Who's Your Owner?

Speaking of compliments, while I generally got zero from the American white male population, middle-aged to older, especially short, Latino men seem to zoom in on me. But the moments are usually clouded by strangeness. Case in point:

you a looka good.
excuse me? you a looka very nice today. who's you owner?
excuse me?
who's you owner?
I'm sorry?
you owner?
what?
you married?
uh, yes.
then you husband, he's you owner!

Drew Barrymore?

I wonder if fat people in general get a lot of compliments. You would think that we don't, but somehow (oh joy!) I must be an exception to the rule. Says parking lot attendant, who usually ignores me with a frown, to other parking lot attendant, who's usually super friendly: she looks so much like Drew Barrymore. Yeah, you really do. You get that a lot, huh?

Now, call me foolish, but I take that as a compliment.

My friend, Dr. A

Imaginary conversations with Dr. A go like this:

Dr A: Hi, how are you?
Me: I'm good. How are you?
Dr A: I'm WELL, thank you.

Long silence ensues.

Me: Not to offend you, Dr. A, but did anyone ever tell you you're a shitty ass doctor?
(You know, this is a pretty easy way to make money.)
(Has anyone ever mentioned that you suck, Dr. A?)
(Dr. A, you don't care much for your patients, do you?)
(Hm, Dr. A, I'm really impressed with how much you care.)
(Gee, Dr. A, thanks for putting things into perspective for me, you arrogant fuck.)
(Dr. A, how many black folks graduate from Harvard on average?)

Got Meth?

I wanted to tell Dr. A that I'd rather have my stomach stapled then try amphetamines. Instead I said that I Googled IT and didn't like the potential side effects. He shakes his head gravely, however with a faint superior smile at the corners of his mouth. He says, like to a child: I'm glad you Googled IT. However, my job as someone with extensive clinical experience is to put everything into a context for you. I want to say: how's this for a context? woman with lifelong panic disorder and hospitalization should perhaps, just maybe, possibly, not do meth. Instead I say, coyly: I couldn't NOT Google IT. He says: that's what I'm here for. Huh? Then, he scribbles something, gets up from his chair, walks toward me and goes: here. the other one won't be good anymore. they are only good for 30 days. And without any other words exchanged, he dismisses me with yet another prescription for a brand-name psychostimulant medication composed of racemic amphetamine aspartate monohydrate, racemic amphetamine sulfate, dextroamphetamine saccharide, and dextroamphetamine sulfate. As the saying goes, coffee is for pussies.