Virtually everyone I know (especially in New York) is a little bit crazy, but in the best way possible.
Nevertheless, being crazy isn't necessarily that much fun, and thus, most of my friends and family seek professional help from therapists and psychiatrists. I, personally, have been doing so for almost a half dozen years, and I continue to reap the benefits of serotonin blockers.
So when I finally needed to choose a new Human Pill Dispenser (rather than frequenting my psychiatrist of years for whom I could no longer afford to make monthly day trips), I began to look for someone who, like the doctor my mom nicknamed "The Candy Man," took no time to ask me anything relevant except "What can I get you?" That's how I like it: Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Medical-Professional.
Even with health insurance, finding a psychiatrist proved daunting, as most doctors in Manhattan cater exclusively to patients who can pay out of pocket (did you know that some Park Avenue proctologists will only stick their index fingers into anuses filled with gold?). Finally, I settled on a lady who sounded both thorough and warm on the phone, so I took the appointment.
Needless to say, there lies a tiny waiting room just east of Union Square in which a tiny dinosaur of a woman (no, seriously, she's like 4'8" with beady eyes like a T-Rex) has decorated all available surface area with some of the most aesthetically reprehensible tchotchkies, resulting in what could only be described as "if Laura Ashley diarrhea'd."
For an observant New York Jew, (who, it should be noted, is obsessed with my being Jewish and has suggested several times that I "bring [my] comedy act to the Jewish Y on 14th Street"), she has somehow acquired the taste of a quiet, Catholic midwesterner.
Oh, and I think she might be trying to make her patients crazier. Because, seriously, jellybeans and pennies? On a doily? Talk about a Mindfuck.
My friend (a fellow patient) and I are well aware that she doesn't "hide her horns well" (if you know what I mean; ...she's Jewish and, therefore, greedy), so any attempt by The Good Doctor to keep her clients cuckoo and in need of her services is obvious. She over-schedules patients to the point where I've been scolded for arriving a minute late because "everybody's got to get to work."
But whatevs - it's cool. I can't resent her merely because the sheer entertainment value in visiting a doctor whose office is accessed only through French doors [after being buzzed in through the building three - count 'em, THREE - times by a module tightly clipped to hear right ear (!)] is enough material to last me from here to eternity.
But, really, how tactless can a doctor be? I mean, she did write a book, copies of which are stacked on a rocking chair with a note that reads:
EXCLUSIVE SPECIAL FOR PATIENTS: Buy one copy for $35 or two for $50!