guest blog (it's a girl!)

in order to keep this site's content as fresh as a slap to the face i asked d.e. (don't ask what that stands for) to write a guest blog. she brings some much needed femininity and class to the phlox loves arthur franchise. feel free to either prop her up or push the glass down upon her head in the comments section. enjoy:


So I walk into the office—more nervous stumble than strut. It still feels like Halloween in this stiff suit—so heavy—and my voice shakes from the bulk of each pinstripe. I ask the 'Blocker' if I can see Him today. By 'ask,' I mean that I actually beg, flattering, beseeching, and essentially charming my way into His office while banking on the potent, fatal combination that is highly caloric baked goods and the pudgy Blocker's sweet toofff. As usual, I struggle with the knowledge that the skateboard outside is mine (or so it feels that way at times in this new game of grownup) and if I should indeed inform this Marge Simpson (the Blocker) in front of me (Marge, in terms of her bad voice and hair) of this. I don't, throwing some more compliments the Blocker's way instead and getting them stuck in her big hair. With my proverbial skateboard so far away now, I think I am in the door!

I am in, as Blocker's lifeless rasp accepts my starch and lard offering despite her clearly not needing them. In exchange for my boxes of diabetes mellitus, Blocker opens the golden gates to me while saying her usual silent prayers to her scrubs—magic scrubs that conceal years of doughnuts and Philadelphia cream cheesed bagels so well. Alleluia! —A less-than heavenly chorus of coughing and elderly complaints and conditions reverberates before me. At times, it is strange how much it sounds like the Mormon Tabernacle choir on Christmas morning to me; after all, it means that me--and my drugs--are in.

If you haven't noticed by now: I sell drugs…legal ones. And behind your and your brother's uncle's dog's neighbor's cousin's friendly neighborhood PCP, there is always a me and my fake smile. Do you know where your pills come from?

Good, because neither do I. (*Fake smile*)

So suffice it to say that I was in your brother's uncle's dog's neighbor's cousin's friendly neighborhood PCP's office today with your/his/her/their/its pills when—Alleluia! for once —The PCP actually had time to see little old, well-suited-but nervous-me. Sweet! Not only was I inside the practice, but I also was in His office amidst framed degrees and Kodaks of (presumably) his happy little trustfundites! Getting out my detail piece on the fine products that-shall-remain-nameless-and-that-I-so-love-to-market, I finally felt ready to "put on the Ritz" for him and sell sell sell...

...but certainly, I was not ready to take 'the Ritz' off! "Turn around," the Doctor calmly but firmly ordered. Flabbergasted, I recalled a training urban legend about a female rep requested to do some sort of similar, heinously pervy thing. Oh no, not me, I thought. Never! Outraged, I gathered my samples and dignity and turned around in a huff right out the door--away from a shocked Dr. Gross. For Abigail Adams, Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Stanton, Gloria Steinem, and Mary Wollstonecraft, I walked out. I walked. I stomped. I scowled. Let my people go! I was woman and I roared…

That is, I roared only until I heard a "Hey lady, yous got gum on your rear end" from a Mr. Yinzer in the medical complex parking lot. Oh yes, not only did I ruin an Ann Taylor (gasp!), but I also ruined a relationship--and all because I turned around a bit too quickly that time. Feeling foolish, I collected my "skateboard" and left.

~~d.e.