4-Jan-2007

Yesterday was shitty.  I'm not even trying to complain, just stating a fact.  I was feeling better, ready to deal with the various annoying administrative things I had to deal with after being away, even ready to try and get some writing done, when Mom called.  Apparently, my dad had gotten a piece of glass stuck in his thumb (don't ask), and, when he went to the doctor, his blood pressure was sky high.  He gets very nervous any time he's in a doctor's office, and he, like me, is the worst kind of hypochondriac, because he has a vivid imagination.  However, there are two differences in our respective hypochondriases.  First, he has no outlet for his imagination; me, if I'm feeling panicked, I just start writing a romantic comedy about a girl who thinks she has AIDS.  What can I say?  It seems to help.  Second, my father is terrified of doctors, but doctors are terrified of me.  My L.A. doc (no relation to the television show) has tried to get me to go to OCD therapy several times.  And I will, just as soon as I get Guild health insurance.  But this isn't about me.  Back to Dad.  I called him after his appointment, just to check on him, and he said, and I quote, "I have cancer."  I stayed on the phone with him long enough to ascertain that no, he does not, in fact, have cancer, but thinks he does because of a commercial he saw for a medicine last month, and going to the doctor reminded him that he should probably get a physical, since he hasn't had one in, oh, five years.  This is much like the time when, during grad school, I diagnosed myself with renal failure on WebMD and refused to leave my apartment for a week.  That was fun for all involved, let me tell you. 

So I am perturbed all yesterday afternoon, still sick, not able to eat or drink or keep any calories in me (and I should not be crossed when operating on an empty stomach), trying to figure out how to deal with several other shitty things I have to deal with, worried about my dad, who has to go back to the doctor today, that's how bad his blood pressure was, when the phone rang.  It was Cliffhanger.  We had a notes call scheduled for the pilot script, but she had a better idea:  Take 5,000 MySpace quizzes, like, for example, "Can You Pass Eighth Grade History?" (and for those of you wondering, no, we cannot, although we did pass math), and "How Masculine/Feminine is Your Brain?"  And who can forget the classic, "Are You A Good Kisser?"  Three hours later, we got on to pilot notes.  By that time my stomach was hurting from laughing, but I felt a lot better.  Of course, I didn't tell her any of this then, and she HATES finding things out from the blog (have I ever claimed to NOT be passive aggressive?), but oh, well.  I'm giving her props whether she likes it or not.

And on a final note, Dad went back to the doctor, his blood pressure is now normal, but he's scheduled a physical, as he should, just in case.  I, on the other hand, have yet to enter OCD therapy.  My mom would like to kill us both.