Doctors and Chemists and a Cowboy, Oh My!

     Welcome to the 5th installment of Mis-Matched to Miss Matched. I’m sure you’re wondering if I met a doctor who made house calls, or if I developed an organic relationship with a chemist, or if the cowboy was a stripper or an actual cowboy. There’s only one way to answer your questions. Read on!

     Perhaps it was time to have a doctor in the family. Bachelor #21 was a 45-year-old anesthesiologist. We agreed to meet for coffee. He was handsome and dressed like a professional golfer. But he showed up late. And he didn’t bother to text or call to let me know. A lady does not like to be kept waiting. Strike one.
     He asked me what I wanted to drink and got in line to order. When he returned, he had more than drinks. He purchased brunch. For himself. He didn’t offer me any food. He sat there eating in front of me. Strike two.
     The conversation wasn’t very stimulating. I actually think he could save hospitals money on anesthesia and sedatives by just talking to patients. Boring with a capital “B.”
     He asked how long I’d been divorced. I told him several months. I bounced the question back to him. He responded he wasn’t divorced. It was going to be too expensive. He was currently weighing his options.
     Well, I eliminated one option—me. Strike three. He’s out!

     Bachelor #22 was 50 years old and a surgeon. Another coffee date. However, this one arrived on time, in a black Mercedes. He had a certain air about him as he walked in. As we shook hands, I noticed his bling. Hard to miss it—thick gold chain around his neck, ostentatious rings and a Rolex watch.
     But as the Shania Twain song goes, “That don’t impress me much.” Sorry, but I’m more concerned with what’s inside a man’s head and heart than a flashy outer package. Always makes me wonder what they’re overcompensating for. Anyway…
     I sensed a God complex as soon as he started talking about his grand achievements. Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who accomplish great things. I just didn’t like how he bragged about them. Plus the fact that he wasn’t interested in me. When I told him that I had published a romance novel and a poetry book, I got that look. It’s the “Oh, you’re an artsy, fartsy type” look. I hate that look.
     It didn’t last long. He switched the conversation back to him. He loved to hear himself talk. I admired his perfect manicure as he chattered on.
     Fortunately, he had to get to the office.
     And I never heard from him again. Thank God.

     Fifty-three-year-old Bachelor #23 was a gastroenterologist. Some of my family members were thrilled at the idea of having one of those around. Seriously. My sister-in-law even told me that it didn’t matter what he’s like, I should “take one for the team.”
     Can you feel the love??
     We met for drinks. We had a great deal in common and were never at a loss for words. He was genuinely interesting.
     For those of you who know me, you know I only drink one drink if I will be driving later. One. Count it. One.
     “Have another drink.”
     “No, thank you. I only drink one drink.”
     “Oh, come on. Have another.”
     “No, thank you.” No means no!
     He yelled to the bartender, “Another drink for the lady.”
     I looked at the bartender. “I don’t want another drink. Can I have some water?”
     The doctor insisted, “Give her another drink.”
     “Don’t bother. I won’t drink it.”
     “Well, I ended up with the water and another drink.
     “You haven’t touched your drink.”
     “I told you that I wouldn’t.”
     “What’s the big deal?”
     “It’s not a big deal. But you’re making it one. When I say I’m not going to do something, I mean it.”
     “It’s just one drink.”
     I’m sensing major control issues. “I’m not drinking it.”
     “You should.”
     “No. Thank you for the drink that I did order. It’s time to call it a night.”
     He continued to contact me afterward. I told him to move on.
     Anyone who is that obsessed over getting me to drink something that I clearly don’t want has serious control issues. I can not even imagine what he would be like concerning important things. Yikes!

     I met Bachelor #24, an R&D Chemist, for dinner. The 50-year-old was interesting…on paper. In person, I felt like I was conducting an audit. If you’ve never been prepped for an audit, Rule #1 is: Stick to the facts. Rule #2 is: Do not elaborate.
     It was like pulling teeth. Some answers were one word. Others came in sentence form. Short sentences. I ended up talking most of the time because he wouldn’t.
     At least the food was really good. And I even had leftovers for the next night. So, it wasn’t a total loss.

     I gave another chemist a try. Number 25 picked the same restaurant as the last one. Wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Nevertheless, I knew the food would be good. So, I met the 42-year-old for dinner.
     This guy didn’t have any problems talking. He never shut up. But it was all negative stuff about his ex-wife. The language he used was downright ugly. It was offensive to me as a woman. Granted, she might have been exactly as he described her. But I did not want to hear it. I’m certain the couple behind him didn’t want to hear it. The woman kept giving me looks. She even followed me into the bathroom.
     “That guy you’re with is a jackass.”
     “Agreed. It’s a first date.”
     “Hopefully your last too.”
     “Yes. As soon as the check is paid, I’m out of here.”
     “I’d leave now if I were you. Slip out the back door.”
     I laughed. “My sweater is on my chair.”
     “I’d forget the sweater. Leave now.”
     “It’s a really nice sweater. It took me forever to find it.”
     “Suit yourself.”
     Luckily, he paid the check while I was powdering my nose. I invented a friend emergency and made a quick exit.

     Gather around the campfire for Bachelor #26. I don’t know what it is about cowboys that intrigues us women. Maybe it’s the rugged look about them. Or the fact that they seem to be able to handle any problem that arises better than MacGyver. Or perhaps it’s that they have manners and tip their hats. Or maybe it’s just the tight jeans…
     Although this 50-year-old bachelor had a real job during the day, his passion was his ranch. Our phone conversation was so exhilarating; I violated my “no pets” rule. The tone of his voice was incredible. I had to meet the man on the other end of the phone. Despite the fact that he had dogs and horses.
     Ladies, he did not disappoint. This rugged, clean-shaven hunk of a man wore a black fitted cowboy shirt to highlight his toned upper half. His jeans were broken in in all the right places. And his boots were polished nicely.
     Big & Rich’s song, “Save A Horse [Ride A Cowboy],” played in my head. Goodness! Is it hot in here or just me?
     He was absolutely fascinating. The hours flew by. We were the last people in the restaurant. The waiter vacuumed around us. We took that as our cue to leave. It was a delightful evening.
     As a gentleman should, he walked me to my car. He leaned in, gave me a quick hug and kiss, and he was on his way.
     As I watched him walk to his car, my throat started closing up. I grabbed two Benadryl and my emergency meds out of my purse and swallowed them all quickly. I drove toward home (and the hospital), Epi-pen in hand. Just in case.
     The coughing and wheezing subsided after about thirty minutes. At least I didn’t have to use the Epi-pen, and I didn’t end up in the ER.
     It also meant that no matter how fantastic he was, or how well we got along, or how good he looked in those jeans, there was no chance of a relationship with this man.
     I told him the news. He said that he regretted not kissing me deeply. Dear Lord, if he had, I have no doubt that I would have ended up in the hospital. Although, that would have made one heck of a story.

     Stay tuned for the next crazy episode, “I’m Not Like Other Guys.”

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal


Cooties and a Geography Lesson

sick ladyGoing to a doctor’s office on a Friday afternoon is something I dread. I dread it more when I am not a contagious type of sick and everyone else in the waiting area is coughing up a lung. I sat quietly, breathing shallow breaths in a corner, kicking myself for not wearing a mask. To pass the time, I fantasized about a doctor’s office that would have separate contagious and non-contagious waiting areas and examination rooms.

I was jolted back to reality by a sneezing woman across from me. It was obvious after spending a short time waiting that most people didn’t heed the memo to cough or sneeze in the crook of their arms, instead of spewing everywhere or into their hands. Seriously, what is wrong with people? Common courtesy is sadly becoming a thing of the past.

Anyway…The nurse called and ushered me into an examination room that I’m sure crawled with a wide variety of germs and cooties. She informed me that everyone was running late and someone would be with me as soon as possible.

I could hear the patients on both sides. The guy in the room to my right sounded like a barking seal with a smoker’s cough. He couldn’t catch his breath for more than a few seconds at a time. Could have been bronchitis with a dash of pneumonia, but I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on television. So what do I know? He was in and out rather quickly, and a screaming baby replaced him. Poor baby. I hate hearing babies cry the “I’m in pain” cry.

The guy in the room to my left kept complaining about being hungry. I heard a female voice tell him that he should have eaten lunch. Then he ran down a litany of foods that he wanted to eat. It ranged from a simple burger and fries to southern fried chicken and mashed potatoes to shrimp cocktail and filet mignon at St. Elmo’s. Okay, now I was hungry too.

As if the nurse read my mind, she hand-delivered a piece of tightly wrapped pumpkin bread from Starbucks. Normally, I would never eat in a doctor’s office. But, let’s face it, I had already been spewed upon numerous times. So, what the heck, I took it. I washed my hands thoroughly and unwrapped it. It was very good pumpkin bread. And it helped pass the time. I had been there almost an hour.

I heard someone enter the hungry guy’s room. Apparently, the nurse didn’t like him. He didn’t get any pumpkin bread. The woman said they were shorthanded, so she would be performing the ultrasound. She asked him to explain his issue. He said he had some pain on the left side.

She asked, “Where?”
He replied, “In my Netherlands.”netherlands2
“In your what?”
“My Netherlands.”
“You know – down there.”

As I giggled, I want to yell out, “Nether regions!” But I refrained.

Cool as a cucumber, she replied, “Oh, I see. Your testicles?”
“Okay. This gel will be cold.”
A few seconds later, he exclaimed, “You weren’t kidding!”

I tried not to get a mental picture, as I heard her ask, “Does it hurt here or here or …?”
After many minutes of “yes” and “no” replies, the patient asked, “Am I getting dinner after this?”

I burst into audible laughter. Oh my God, did he really just ask that? I could picture his wife/girlfriend shaking her head. Because that’s what I would have done.

The woman quipped, “That isn’t a service we provide, Sir.”

Although I didn’t know her, I liked her!

He laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. It’s just hard with you poking around down there.”
“That was bad too, wasn’t it? I’m going to shut up now.”
“It’s okay, Sir. It happens all the time.”

This is as good as the entertainment gets in a doctor’s office.

His companion finally said, “We’ll go to Culver’s after.”
“Good, because I’m starving.”

Time passed, I heard arguing outside in the hall. Apparently, a patient wasn’t happy with the medication he was given and was trying to get something else. The doctor wouldn’t budge. I recognized her voice, it was the ultrasound woman.

A few more minutes passed, my door opened. The woman looked disheveled and exhausted. We exchanged pleasantries. I asked her how she was doing.
She replied, “I feel like I’ve been through a war. I’m tired of answering questions about Obamacare and dealing with insurance companies and difficult patients.”
I tried to reassure her, “Well, I won’t be giving you any trouble.”
She looked at me quizzically.
I winked. “Today, I’m Switzerland!”

Copyright © 2013 by Suzanne Purewal