Bedside Manner? WHO NEEDS IT. It is for SUCKERS.

You know, I read a lot of blogs, and some of them talk about important things, like politics, or human rights, or intelligent reviews of things. And I could do that. I could totally do that.

But instead, I bring you: 

A FOLLOWUP VISIT WITH DR. LADY-BUSINESS 

As some of you might remember (except I did send the men away that day, and I’m warning you right now, men who are not into these things, you might want to go do manly things right now. And men that are perverts, you should stop reading just because ew), last month I had a couple of visits with Dr. Lady-Business. I escaped with my parts intact, so I considered that a win. 

In order to not have Dr. Lady-Business remove my internal organs, he prescribed pills which made me into a total and utter insane person who cried over things like OMG I AM OUT OF ICE CREAM SANDWICHES and I THINK THE SUMMER IS ENDING. Those symptoms passed, eventually, so I thought I was in the clear. 

I was so not in the clear. 

Two weeks ago apparently I had a very bad reaction to the pills which I will not detail. Suffice it to say I would not wish this reaction on my worst enemy. (OK, that’s a lie. And you know me too well for me to get away with that. You know I totally would. I hate my worst enemy and if this happened to her she’d deserve it, and more, because of the bitchy over-the-top things she did to me. But I digress.)  

I called Dr. Lady-Business’s office after a few days of thinking I was pretty much on death’s door. Now, you’re wondering, aren’t you, why I wouldn’t call sooner? Because I am pretty stoic about things. I mean, yes, I bitch and moan and think I’m dying, but that’s all a front, really. I usually don’t even bother going to the doctor for things. So for me to call the doctor about something means something is very, very wrong. 

My conversation with Dr. Lady-Business’s office: 

Me: I need to make an appointment with Dr. Lady-Business as soon as possible, please. I think I might be dying. I’m having a reaction to the medication he prescribed.

Nurse: He’s out of town.

Me: Um. OK. I can see someone else, then. I just need to be seen.

Nurse: No. You need to see Dr. Lady-Business.

Me: I don’t think this can wait. Did I mention the dying? That I might be doing?

Nurse: Yes.

Me: Hmm. OK. Thought you might not have heard me or something. I don’t think this can wait. When is he coming back from his trip?

Nurse: A week from now. I’m sure it’s nothing.

Me: What is?

Nurse: Whatever’s wrong with you.

Me: Oh, I can assure you it is.

Nurse: These pills have severe side effects. We have people calling about them all the time.

Me: What? I – no one even told me this. Why wouldn’t someone tell me this?

Nurse: I’ve said too much. You’ll really have to wait for your appointment. With Dr. Lady-Business. And only Dr. Lady-Business. On Monday.

Me: So, what if I die in the meantime?

Nurse: You won’t. Also, if you get better, please call and cancel the appointment. There are people who actually need the slot. 

Well! This was a reassuring and not-at-all rude conversation with someone you can tell TOTALLY CARES ABOUT MY IMPENDING DOOM. So I waited, and waited, and waited. And then, on Saturday morning, I started to feel better. I thought about cancelling the appointment, but I wanted to have a discussion with Dr. Lady-Business. I felt like maybe we needed to talk about some things. Like: 

Since these pills are something you expect me to take on a regular basis, will they cause these side effects regularly?

and

Am I totally dying? 

And since I have an astronomically high co-pay with my piss-poor insurance, it’s not like he wouldn’t be well-paid for his five minute conversation with me. 

I showed up yesterday and first, the parking lot is very, very small. There were two spots left. A woman pulled into one right in front of me. No, I take that back. She pulled into one and a HALF. Leaving me a half-spot. For my full-sized car. I began to back out of the parking lot, because it’s very small and you can’t turn around, and she got out of the car and started air-traffic-controlling me into the spot. I shook my head no and she started FURIOUSLY WAVING ME IN. Also, she was massively pregnant. Well, listen. I am pleased you are gestating. But I will park on the side of the road and walk to the clinic, and you just take up your 1.5 spots, lady. You are aware that even though you’re 1.5 people at the moment you don’t get 1.5 spots, or to make 1.5 decisions as to where other people park, right? 

I went in, and the nurse called me back almost immediately. Nice! Running like clockwork! Until: 

Nurse: So you’ll be seeing Dr. Lady-Business’s Colleague today.

Me: Well, on the phone the nurse told me I had to see Dr. Lady-Business.

Nurse: No. Dr. Colleague.

Me: I don’t mind, it’s just that last week? I was dying? And you told me I had to wait until this week to see Dr. Lady-Business, and only Dr. Lady-Business. So I find this all very confusing.

Nurse: GO BACK INTO THE WAITING ROOM. 

Then, after a lengthy wait, because I obviously screwed up their scheduling, I was shown back to Dr. Lady-Business’s exam room. My favorite nurse was there. She’s the only one in the office I like, because she is covered in tattoos and has a hair color not found in nature and hipster glasses. I feel like she doesn’t belong there. I enjoy her. Lydia the Tattooed Nurse told me to wait and that Dr. Lady-Business was showing around a medical student (still? It’s been over two months since my first appointment, does that med student live there?) and would I mind him watching? Since I wasn’t going to be all spread-eagled for this visit, I didn’t mind. I believe that children are our future! And that they need to learn about side effects of medication! 

Dr. Lady-Business came in, followed by the YOUNGEST MED STUDENT I’VE EVER SEEN. Seriously, Doogie. Doogie was watching my consultation. It was so off-putting I can’t even tell you. He looked like he couldn’t be more than 20. But probably he was at least 26, right? Something like that? That made me feel ancient. Poor little Doogie. He looked uncomfortable. 

Dr. Lady-Business’s office has recently upgraded to laptops for their records, and Dr. Lady-Business does not enjoy the digital age. His manner of dealing with the laptop is to bang on it, chimpanzee-style, with a loosely-clenched fist, while asking me, THE PATIENT, why it’s not working. (Once, the answer was, “I think you have to have it turned on, but I could be wrong.”) This went on for a while, and then he asked me why I was there. Here, in all its glory, is the best consultation between a doctor and patient that might have ever happened, ever. 

Me: I had severe side effects to the medication you prescribed; I wanted to discuss them. (I explained them here. I’m not going to rehash this. I guarantee you, you’re better for not knowing.)

Dr. Lady-Business: Yes.

Me: So I guess I’m wondering, first off, are these going to keep happening? On a recurring basis?

D L-B: Probably not.

Me: Probably not. Can you elaborate?

D L-B: I didn’t tell you about these side effects because the odds of them happening this severely were very slim. I would think that each month they would be less severe, until they are not severe at all.

Me: OK, so I should or should not keep taking the same exact dosage of pills that almost killed me earlier in the month? 

(Dr. Lady-Business then began grunting and smacking around his computer keyboard. I heard a muffled noise behind me; it was Doogie. Doogie attempting not to laugh. I feel really bad for Doogie. Although he is really learning what NOT to do when he goes into practice, I suppose.) 

D L-B: Yes. Keep taking them. Until December. We’ll revisit the situation in December.

Me: Okaaay….

D L-B: Did you notice any changes in mood while taking the pills?

Me: Good GOD yes. I cried over ICE CREAM SANDWICHES. And CELL PHONE COMMERCIALS. And I thought, well! I lost my mind! Until I thought to read Wikipedia.

D L-B: We really don’t recommend getting medical information online.

Me: No, you know what? I don’t recommend it, either. I recommend getting it from my doctor. Except, oh, you know what? HE DIDN’T GIVE ME ANYTHING OTHER THAN A PRESCRIPTION AND A FARE-THEE-WELL.

D L-B: Sometimes these pills cause mood swings. That might get better. It might not. It depends on the individual’s mental stability.

(muffled laugh from Doogie)

Me: I am going to pretend you didn’t just imply that I brought a bag of crazy to the table and move on in the conversation.

D L-B: Also we probably need to deal with these tumors.

Me: WHAT?

D L-B: You have tumors, right?

Me: Not that I am aware of, no.

D L-B: I don’t know if I’m looking at your chart or not. Do you think I have your chart up?

Me: I really have no way of knowing that. I’d hope so, though. Since I’m the patient you’re seeing at the moment.

D L-B: (poking laptop) Oh, yes, this is you. Yes. Tumors.

Me: So, was anyone going to call me with these test results?

D L-B: They’re not serious tumors. We don’t think, anyway.

Me: I think you’re kind of discounting my tumors.

D L-B: We’ll look more into them in December.

Me: Unless I die first because they’re the super-fast-moving death type of tumors.

D L-B: Odds are in your favor that they’re not. 

And – I am totally not even kidding? THAT WAS THE END OF THE APPOINTMENT. I hope Dr. Lady-Business signed Doogie’s permission slip so he won’t get counted as absent from kindergarten. 

On the way home, the strip club right around the corner from my office (it’s actually in a really classy part of town, so the strip club’s a little out-of-place) had a big sign up that said “We will never forget 9/11” and that was really the best thing I’d seen all day. Usually, that sign advertises coming attractions, like “Performing in October, Cherries Jubilee and Pussy Galore!” So this made the strip club both patriotic AND classy and I’m sure their clientele is richer for it. 

What did we learn from this appointment? 

I NEED A NEW LADY-BUSINESS DOCTOR. 

And that strippers love America.

All Up in My Business

Guys, you might want to move on today. I’m going to talk about lady-business. I mean, I guess you might want to read about lady-business, if you’re, like, a hard-core fan of mine (and hey! thanks! awesome! air-kisses!) or maybe totally sensitive or a perv. I realize pervs might be interested in this kind of thing. But it’s not bow-chicka-wow-wow sexy, pervs, so go look for some weirdo porn or something. In order for me to not come up on creepy Google searches, and to not ick people out, I will use euphemisms for things that are most likely not going to come up in a search that pervs are making. And also, to protect THE CHILDREN. GOOD GOD WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN. So I guess you could stick around for those, because they might be funny, I guess. 

Today’s installment of “every day’s an adventure when you’re living my life” is the very fancy “Lady-Business Doctor” edition. A while back, I had to make a trip to Dr. Lady-Business because I was having some issues in the lady-business department. You don’t need details and I’m not handing them out SO STOP ASKING. 

The first appointment was kind of like a gigantic car crash of insanity. I went into the exam room and a very no-nonsense nurse had to do an ultrasound. Now, this isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. And this nurse was devoid of human emotion. Like, I almost would have settled for Nurse Ratched because at least she showed something on her face. This woman was a blank. So she’s doing the ultrasound, and the whole thing is really not very dignified, you know? You’re kind of at your most vulnerable, there. But you get to see your insides on a screen. I mean, it’s not clear, or anything. It looks like green scribbles. But it’s interesting! I like seeing things you don’t normally see. I like x-rays and things like that. I mean, how often do you get to see the man behind the curtain, you know? (THAT IS NOT A EUPHEMISM. ALTHOUGH IT WOULD KIND OF BE AN AWESOME ONE SO LET’S START USING IT.) So it wasn’t like I had anything else to do, up there on that table. I wasn’t able to bring a book or play Angry Birds or anything. I turned my head to look at the screen. Nurse Pokerface saw this and started turning the screen so I couldn’t see what was on it. Well, that seemed suspect. Are we playing Scrabble? Why are you hiding your tiles? Because technically, they’re MY tiles, right? So I leaned over to see the screen more. And she turned it more. Well, that was annoying. 

Me: Can I see the screen?

Nurse Pokerface: No.

Me: Why?

NP: You wouldn’t know how to read it.

Me: I know. Can I see it anyway?

NP: That’s against policy.

Me: Really? Why? That seems like a strange policy. Am I dying of cancer?

NP: What? THAT’S NOT EVEN WHY YOU’RE HERE. I don’t know. I’m not qualified to read the screen.

Me: Really? But you’re doing the ultrasound? Hmm. You seem an odd choice for this job, then. If you had to GUESS, am I dying of cancer?

NP: I don’t know. STOP LOOKING AT THE SCREEN.

Me: I’M SO BORED UP HERE THOUGH. Don’t you have a magazine or something I could look at? 

So then it was done, and Nurse Pokerface (who didn’t find me adorable! I know, right? What the hell!) got up to leave. 

NP: Dr. Lady-Business will be in in a moment. He…

Me: Whoa. I specifically asked for a female doctor, because once? I had a male doctor, and he was really odd and accused me of whoriness.

NP: I don’t think that happened.

Me: Which part?

NP: Either. But if you’d asked for a female doctor, you would have been scheduled with one. If you want to reschedule, put your pants back on. (Note – only in the Lady-Business doctor’s office is this an actual thing they say without it being a funny joke.)

Me: Well, I know I asked, but, I mean, it seems like a waste of time to reschedule, and I’m already all half-naked and crap. Fine.

NP: Dr. Lady-Business is showing a male med student the ropes, so he’ll also be in on the exam.

Me: Um. I’m already uncomfortable with the male doctor, so I’m thinking bringing an additional male in is not the best way to allay my fears. Do I get a say in this?

NP: Yes.

Me: Then I say no. Also, can you warn Dr. Lady-Business that if there’s any whore-accusations I’m totally walking out, pants or no pants.

NP: (sigh) FINE. 

(The whore thing did happen, which is why I always ask for a lady lady-business doctor. And NO, it wasn’t a lady-business doctor practicing out of his van. It was a real doctor. He just acted very skeptical when we were discussing my sexual history, as if I secretly had lovers stashed all over the exam room and was just waiting ‘til he left to wash his hands to get it on. I found that off-putting.) 

When Nurse Pokerface left, I totally looked at the screen. And I didn’t know what it was but I still felt justified that I looked at it. Then a screensaver came up of a mother and child grinning like morons so I couldn’t look at it anymore. WELL-PLAYED NURSE POKERFACE. 

Dr. Lady-Business came in, and listen. You’re up on a table at your most vulnerable and you already are worried you’re going to have a doctor who thinks you’re whorey, so you’re not really in a good mental place, and here is a rendition of the facial hair Dr. Lady-Business has.

Note – this is not Dr. Lady-Business. Note 2 - I find it odd that this man's hair and moustache are completely different colors.

I felt like I was about to get checked out in an 1800’s saloon. 

Dr. Lady-Business does his investigation, and HE lets me look at the screen while he’s spelunking, NURSE POKERFACE, so THERE, and when he’s done, he says, and I’m not even exaggerating: 

“So I guess we could schedule a hysterectomy, then.” 

Um.  Well! That was…abrupt! 

Me: I totally have cancer, then? I SAID that. To the nurse. But she said she couldn’t tell me.

Dr. Lady-Business: No. You’re fine.

Me: So…I guess I’m wondering…why we’re thinking major surgery, then?
DL-B: It would solve all of your issues.

Me: Ha. Yes, well, blowing up the Earth would also solve pickpocketing, but I think there has to be a better solution, don’t you?

DL-B: Why is this an issue? Are you planning on having children?

Me: Why? Did you see a baby on the screen? IS THAT WHY THE NURSE WOULDN’T LET ME LOOK?

DL-B: No.

Me: Oh. In the abstract. I don’t know. Maybe? Do I have to decide right now?

DL-B: (looking at my chart) I see you’re in your mid-thirties. You’re not getting any younger.

Me: Oh, stop flirting, you. You’ll make me blush.

DL-B: So we could schedule that surgery right now, then.

Me: I’d like to put my pants back on now, please.

Today was follow-up time with Dr. Lady-Business. 

First I met with another nurse. There are a LOT of nurses there. This nurse was skeptical. 

Nurse Scoffington: Are you on any medications?

Me: (laughing) Oh, my, yes.

NS: Which ones?

Me: I told you last time I was here. It’s on my chart.

NS: I don’t have that chart.

Me: Really? Why not? OK, well, I can’t recreate my regimen without notes. There are a lot of them. And their names are INSANE. Like, all the consonants in the world are in one drug name. I can tell you what they’re for. Does that help at all?

NS: Are they all prescription?

Me: Are you asking if I do street drugs?

NS: Why, do you?

Me: Not this week. But it’s only Tuesday! Ha! Right?
NS: It's Wednesday.
Me: Oh! Well, where does the time go. If I'm going to get those street drugs, I'd better get crackin'.

NS: WHAT PILLS ARE YOU TAKING. 

And then, Dr. Lady-Business. Oh, Dr. Lady-Business. How I have missed your bedside manner AND YOU STILL HAVE THE MOUSTACHE DAMN. 

DL-B: Are you married?

Me: Not that I’m aware of. I kind of think we covered this a few months ago.

DL-B: Plans to become so?

Me: I guess anything could happen. I mean, there was an earthquake yesterday. End times, doctor, am I right?

DL-B: So you want to keep your options open?

Me: Are you hitting on me? You didn’t even take off your wedding ring. I like that kind of forthrightness.

DL-B: You might want to have children someday.

Me: Yes. I’m pretty sure Prince Charming might still be coming. You never know. I have a secret internet boyfriend, for example, who doesn’t even know he’s my internet boyfriend and we haven’t and probably won’t ever meet in real life? So I’ve got that going for me. Once he shows up I probably’d better have a uterus, you know? What if it’s like a Cinderella situation and he’s looking for the perfect uterus and YOU THREW MINE IN THE TRASH? Way to be a cock-blocker, Dr. Lady-Business.

DL-B: Here are some pills. See you in December. 

Whoo-hoo! I escaped with my uterus! I totally win gynecological bingo! 

Yeah, this day was a total win. On the way back to the office, I bought an iced coffee, which I promptly spilled all down the front of me, so that’s nice. Just a matter of time before that eventual wedding, Dr. Lady-Business! NO ONE CAN RESIST ME I AM LIKE A SEXY SIREN IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY. A sexy, sexy, iced-coffee-covered siren. Get in line, suitors!

Doctors don't really make out all the time. THANKS, Grey's Anatomy.

I’ve mentioned my clumsiness, right? I know I have. It’s legendary. I can’t even impress upon you how clumsy I am. In high school, I fell down some stairs at my boyfriend’s house and lost the ring he’d just given me (and banged myself up pretty severely in the process.) I once fell on my ass so badly I bruised my tailbone and had trouble sitting for two weeks. I think I needed one of those doughnut pillows but I was way too embarrassed to even go to the doctor and explain that I’d fallen so badly I had a sore rear, let alone get a prescription for an ass doughnut.

The best example of this clumsiness leading to injury was my senior year of college. I was moving out of my apartment and into a new one (transitioning between undergrad and grad school, and my current roommates were moving away) and was in the new apartment, puttering around and decorating a little. We weren’t officially moving in for another week, but we’d gotten the keys early so we could have the space in advance. My summer roommate was in her room, I was in mine, and we had planned a trip to the mattress store later in the afternoon to get a new bed for her. I decided a good use of my time would be to hang glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. (I know. That’s not a good use of anyone’s time. I was obsessed with glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling for years. I don’t know why, exactly. I thought it would be like camping without the mosquitoes or bears or cold-water showers? Still not sure on that one.)

We were in the midst of moving in, so we didn't have much in the way of furniture there yet. I poked around, found an old kitchen chair on the back porch, and stood on it to put the stars on my ceiling. I didn't look at it too closely. It was a chair. There were four legs. It was made of wood. What more do you want?

Well, rungs. Rungs are what you want. Because I stood on it, and it was already missing two rungs, and the third rung was just popped into one of the holes in the leg, and one of the legs just broke clean off. I was reaching up to the ceiling at the time, and went down. Hard. I landed on my hipbone and my elbow, mostly.

My roommate came running in to see what the noise was, and I just sat there laughing, because seriously, who but me stands on a chair missing rungs that she pulled from a random back porch because she could not wait to put up glow-in-the-dark stars before she even had a bed to enjoy them from? We tossed the chair in the garbage and went to run errands.

That's when I started to realize that something might be seriously wrong.

I'd banged my elbow pretty badly, but I fall a lot, so it wasn't a new thing. I mean, who hasn't banged their elbow? Elbows hurt like a son of a bitch. They even have an ironic nickname. "Funnybone." Because they're not! Funny to injure, I mean! Ha!

My roommate drove, and I realized I'd started cradling my arm. I told myself to stop being a baby. It would stop hurting soon. I'd just banged the damn thing. It was nothing. I'd fallen worse than this before. 

We got to the mattress store and she asked if I wanted to stay in the car, but I told her no, I was fine to come in. She walked around, talking to the salesperson, and I sat on the edge of a mattress, gingerly, holding my arm very, very steadily to my chest with the other. The next thing I knew, she and the salesperson were standing over me. "Are you ok? You're really pale," she said.  But her voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away. My ears were ringing. There were huge black spots in front of my eyes. I couldn't talk. 

"Um, yeah, we're going to the ER. You broke your arm, dummy," she said, and bustled me off to the car and brought me to the ER as quick as she could, me weakly protesting I'd be fine, I just banged my arm, I fell all the time. "Do you pass out in mattress stores all the time, too? We're going," she said. She was very practical in a crisis. 

We got to the ER and waited. And waited. And waited. As long as I didn't move, I was fine. If I moved, I was either going to pass out or throw up again, one or the other. When we were signing in, I'd asked the nurse if I could take a painkiller. She looked at me like I'd just mentioned, offhandedly, I liked to murder puppies and feed their corpses to toddlers on my time off.  "No, because we don't know what's wrong yet," she said. "That could be very dangerous, until we know your condition."

I'm fairly sure downing a couple of store-brand ibuprofen wouldn't have killed me if falling off of a chair onto a hardwood floor didn't, but I figured since she worked in the medical profession, she knew better than I did.

They finally got me in and told me they needed to take an x-ray to see if I'd actually broken a bone. I was alright with that until I realized they'd need to straighten out my arm to do so. I actually got up to leave, until I almost passed out from the movement. The nurse tried to hold me down and straighten out my arm. I actually struggled with her.

Her actual words to me? "Don't be a baby."

Don't be a BABY? Um, this is hurting me to the point of PASSING OUT? So "don't be a baby" really isn't the most constructive thing you could say to me right now?

Then - THEN! - she brought in two "orderlies" who I think were actually "professional wrestlers" because one held me down and the other straightened out my arm. I passed out on the table. I only know this because when I came to, the nurse (I like to call her Nurse Ratched) told me, "Well, that was a lot easier when you weren't struggling."

Um, thanks? I - I aim to please?

She sent me back out into the waiting room to wait for the results. At this point, I was really angry. Wrestlers had been called in to straighten out my broken arm; a sadistic evil nurse had called me a baby; and no one would allow me to take linty ibuprofen from the bottom of my purse. And my arm hurt. Seriously HURT.

About an hour later (what were they DOING back there? Playing strip POKER? There was no one else even in the waiting room for them to see!) a doctor came out and said, very condescendingly, "There's nothing wrong. No break. You just bumped it in your fall. Go home and put an ice pack on it. You'll be fine."

I got up, livid (and almost passed out, so my roommate had to hold me up) and said, "I am LEAVING. There is OBVIOUSLY something wrong, but you can't FIND IT." Then I stomped out (only, I didn't as much "stomp" as "tried not to throw up on my roommate's shoes") and we got three-fourths of the way to her car (this took a very, very long time) when ANOTHER doctor ran out of the side door of the hospital, panting.

"Stop! STOP! YOUR ELBOW IS BROKEN!" he yelled across the parking lot.

This did not inspire confidence.

There was a hairline fracture in my elbow, which apparently a number of people didn't see, but this guy did. Do you know what they do for broken elbows? Me, either, but for this one, nothing. They gave me a sling made of muslin (seriously, theatrical muslin, I recognized it from school) and a prescription for codeine and told me it should be better in 6-8 weeks.

This seemed a little Keystone Cops to me.

I walked around with a sling that looked like I cobbled it together myself in scene shop at the theater for 6-8 weeks. Classy! That didn't get dirty at all! My reaction to codeine - well, let's just say we don't play well together. I pass out about half an hour after taking it. Even codeine cough syrup does this to me. Over the next week, friends found me passed out on the floor of my closet (I'd gone in to clean it in preparation for the move - easy, with only one arm you could use) and on an acquaintance's shoulder, drooling down her top (she'd come over to watch a movie; I'd popped a pill, and off to dreamland I went - her shoulder was apparently the nearest pillow my unconscious head found. Embarrassing. I didn't even know her that well.) My parents came up to help me move and we went to dinner and my father had to help me cut up my food. He was struck by how adorable this was; I was distressed by how I felt like a weirdo cripple. I half-expected people to start calling me Blue Roses and comparing me to a glass figurine.

The follow-up doctor told me I'd probably feel the weather in my elbow for the rest of my life (um, thank you, now I am a barometer?) but I don't, so mixed blessing, I guess? That'd kind of be a nice superpower, so not even getting a superpower out of the whole thing seems like a raw deal. However, he also predicted I would never be able to straighten out my arm again, and I can. Um, now that I look back on it, this doctor sort of sucked? Hmm. Probably not a good idea when your followup is in the back of a van. Yeah, I'm here all week, tip your waiters. Just keep your feet and hands to yourself, otherwise I could trip, and you know I'll bring your ass down with me.