I Want My PCP

Now look at that Quirky that's the way she does it
She plays her violin to make their hearts bleed
That ain't workin' that's the way she does it
Money for nothin' and her drugs are not free
Now that ain't workin' that's the way she does it
Lemme tell ya that Quirky ain't dumb
Maybe get a blister on her little finger
Maybe get a blister on her thumb
Money For Nothing by Dire Straits edited by Quirkyloon

And when I get a blister on my little finger or thumb, I go to my PCP.

Cuz I want my
I want my
I want my PCP!

You know my PCP (Primary Care Physician) is one cool dude.

Why?

I make him laugh. A lot.

I recently had to see him to "catch-up" with my ongoing medical novella and to review my medications.

Yep. I'm a druggie. With my doctor's blessing.

So it's a win-win situation. I get drugs, he gets laughter.

Last year with his prescription and medical recommendation, I had to go to physical therapy.

The problem?

My left butt-cheek.

I have sciatica.

Yep, I hear many of you ladies moaning with understanding. It sucks, doesn't it?

The physical therapy was one of the "steps" we needed to take to continue the drugs. (It was a sacrifice I willing to make. Must. Have. Drugs.)

So I went through the humiliating process of physical therapy.

Humiliating how, you ask?

Well I had these twenty-year-old GUYS massaging my forty-something butt cheek!

This humiliation went on for about six-weeks.

"Does that feel good, Mrs. Quirky?"

"Um yeah, I guess."

"You feel tense, Mrs. Quirky."

"Um... YEAH."

I'm a very modest Quirky. Always have been, always will be. I don't just pull down one side of my undies for anyone without some serious fear (and loathing).

So after this lovely experience. I followed up with another appointment with my PCP.

"So how did the therapy go."

"It went okay."

"Was there a problem?"

"Oh Dr.! Please don't ever make me do that again."

"What happened?"

"I'm sure I freaked those young men out. Squishing and massaging my fleshy butt cheek. And I'm sure there's cottage cheese back there. Oh. It was horrifying for them and me! It was embarrassing."

My doctor closed his eyes as he tried to hold the laughter in.

But he couldn't.

He laughed out loud.

And that's why I like him.

Doesn't take much to make me happy, eh?

Some drugs and some laughs.

That's all I need.

Oh, and maybe some cottage cheese?

Uhm, maybe not.




B.S. No physical therapists were harmed physically during the production of this post. Emotionally and mentally, they are scarred forever. However, I'm sure they'll always remember my butt with fondleness, erm, I mean fondness. Yeah, fondness. Cottage cheese anyone? Anyone?