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Meet your Special Someone™
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 | Not for Hindus ... just kidding. Random thoughts, comments on anything that takes my fancy. Strictly a my opinion only & if you do not like, don't read, agree to disagree & go away happy. No flames, (flamers OK), request for photo/green card/webcam action etc please. |
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| Prey's Anatomy |
May 7, 2008 9:13 pm
Mood: Flight Instincts Taking Over, 695 Views | I've mentioned that I detest doctors. This was instilled in me even before I worked with them.
One of my earliest "real" jobs entailed consulting to doctors and the medical industry. It meant I spent a lot of time in hospitals and in the company of doctors.
You hear and see a lot about the medical profession that takes away any desire to enter a hospital unless you are almost on death's bed ... when you know they might well finish the job.
There are the medical students who pay about 3 pennies per cadaver, if it is a "nice one" with fully formed muscles and fairly newly harvested, and complain about the lack of female cadavers. You hesitate to ask why they want a female one.
They chop off hands and feet and place these in hapless students' beds as a prank. They force the cadavers upright to use coat and bag hangers. They hang bags of fruits from the wrists and other parts.
You really realise that life is cheap but death is even cheaper.
When they graduate, they are not much better.
There was once a very high ranking specialist from the largest hospital who used to visit my office every afternoon, six days a week. He was a very lonely man married to a woman whom everyone knew only wanted his money and spent all her time with her dance and singing instructors. Who were coincidentally male, young and seemingly single.
He was a big, fat bloke with a cantankerous, foul temper and a sarky sense of humour. I liked him.
He would lumber into my office every day, Mondays to Fridays, at around 3pm after lunch and his rounds. Clutching the local tabloids and a plastic bag of wrestling videos, he would plant himself in one of the chairs outside my room and start asking everyone what they were doing.
He spent hours in our office till he had to go home to an empty house where he would read his papers and watch his wrestling videos. Then he would have dinner and wait for his wife to come home. Most nights he would pretend to be asleep if she stumbled in smelling of thick perfume and smoke in the wee hours of the morning.
We never let on we knew that this was his daily routine.
At about 3.30pm, he would decide I had ignored his presence long enough and yell for me to make his coffee. I had made the mistake of making him a cuppa once when the usual assistant was out of the office. He declared it just the way he liked it and refused to let anyone make him a cup of coffee anymore. Apparently he even refused to drink coffee if I was not in the office and would wait for me to return. When I was out of the country, he would torture the poor assistant till she cried over her poor coffee-making skills.
Yes, the man was an inveterate bully.
He seemed to like me for some reason and loved ribbing and teasing me. We shared the same birthday and celebrated together every year I was with that company - that perhaps made him feel a bond with me. He also demanded that I had lunch with him every Saturday before I left for the day and once told my then-boyfriend that he had to wait his turn to see me.
One day, he was regaling us with some gossip (he loved his gossip) when his pager beeped insistently. He picked up one of the phones to call back and we saw his eyes widen, him start from the chair and dash out of our office with a hurried, "Gotta go!"
Stunned, we concluded that a patient must have been on the verge of death to require such swift movement from the usually slothlike professor.
At around 5pm, he returned, smiling gleefully and with a naughty glint his eyes.
We asked him if the patient was alright.
Huh? What patient?
Didn't you run out to attend to some dying patient? It seemed so urgent.
Oh, no, no! He giggled like a giddy schoolboy.
The call was from another doctor in a nearby hospital. A plastic surgeon. A mate, obviously. Who'd called because he had entered his operating room to see a famous female singer on his operating table. She was there for a boob job.
So he made a call to all his doctor mates to tell them he had Ms So-and-so-Diva with her breasts literally in his hands. And he invited them all to rush over to have a look at them. Before and after.
So, a bunch of middle-aged doctors drove in droves to see this clueless songstress' tits while she lay trustingly to enhance her image.
A year or so later, I met her in a club. It was incredibly hard for me not to stare at her tits the whole night. I was so embarrassed and mortified for her and she must have been wondering why I kept averting my eyes from her chest area. I was never totally comfortable with her after that as the memory of her humiliation and violation always preyed on my mind.
When some doctors tried to set me up with some of the younger residents and specialists, I flat out refused. The coffee-loving physician also vetoed the idea. He glared at all would-be matchmakers and applicants and declared,
She is too good for you lot. She would be better off with a street vendor from the alleys of Calcutta than us doctors.
Physician, know thyself.
Why this post? Because someone is trying to set me up with a doctor and could not understand my resolute refusal. It's a good thing I leave this afternoon.
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18 Comments | |
| Doctor, Driver, Cobbler, Wife |
May 7, 2008 2:29 pm
585 Views | I dislike doctors. I try to avoid them at all cost. But for some reason, I seem to attract them.
Some of my best friends are doctors. I have no idea how that transpired but I suspect it was a sneaky conspiracy to deceive me as to their true occupation till I had began to like and admire them as normal human being, whereby they spring the nasty surprise that they are dastardly doctors.
Evil.
Tonight, some friends had a small farewell gathering for me. At a table of 6, three of them were doctors.
The conversation circled continuously around the medical profession, mostly due to the self-absorption of two of them that they are the nucleus of everything.
One kept boasting of her achievements in medical school, being the best student, the most popular girl, the fact that she travelled weekly between cities with a bone-set and that she is the top surgeon in her city.
Very quickly, I was reminded why I find doctors boring in general.
But she did emit an interesting factoid in the midst of her masturbatory oration. That there are so many doctors in India that she has met some who became cobblers.
If you are not familiar with the Indian caste system, cobblers are considered the lowest of the low. It is a shocking turn of affairs and demonstrates how educational qualifications may not be an effective tool against the vicissitudes of life.
This prompted the other doctor to inquire how many medical graduates are churned out annually in India. It appears it is an average of 110 for each university.
This may not seem a lot at a superficial analysis but when you considered how big India is and how many universities there are, it is a significant amount.
The curious doctor shook his head but informed us that it is worse in Egypt where the average was 7,000 medical graduates in a year. So, many of them become taxi drivers.
We shook our heads sadly.
With my head bowed and my eyes downcast, I pondered the fact that the first, self-satisfied doctor could have been talking about herself.
For all she waxed egotistical about her accomplishments, they are in the past. And now she is a hausfrau who spends her days waiting for her husband to return from work and buys jewelry she does not wear to pass her time. She meddles in astrology and numerology and decorates her house halfway before she loses interest.
Her scorn of the doctors-turned-cobbler was a little ironic, I thought.
But I keep my thoughts to myself and smile winsomely as she continued to bestow the glories of her past upon us. I try not to let my pity show.
With each chiselled gem of self-valuation she dropped into her basket of discontent, I could see her rising bitterness and foaming regret.
My usual irritation and disdain at such delusions of grandeur seep gradually away as a burgeoning sympathy coloured my view of her words and tone.
There goes I but for the grace of God.
Please let me always find passion in what I do and how I do it.
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2 Comments | |
| Voice of God |
May 7, 2008 2:16 am
Mood: Bemused, 568 Views | Had lunch with an old friend who bemoaned the rising prices of property in a time when they suddenly found themselves with three properties on hand.
Having been a hausfrau for a long time, the prospect of having to return to the workforce just to manage the mortgages on all three properties is a horrifying one with much dramatic rolling of eyes, grimaces and woeful quivering of lips.
In other words, she was having a ball lamenting her fate.
She's a funny kid with a droll sense of humour and a self-professed love of doing nothing but shopping and lunching.
Their current house is next to a church that is frequented by the yuppies and bourgeoisie. Every Saturday and Sunday, the cars line up right up to their gates, both illegally and legally parked as their owners enter en mass into the house of God to hear His word.
Usually, the devotees would drive their poshest cars to church even if they live within 15 easy walking minutes' distance. It is an opportunity to display their wealth and positions.
We made snarky gasps of amazement that they did not have chauffeured cars as that would eliminate the need for parking. Trust the nouveau riche to be clueless.
Anyway, her husband is a Catholic but she is a forcibly converted one who is more comfortable in being spiritual than religious. She occasionally goes to church with him under duress and with the promise of a nice prezzie after.
So, having to deal with a battalion of cars blocking their gate and street when they leave for Sunday brunch is a reprehensible crime to her.
She recounted how she would call the police to remove the vehicles as a Sunday routine.
I commented that it was a trite bit unChristianly, driving her into a tirade against th equally hellish behaviour in blocking their way in and out of their own estate.
I jokingly said she should just take a loud speaker into the church. Get her husband to tome in his deep, authoritarian voice,
"Hark, would the driver of vehicle no. XXXX please remove your car from the gates of heaven. Amen."
Which would prompt some to declare they heard the voice of God and others to start jotting down the numbers so they could buy lottery.
She piped in that some might even burst into hallelujahs.
It was two rather hysterical women who rolled out of the restaurant for some coffee and cakes.
I am sure we are driving straight to hell after this.
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9 Comments | |
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