Call Cher, It's Mask II
I'm not good in emergencies. Unless they're fashion emergencies. Then I shine.
Last night, I got a phone call from a friend needing a ride to the hospital. She had the kind of emergency that made her make stupid requests.
She rattled off a list of ailments. I pretended to listen. "Are you typing?" she asked. I couldn't tell her that I was posting pictures of my toes to a foot fetish Flickr group. I lied. I told her that I was checking her symptoms online. To prove my point, I asked her if she was having a buning sensation during urination or pain in her left arm. "It's my face, Idiot." I didn't ask her where she went to medical school.
I asked her to hold and put down the phone. I stood up and did a field sobriety test. After reciting the alphabet backwards, I agreed to drive her to the ER.
When I say, "I'll be right there," I mean that as soon as I check both email addresses, sitemeter, and my feeds, I'll be on my way. Also, I remembered that you're supposed to wear clean underwear to the hospital. I made a quick change.
As I touched up my hair and makeup, I hoped that she wasn't hemorrhaging. I took a final glance in the mirror. My sweater was all wrong. Maybe it was the jeans. I ignored her calls as I changed my shoes.
I looked spectacular when I arrived at her house. I felt a little bad when I saw her. She looked awful; a little like my last mug shot. The right side of her face was nearly unrecognizable. Her eye was swollen shut. I wondered if she had always had a cleft palate. It seems like I would have noticed, but I've never seen her without makeup.
I have watched enough medical dramas to know what to do. I retched. Then I stabbed her in her face with my EpiPen. I'm sure she'll thank me when she wakes up. There was no way that we could have spent the evening in the hospital, there's no free Wi-Fi.