memorly dot com

I’d like to bestow the following entities with special honors, for making the nightmare that was yesterday possible:

Duke University Medical Center
I was calling the DUMC for advice as to whether my stomach cramping, back pain, nausea, and swollen feet warranted a trip to the ER when my chest started hurting, my breathing became shallow, and I decided that I needed to go right away.

I had been to the ER here once before, and the staff were personable and responsive. Now, years later, things were a different story.

My first shout-out goes to you, Mr. Bad Triage Nurse Guy. Who else but you could have known that I come to the ER for fun? Clearly, I am making up all my symptoms. Only clever you could have figured out my secret. You got me good, too! With all your condescending remarks, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell you I liked your claddagh ring. I’m glad though, because though I originally took the symbol to mean you had married a Celtic goddess, I now realize that the more plausible scenario is that your wife does all her personal shopping at renaissance festivals, can channel the dead and turn people into frogs, and loves her cats more than you. Sucks, guy. Anyway, back to my sudden, violent hypochondria.

I was sure no one would have as poor a bedside manner as you, but that apprentice doctor sure gave you a run for your money, making funny faces at me and acting like I was from Mars. You must have told her about my secret plan to burn a sick day and spend $150 for a lavish, fun-filled adventure of peeing in cups, giving blood samples, and watching my favorite TV personality, Dr. Phil, tell me how to whip my bratty teenage kids in shape redneck style. When I said my stomach hurt, your little doctorlet poked me all over and rolled her eyes when I said I didn’t think she was poking the sources of my pain. I guess it’s my fault; I really should have determined what I had on my own, looked up the symptoms, and given her the cohesive set of ailments that she needed to make a diagnosis.

The Eckerd on Hillsborough
Another big thanks to Durham Eckerd at 200 N LaSalle St, for the worst service I’ve ever experienced at the hands of someone making more than minimum wage. After dropping off my prescriptions, you fine women(?) said it would take 10 to 15 minutes. I walked around. I selected and drank an apple juice. I rearranged furniture so I could sit my dizzy, pathetic butt down. It felt like I had been waiting for years, but I figured the pain was just making me cranky. When I hobbled over to the counter with a freshly-minted migraine an hour later, you said it had been ready all along. “Oops”. You got me, bearded lady. You got me.

Turtles Can Fly trailer
What I really needed at this point was some rest and entertainment. Which is why I want to thank you, Mr. Trailer Editor Guy. Thanks for making
this trailer so true to the film it represents. One might see your work and think, hey, this is a heartwarming account of orphans overcoming hardship. In case that’s not the impression the viewer gets, you include the following review to sum things up:

An affirmation of mankind's capacity to survive.
--Hollywood Reporter

(Don’t even get me started on you, Hollywood Reporter.)

My views stand as follows: if you are young and healthy and your enemies aren’t trying to kill you, you probably don’t need a huge capacity to survive to do so. As long as you don’t kill yourselves and each other, that is, which is what happened. Had I known this film was more about child rape and infanticide from the get-go, I probably would have watched it on another day and then raved about what a great film it really is. But I didn’t know that, so instead I call shenanigans.

Thank you for listening to my rant, and here’s to a better tomorrow.