My B(r)ush With Fame
I moved to NY and needed to find a new lady doctor, since the one I had gone to for 6 years in Chicago rudely refused to move with me. I logged into my health insurance provider’s website, went through the list of doctors in my network and picked one using, in descending order of importance, sex, distance from my office, best med school and most American-sounding name. Yes, I’m a sexist lazy label-whore racist.
The doctor came into the room, and she looked sort of familiar. She asked me a few questions that I bald-faced lied about, such as the number of partners in the last 6 months (of course I inflated my answer to sound cooler) and if I was always using protection (obviously not since it feels better without it). After she finished with the routine questions, she then asked, “Do I know you from somewhere?” And I thought, “Oh she recognizes me too!” and told her I wasn’t sure but I seemed to remember her face as well. She asked where I went to college, and I told her. I knew she went to Stanford med school since I read it on her doctor profile. We reminisced about our time in California briefly, but decided we couldn’t place each other.
Thirty minutes later I was headed back to the office and decided to Google her name to see if I could figure out why we thought we knew each other. Which lead me to the following revelation:
So between her and The Apprentice, my claim to fame is that I have had not one, but TWO ex-reality show stars all up in my junk.