Doctor’s orders
I just gave blood, so I’m not supposed to do anything strenuous. Like think. Or post something interesting.
I always give blood when they phone me up. You give somebody money, you don’t know where the hell it goes. Give them blood? There’s pretty much one thing they can do with it. (Plus, I love giving Uncle B the coffee mugs with the big RIBC drop o’ blood logo on the side).
The difference between the ones that call and ask and the ones that screen you when you get there is shocking. The phone ladies are all, like, “pleaseohpleaseohpleeeeeease give us some blood. You’ll be a hero to adorable big-eyed puppies everywhere!”
And the screener ladies are like, “So, Miz Weasel, are you a dirty, filthy whore? Because you look like a dirty, filthy whore. Yeah, you give sex for money, right? You shoot up? You’ve snuck off to Cameroon again, haven’t you?” I understand the need to keep bad things out of the blood supply, but if I were having sex in exchange for drugs, I’d like to think I’d have the decency to lie about it.
My favorite question is the one about whether you have ever once had sex with a man who has ever once had sex with another man. How the hell would I know? I mean, technically.
A couple of times I’ve been turned away — high blood pressure, stuff like that. They always act like I tried to put one over on them. “So! Tried to sneak some of your filthy whore blood past us, eh?”
Just once, I’d like the phone ladies and the blood ladies to trade places. Sure, the phone ladies would probably poke me full of holes and leave me soaked in my own gore, but I’d feel so good about it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lie around and eat things. Doctor’s orders.
July 15, 2008 — 4:45 pm
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