One of the many things I love about fall (besides crunchy leaves, wearing sweaters, and the way that the cooler air diminishes the stench of hobo pee on the subway platform) is the return of TV shows after the summer hiatus.
We’re big on DVR’ing everything and catching up on the weekends, and so last night, I watched Gossip Girl. (I LOVE YOU, GOSSIP GIRL! PLEASE DON’T GET CANCELED! I WANT TO STEAL ALL OF THE CHARACTERS’ CLOTHES AND POSSIBLY SERENA’S HAIR! CAN I PLEASE COME HANG OUT WITH YOU? AND MAYBE ASK SERENA HOW SHE GETS HER HAIR TO BE SO AWESOME? WE’LL BE BFFS FOR-EVA, I JUST KNOW IT! YES, I’M AWARE THAT I’M TEN YEARS OLDER THAN ALL OF YOU! AND THAT YOU’RE FICTIONAL! BUT A PART OF ME DOESN’T REALLY CARE!) I also caught up on Grey’s Anatomy, and watched the “Werewolf Bar Mitzvah” clip from 30 Rock approximately 372 times. Sadly, I’m only exaggerating a little bit. That shit’s funny.
(Oh, and as you may have surmised? My brief, “curse-free” stint is over. I defy any of you to get through assembling a sideboard/wine storage/buffet thing, as J & I did today, without letting slip a few choice words.)
Back to my TV shows, though; specifically, Grey’s Anatomy. I…don’t think I can watch it anymore. Now, don’t get me wrong-- I still love certain aspects of it. Like the music, for instance, or Cristina, or how I secretly want Dr. Bailey to be my mentor, sleeping on our couch and bringing the smack down on me in her awesome, kick-ass way whenever I step out of line (“Did you leave your clothes on this chair?! I know you know better than that, Metalia. I taught you better than that.”) But at this point, I want to hurl Izzy through a damn wall, I find Meredith’s aggressively fuzzy, too-dark-for-her-hair caterpillar eyebrows very distracting (shallow, I know), and, in what I suppose is an effort to both shock the viewing audience and top themselves, the show’s procedures are becoming increasingly vomit-inducing.
Like, for instance, that kid from last week. With the needle. And the tongue depressor. SHOVED INTO HIS EYEBALL. I simply cannot deal.
Mainly because I fear that it might happen to me.
You see, I’m not what you’d call adept at handling medical matters in a calm and rational manner. And reading Moose’s hilarious post about being a worrier reassured me that at least I’m not alone.
I think the problem began when I was younger and my father (who was pre-med, before he scrapped that plan for law school) had a lurid medical book filled with all manner of oozing sores and nightmarish rashes. I was horrified and fascinated at the same time. Still, nothing like gross eye goop, shudder-inducing burns and close-ups of skin ailments to scar a kid for life. Compounding the issue was the fact that the book was apparently published roughly around the time of the Lincoln Administration, and contained a large amount of outdated information. Um, unbeknownst to me. I swear, until I was about 11 or 12, every time my foot fell asleep, I was certain that it marked the beginnings of polio. (“Eradication in America is getting closer every day!” or something to that effect, were the book’s sentiments on the matter.)
This set the stage for a future in manufactured medical drama the likes of which the world has never before seen.
Did I bid my parents a tearful farewell, “just in case,” when I was getting A WISDOM TOOTH EXTRACTION? Yup. (Though in the interest of full disclosure, the tears were probably also related to the fact that they made me get the extraction over Winter Break in 10th grade. The horror!)
Did I, after said extraction, inadvertently take two painkillers instead of the prescribed 1 and proceed to call Poison Control? Guilty as charged. Adding insult to injury, I may have been totally doped up on my whopping 2 pills, but I distinctly heard the Poison Control dude laughing at me.
More recently, a review of my past Google searches would yield such gems as “stubbed toe hurts a lot diseases" and “paper cut from cardboard possible infections.” Don’t even ask about how I handled the whole mosquito/West Nile thing. (Hint: Not well, considering that the mosquitoes LOVE me.)
I mean, my God. I have an itchy bump on my arm right now, which, in all likelihood, is probably yet another mosquito bite, but it’s taking ALL OF MY WILLPOWER to refrain from Googling “recurrence of chicken pox in 27-year olds.”
Is any of this normal?
Of course not!
But I know my limitations.
And so Grey’s Anatomy, with its “I have the hiccups, OOPS! I’m dead now” scenes, and its “I’m just a young woman on the train to work, but now I’m skewered to this guy on a pole, and OOPS! I’m dead now, too!” plotlines, is now dead to ME.
Goodbye, Grey’s Anatomy. If we were actually on the show right now, a mood-perfect, piano-driven song played by some obscure band would play as the scene faded out, with Meredith incorporating some key phrase of the lyrics into her closing voice-over. But since it’s just me, it’s going to be Salt n’ Pepa’s “Shoop”, as that’s what iTunes decided to play.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check out this itchy bump on my arm.
It’s wicked, wicked, and I have to kick it.