NOTE: The following is an old post from an old blog when I was, ironically, younger. Doesn’t mean that it’s not still giggle-worthy. And, really, if you’re going to plagiarize, shouldn’t you steal from someone you know? Or better yet, yourself?

P.S. Don’t get your panties in a twist about my use of the word “ironic.” I may, or may not, be using it correctly, but I blame Alanis Morissette. You should write HER a strongly worded letter about the proper usage and definition of all things ironic.

April 6, 2006

So, I had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon in Beverly Hills. Normally not a place where I get the chance to experience great leaps in technology, but today was a little different.

Now, I don’t know how many of you have experienced the Automated Parking Experience (I like to call it APE for short because in place of a human, you now get a machine with all the eloquence of an ape), but it’s quite interesting. Instead of actually paying someone to sit in a booth and take tickets to exit, now you pay in advance, and just slide your parking ticket into the slot to leave. Apparently, paying someone to sit in a booth is more expensive than an automated machine that decides whether or not you get to leave the parking lot.

And therein lies the problem. If you get to the automated ticket taker and you HAVEN’T properly paid for your parking beforehand…the entire system grinds to a screeching halt. The poor, unsuspecting parker is left stranded in front of the unequivocal machine, and now, no one gets to leave the parking lot. Oh, well, at least until a human being comes around to take the parker’s money, validate their ticket properly, and then the unforgiving gate arm will open. This is probably not the level of efficiency the parking lot attendants had envisioned when switching over to this new and improved technology.

The APE is new at my doctor’s office, being that the last time I was there there was a booth and a person where now only a glaring white box exists, and let me say…it isn’t making things any more efficient. It took me 15 minutes to park. 15 MINUTES! And this isn’t some gigantic underground parking emporium, or anything, it’s a little three story lot. Oh, how I missed the little person in the booth.

Alas, I finally parked and made it to my appointment on time (amazingly). Of course, one of the first things they always make you do at the doctor’s office is give a urine sample. This is my least favorite doctor’s visit activity. I’d rather give pints of blood to an amateur blood-taker than ever have to give another urine sample again. The urine sample is where technology has failed us.

Isn’t there some better way to do this? Invariably, I end up with more pee all over the outside of the cup, than actually in it. Couldn’t the cup be…um…bigger? And then there’s the whole transportation of the cup. The Cup-Pass, as I like to call it. Is it really necessary to have to walk down a hall full of patients and other medical professionals with a cup of pee that you then have to literally hand over to the nurse? Couldn’t there be one of those speedy pneumatic tubes that you put it in and it just shoots right up into the lab??? The whole thing is a disaster waiting to happen, really. What if someone accidentally SPILLS the cup? Ugh. Perish the thought.

So, instead of having the APE present in every new parking lot…can’t someone think of a better way to collect urine samples? And can’t anyone think of a better word than “urine”?!? Geez.

UPDATE: The last time I visited the same doctor’s office mentioned above, the APE and the Urine Cup were still in use. Apparently, advances in Urine Cup technology have been at a standstill since 2006. And, thankfully, the APE is everywhere now, so stupid people have had plenty of time to master the subtle nuances of APE garages. Funny story, though, while waiting to be called in a handsome young man entered the waiting room and, since all of the other seats were occupied, he sat down next to me. We did the polite, non-verbal, possibly awkward situation exchange: he looked at me, I smiled at him, he gestured toward the open seat, and I nodded. Then, as I went back to reading my book* I thought, “Holy crap. That’s Dawson Leery.” For those of you who just said to yourself, “Who the hell is Dawson Leery?” I will tell you. Remember that show called “Dawson’s Creek?” THAT’S Dawson Leery, better known as James Van Der Beek, who was sitting right next to me. Although this may come as a surprise to many of you, I never really got into the “Creek.” It was too wholesome for me. I suppose I just missed the boat (pun intended).

ANYbeforeIhadtimetoeventhinkwhyJamesVanDerBeekisinmygynecologistsoffice, moments later I was called in. Oh, how I wish I could say that the story ended there, but…it didn’t. I was escorted to the nurse’s station, handed a cup with my name already on it, and led to a foreign bathroom. My usual bathroom was occupied, and I really had to go, if you know what I mean, so I decided to go with the flow, as it were. A bathroom is a bathroom, right? Well, not exactly. The new and unfamiliar bathroom was in a much busier area of the office, and even after I closed the door, I could still hear everything going on right outside. Yes, it was a dreaded…DUM DUM DUM…fan-less potty. For a brief moment, I almost started to cry, because going to the doctor is stressful enough, and the fan in my usual bathroom was as loud as a Boeing 747, but I managed to regroup and get on with it.

So, there I am, doing my best to (a.) pee, (b.) get the pee into the cup, and (c.) not get pee on my hands or my clothes when I heard familiar voices. One voice was definitely Dr. Jiggly-berg (my doctor), and the other voice, definitely male, I identified by the simple process of elimination. The only other man I had seen in the immediate surrounding area was Mr. Van Der Beek. It had to be him.

I couldn’t hear everything, but certain words were recognizable: fertile, wife, swimmers, and options. Now, I knew WAY too much about Dawson’s family plans, but I had also managed to obtain the sample for which I was sent to this unfamiliar, and obviously less desirable, bathroom. It was time to leave the sub par commode and move onto the really fun part of the examination, but Dawson wouldn’t shut up and move it along. Honestly, I waited as long as I could, and then I did what I had to do.

After thoroughly washing my hands and McGyvering a Urine Cup sleeve out of paper towels (if nothing else, I can be quite resourceful), I opened the door. There they were, not a foot away, just chatting as if they were discussing their favorite beers or golf clubs. And there I was, Urine Cup in hand and a smile on my face, when Dr. Jiggly-berg says, “Oh, hi, Kim! Didn’t know you were in there.” Really? Because I certainly knew you were out here, so you must’ve heard something…like me PEEING. “Why don’t you go on ahead into the examining room and I’ll be in a few minutes?” And so I did.

I wish I could say that was the most, or even the last, embarrassing moment I’ve had in the doctor’s office, but, alas, it was neither.

*A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore. I distinctly remember because this is on the cover:A dead baby with it’s own Grim Reaper sickle being pushed in a stroller. Not exactly the kind of thing you’d want to see someone reading while waiting to see their OB-GYN. Oops. My bad.

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