Suzy Says

1. Buy a box of those ubiquitous and delicious holiday clementines (I get “My Darling” brand, because it’s just so cute).
2. Take those darling clementines and juice them. Just think of all that vitamin C!
3. Add vodka and sip until relaxion is achieved. For extra orange-y deliciousness, use Absolut Mandrin. Good-bye, holiday stress!

When I woke up dazed from my odd, dream-filled sleep (the only installment I can remember is staying with Rita in a hotel in Hollywood owned by Heather Locklear*. Heather & I were trying on each other’s shoes. Hers were better), I decided to just stay dazed and confused and get those blood tests out of the way once and for all.

With an agonized look at my coffeemaker, I left the house and grabbed a cab to Chinatown. Arriving at the lab, the sign said, “Number being served: 89.” Pulling off my number, I saw a disheartening 5. But I figured, I’d come all this way (again) without coffee, and I was damn well going to give the people all the blood they wanted.

After awhile, I began to feel like I was at the airport, waiting seemingly endlessly in uncomfortable chairs to get into yet another uncomfortable chair and be slightly or very horrified by what follows after you’re strapped in, depending on temperament.

When my number was finally up, my veins weren’t. The technician kept strappin’ and tappin’ but my veins were hiding coyly, possibly looking vainly for caffeine. I expected her to call the lethal injection team any minute: “We need a cut-down here in Room 2”, but she finally settled on a rather unsettling area about halfway down the inside of my forearm, where it’s more sensitive than the elbow area.

As she merrily bled me (6 vile vials!), she said that my tiny veins came from my mother. I never noticed if Mom had small veins. I mean, you don’t say, “Gee, Mom, your veins are so small! I hope mine are that small when I grow up.”

After she put the little cotton ball and Band-Aid on, she recommended two nearby coffee shops. “You look tired, ” she said. I always think that’s code for “You look like complete shit, my friend,” and should only be said to someone who has run a marathon or given birth. Maybe not even then. Maybe under those circumstances, it should be, “You look radiant.”

I went home and had some coffee.

*Note to self: Must you always dream about such B list celebrities? Aim a little higher. Maybe a Nicole for a change? Or a real Dreamgirl?