blog about. To please the readership, to keep you interested (particularly in the dwindling days before my return), I’ve decided to pull one from the archives—an experience I didn’t blog about, just in case a situation like this ever arose. Actually, I just didn’t think it was that funny or interesting at the time, but it’s better than recounting days passed watching movies in my studio.
A few weeks ago, one of the other assistants who I’ll refrain from naming (and no, that is not a convenient way of masking that the story is actually about me—I feature too prominently in it in a different way) had a UTI, and we had to take her to the doctor’s. As employees/temporary residents of
Doctor’s offices in
UTI-girl didn’t want to go into the office by herself, so I went in with her while the other two girls waited in the salle d’attente. UTI-girl and I tried our best to explain the problem in semi-broken French, gave her personal information (name, DOB, etc), and made some small talk about what we were doing in
UTI-girl left to do her business, which left me sitting in the doctor’s office, with the doctor, waiting. It was one of the most awkward things I have ever done. We kind of sat there—I obviously had nothing to do, so mostly I just looked at my hands. He did some work on the computer. At one point, we both looked up at the same time, and it would have been awkward not to acknowledge how awkward it was. So we laughed a little about that, he made a joke about how UTI-girl must have gotten lost, et cetera. And then. And then. To continue the small talk, the doctor mentioned that UTI-girl’s French was very good, and then said, “Yours is great, too, of course, but at her age it’s remarkable to have French that advanced.” Oh my god.
UTI-girl is 20 years old, and doesn’t even actually look 2 years younger than me—we look the same age, more or less. But this doctor, this dashing, successful, French doctor, assumed I was old enough to be OUT of UTI-girl’s age bracket. How old did he think I was, 40? Did he think I was her mother or something ridiculous like that? I was affronted. I couldn’t believe it. How haggard must I have looked?
I didn’t, obviously, say anything about it to the doctor. Right afterwards, UTI-girl walked back in, holding a pee-soaked stick. She held it out towards the doctor, asking, “C’est bon?” which roughly translate to “is this ok?”. He took the paper from her, did something to it, and then responded, “oui, c’est positif”. Never, I repeat, NEVER, just say something is ‘positive’ to a young girl when you’ve just asked her to pee on a stick. Please just qualify that by saying, yes, it’s positive for a UTI.
We’ve all heard (thank you, Michael Moore) about