Receptosaurus sits at a table eating a plate of pasta.

As soon as she looks up, we're locked into a stare-down. I know what you're thinking--you--you mean lizard. But I'm NOT! I'm not a cougar preying on young men! Unfortunately, my current mission requires squeezing my ass into a candy striper uniform--an outfit high school and college girls are known to wear while volunteering at hospitals. For obvious reasons, this doesn't help in the defense of my not-a-cougar case.

Scanning the staff lounge, I spot a closet on the far side of the room. I slink past Receptosaurus' table without a word and slide the closet door open. Three red and white striped dresses hang inside. A size 4. A size 8. A size 10. Motherfucker! I scream inside my mind. They only have thigh warmers in here!

I slide the closet door shut and rest my forehead against the wood. I've come so far since this morning on my front porch. I've expanded. I've learned. I've grasped a different understanding of reality's reality. Now a chance to achieve the impossible is within my grasp. Surely this can't be how it ends.

"Trust the unknown," Queen Elizabeth's voice whispers in my mind, "and you'll find your way."

I take a deep breath and stand up straight--eyes still directed towards the closet door. As an expression of symbolism, I pretend to remove a pair of goggles from my eyes. All the goggles. Mortification. Inferiority. Self-deprecation. Pessimism. Doubt. All of them. I take these invisible goggles and symbolically tuck them away in a jeans pocket.

You've got this, I think to myself. You're meant to be here. It's fate. You're not an imposter. I pause. Well--you sort of are. Pretending to be a candy striper to meet a guy is imposter'ish. But you're also a warrior--and a warrior's gotta do what a warrior's gotta do.

I turn and face Receptosaurus with a smile.

"Does anyone know you're here?" she asks.

"Yes. Babs sent me."

"For?"

I approach Receptosaurus' table. Placing my palms on the edge of the clothed surface, I lean in to speak to the receptionist in a hushed voice like I did earlier in the waiting room. "Remember when Cinderella wanted to go to the royal ball, but she couldn't because her stepsisters ruined her dress?"

"Yeah?" Receptosaurus replies, holding a forkful of spaghetti between her plate and her mouth.

I point to the closet. "There are three skinny-ass stepsisters in that closet, and they've ruined my chance to meet a prince."

"What?"

To answer her question, I ramble. "A racecar driver is here--here at Urgent Care. I've had a crush on this guy for over--A DECADE. He's--he's older--as in like, middle aged older--like he could be your uncle or brother older. We're totally age appropriate. As in, we're both appropriately aged. And the chance of him being right here right now is about 100 percent impossible--but he's here anyway. It's crazy! Heaven on Earth crazy! So as you can see, I can't just walk away and pretend like it didn't happen. I can't keep walking away from opportunities because I think I'm not qualified enough to try. I mean--I know I'm not hospital qualified or anything--but I still have to try. Babs suggested volunteering--as a candy striper--to assist with whatever he needs assisting with. But those dresses over there are too small, and I don't know what else to do. I really want to walk out of here tonight and know I did everything possible to make this impossible situation happen. Right now I'm hoping a fairy godmother will appear out of my asshole and make a candy striper dress materialize from thin air--but chances are--that probably won't happen. So I'm also hoping some mice and birds will come together and build me a dress--but that probably won't happen either." I drop my head into my arms on the table. "I'm just trying to find ways to keep myself hopeful. I'm trying to believe in something that's still unknown to me."

"But it would be against hospital policy for non-staff members to disturb this--racecar driver," Receptosaurus states, like a contest rules and regulations lawyer.

"I know," I whisper without lifting my head. "I'm just hoping this isn't how my fairy tale ends."

I hear Receptosaurus' fork being returned to her plate. "I wish I could help. I do."

"Thanks," I whisper.

A hand slaps the staff lounge doorframe. "My husband is going to be so jealous when I tell him Tony Stewart was here tonight," a woman's voice announces.

I lift my head and find Ms. Whatnot standing in the doorway.

"Is that the racecar driver?" Receptosaurus asks.

"Yeah," she replies. "You've heard of him?"

Receptosaurus nods towards me. "Just now."

"You a NASCAR fan?" Whatnot inquires.

"Not a NASCAR fan. Just a Tony fan." I smile. "He's like--my boyfriend."

Whatnot's eyes widen. "Oh!"

"No, no, no, no!" I clarify. "Not literally. Dreamland stuff. Candyland. Dreamland. I get all up in my head a lot."

Receptosaurus adds, "She says Babs was trying to introduce them, but I can't see her breaking policy to do something like that."

Ms. Whatnot looks at me and winks. "Did Babs give you a sandwich?"

I hesitate for a split second, not wanting to get my newest friend in trouble. "Yes."

Turning back to Receptosaurus, she says, "Babs trusts her. So what was her plan to get you in to meet him?"

"Candy striper," I reply. "Unfortunately, the dresses are too small."

"But this is against rules and regulations," Receptosaurus reminds us again.

"Oh, Rita. A little Candyland never hurt anyone," Whatnot counters. Then turning towards me she asks, "Where was Tony born?"

Random. "Columbus, Indiana," I reply, amazed at how I can retain obscure facts such as this one, yet forget my own phone number.

"Why did he choose number 14 for his car?"

"It was A.J. Foyt's number--one of his favorite humans."

"What's Tony's nickname?"

"Smoke." 

There's a sparkle in Whatnot's eyes when I answer all three questions correctly. She turns towards Receptosaurus with outstretched hands. "C'mon, Rita. This is a legit dream crush. We have to help her."

"But it goes against policy," Receptosaurus argues.

"Did I mention Tony and I are wearing the same sweatshirts tonight," I add frivolously against Receptosaurus' legality.

"What more do you need?" Whatnot asks. "It's fate!"

"I just don't think--"

Cutting off the receptionist, she asks, "What if the New Kids on the Block walked in right now? Wouldn't you hope someone would be kind enough to introduce you?"

My head snaps towards Receptosaurus. "Which one? Better not be Joey. I have dibs on Joey."

Receptosaurus attempts to contain a chuckle, until her chuckle turns into a giggle. "Danny. And what do you need Joey for if you have this--racer guy?" Throwing her hands up in the air, she surrenders. "Okay. Fine. Let's make this dream happen. But if we get caught, I know nothing about it!"

"Deal," Whatnot agrees.

Bouncing up and down while clapping, I turn to Ms. Whatnot to see if she has any ideas. Unfortunately, she's staring at the floor and shaking her head. "So how do we innocently stay under the radar?"

"Stick with the candy striper idea," Receptosaurus replies with a grin. Smoothing out the red and white checkered table cloth under her plate with her hands, she adds, "Heaven's about to be a place on Earth."

Flashing the receptionist the warmest smile, I say, "Danny would be so proud right now."

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

MUSIC: Belinda Carlisle. Heaven Is A Place On Earth. I kept hearing songs on the radio that inspired these last chapters. Clearly I was listening to an Oldies But Goodies station. 

Your vote is truly McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com