All Dressed Up With a Crappy Place To Go

As I mentioned, I spent today at Johns Hopkins. Most of us there are, shall we say, sartorially laissez-faire due to the loooong days and the whole needles/meds/chemo/blood things going on. Veterans of these things can always spot the fresh meat by their snappy attire; they haven't barfed enough from chemo or sat still for 7 hours enough to know that those Elie Tahari skirts or Ralph Lauren pleated chinos with pastel fabric belt are going to make you feel uncomfortable on your keester for 7 hours and wrinkle up/get stained by vomit or blood or saline so you look homeless by the end of the day.

Today's newbies we will call Mr. and Mrs. Potomac. Sport coat and slacks for him, St. John knitted number for her. Cargo pants/Scottish Mafia T-shirt/SmithandWesson baseball cap for me. I was dressed for infusion success. They were dressed for lunch at the country club, or perhaps more accurately like they were about to board a Pan Am jumbo jet to Monte Carlo and oh Theodore isn't this just diviiiine!? You know what I'm saying: different generation, different socioeconomics, different zip code, different life experience, ie, they don't own cargo pants.

They were from Potomac, MD, 20854. To give you a little flavor for the locality, the creator of Beverly Hills 90210 originally wrote the show about kids in Potomac 20854 but the TV powers-that-be didn't think it would resonate as much as Bev Niner.

And speaking of resonating, Hottie Hematologist, or "HHMD" as I now call him, stopped by to check in. Luckily he caught me reading "Memoirs of a Mangy Lover" by Groucho Marx. I didn't tell him that I had just finished proofreading my own manuscript entitled, "Ten Steps for Stalking and Scoring a Nice Jewish Physician: Even if He's Married and Treating You For a Rare Bone Marrow Disorder." I'll give you a sneak preview:

Step One: Know Your History. Know the difference between late 80's crooner Richard Marx and jokemeisters Groucho, Harpo, Chico, Karl and Shemp.

Step Two: Always Look Your Best. Yeah, yeah. I know I'm in cargo pants and a shirt that says "Scottish Mafia: Frugal But Deadly," with massive bedhead under the baseball cap, but that's just my way of flirtatiously showing him what I look like in the morning, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I could give you the rest of the steps, but the truth is that the three of you who are interested then wouldn't have to buy my book; and if I ever hope to live in Potomac and wear St. John outfits to my transfusions to see my hot hippocratic hebrew hunk, I'm gonna need your $19.95.