Welcome to My Shame Buffet of a Day

I hate driving in Los Angeles. People stop in the middle of the road, leaving miles of cars trapped behind them. When it rains or looks like it's going to rain, drivers panic, racing past other cars. The road rage is palpable, regardless of incident, like oh, I don't know, innocuously sticking my hand out the window to catch a breeze. That's grounds for "Die, Bitch, die."

On this day, I was meeting someone at a psychologist's office. I'd been there once before -- on Robertson, such a cluster fuck. Imagine if you will a sea of cars incapable of merging into a single lane, feeling abject terror that they might miss the first light.

After a while, I found parking. Go me! I got on the elevator and hit the third floor. There was an elderly woman grabbing her breast, screaming in pain, which caused her elderly companion to curse her out, obviously. One man was schlepping an oxygen tank and another loudly sniffed his coffee pre-sip every sip!

With a rush and a push, all of us were out of the elevator, and on the third floor. I was greeted by several offices with signs for Cedars Sinai. None of them looked familiar. I walked into one office and asked reception if this was a psychologist's office. She sneered and rolled her eyes, stating that this was a cardiac something or other office.

Okay, fine.

Into another office I went, "Got psychologists," I asked. "No, we do facial reconstruction," the woman said.

"You did a bang up job with Sylvester Stallone. He's unrecognizable!" I boasted.

Now late for my appointment, I asked if there were psychologists on the third floor. She shrugged indifferently. Nice!

In a new office that seemed psychology-ish, I asked if Greer was there. She asked, "Greer who?"

"Greer -- Greer the psychologist, is she here? Is this her office," I responded.

"No, there is no Greer Psychologist here," she said.

"Okay, to be clear, you get that her surname isn't psychologist, right?"

"No, I didn't know that," she responded.

Seriously?! Great! Fabulous! Could this get any better? Like a schmuck it had just occurred to me that I didn't even know this broad's surname. It's not like Greer is a common name. As if that justifies not having all of her info, Schwartz!

Back in the hall, the woman from the elevator who was grabbing her breast was still clinging to it like an adult with a breastfeeding fetish, and screaming. As expected her companion had found more colorful verbiage to express her disdain.

The coffee sniffer approached, a Spanish-speaking man. Without touching me, he urged me to follow as he was certain he knew which office I needed, or I was mistaken and he was going to whack me. I thanked him for my soon-to-be death or for taking me to Greer's office. Another Cedars door that read, "Cedars Sinai Physical Therapy." I stopped him and said, "No, not that kind of therapy."

He was perplexed. As I physically acted out the difference between a brain doctor and a body, ouch-pain doctor, he laughed, thinking I was telling a joke. Unfortunately, I contorted myself into so many oddball positions in my zeal to explain; I was in need of physical therapy.

I called and texted the person I was meeting, asking what Greer's last name was and if the third floor was correct. Bupkas refresh (no response).

Back in the elevator I went, with the coffee sniffer, the boob grabber and her companion, and a Cedars doctor. Three insults deep, I said to the boob grabbers companion, "lighten up, she's in pain."

"No, she's not," she sniped.

Coffee Sniffer said something like, "Elderly people lie all the time about pain."

"How dare you! That's a stupid, mean thing to say. Who would clutch their breast for dear life, and squeal like a dozen tortured cats for kicks?! Plus, her dentures are wobbling like Parkinson's patients. My grandmother wouldn't be caught in public without Fixodent-ed to death dentures - - This broad is in pain!"

Insult to injury, the doctor chimed in and said, "You don't know what you're talking about. He's right."

"You're not her treating physician" (like I knew), I declared and continued, "The fact that you would endorse someone accusing the elderly of lying about pain is unconscionable. You're a shitty doctor and I hate you (Medical trauma notwithstanding, of course)."

I was making friends everywhere!

Now in the foyer and disturbingly late, I was invested in boob grabber's well-being. I assured her companion, sister Evie, I learned, that if she brought the car around I would wait with her. Before agreeing, she cursed me three ways to Sunday. Oh, did that make me homesick.

While I sat with breast grabber I watched her dentures leap to an untimely demise and expressed empathy. "I don't need your sympathy, Fat Bitch," she bemoaned.

You're lucky you remind me of my Alzheimer's ridden grandmother, I thought. Otherwise, I would verbally assail you.

After Evie picked her up, I moved towards the elevator and was greeted by a swarm of people with no shortage of opinions. How did they even know?!

"You're in the wrong building."

"Why do you need a psychologist?"

"Do you want my McHam Biscuit?"

"LEAVE. ME. ALONE," I roared with the ferocity of elves gang-banging each other to decompress from being on toy-making-lockdown during Christmas Eve.

They ran into that elevator almost as fast as I ran out the door. My shame buffet was the lead actor in "Be Ashamed, Schmuck 200 N. Robertson."

Once in my car, my phone rang. Greer was on the other line explaining how to get to her office. 45 minutes stuck in traffic on Robertson and I was DONE. Fuck therapy. Fuck this traffic. Fuck these weird ass people, myself included. I AM DONE.

Finally, I made it to the front of my house. The phone rang again. Greer was on the other end asking me if I was close. "Close to killing myself, yes, yes I was. We'll have to reschedule. Today is not the day." I said, and hung up.

As luck would have it, when I opened my car door, a bicycle rider rode straight into it. Delightful!- - That's a story for another day. Speaking of, how was your day?