Regular readers of "So now I'm thinking..." may know that I recently required stitches in my hand due to a freak encounter with a broken soap dish. Since I don't want to be detracting from the bride and groom by gushing blood all over the place at the black-tie wedding gala Mrs. Dave and I will be attending this weekend, I thought I'd make an appointment to have them removed ahead of time, giving my gashy hand the time to heal properly. Because really, there's nothing worse than having two bridesmaids collapse at the sight of a gaping flesh wound as they're preparing for the nuptials.
The conversation I had with the nice lady making the appointment went approximately like this:
Me: "Hi, I'd like to make an appointment to have some sutures removed."
Her (duly unimpressed that I called them 'sutures' instead of the civilian term 'stitches'): "Okay, when would you like to come in?"
Me: "Well, they told me eight to nine days after having them in, so that would be...Friday or Saturday."
Her: "We don't take appointments for Saturday, so it'll have to be Friday. I have between 9:30 and 11:30 open."
Me: "Earlier is better, so let's go with 9:30."
Her: "You're all set for Friday at 9:30. Is there anything else?"
Me: "Yes, I have a question. Do you not take appointments for Saturdays because it's all booked up for emergency cases like inflamed gall bladders, or is it because people never need to see the doctor between 5pm on Friday and 9am on Monday?"
Ok, I made that last part up, but you get the point - I was scheduled for 9:30 this morning. Notice that there was NO MENTION of Thursday made anywhere in our conversation, and yes, this will come into play later. There will be a quiz. And just for shits and giggles, bring a number THREE pencil...if you dare.
Fast-forward to this morning, when Mrs. Dave had to be at work at 6:30. Oy. Any earlier, and she'd be getting up in the Mesozoic era. The alarm goes off at 6, I swat it a few times, then roll over and fall back to sleep. I wake up feeling refreshed, look at the clock...
And it's 8:51.
BLUGH!
I'm out the door, dressed and clean, by 9:06 - fairly impressive, if I do say so myself - and I'm hauling ass to the doctor's office, which is 24 miles away. Screech into the parking lot at 9:32, run inside, go up to the counter for my appointment...and I'm not on the schedule. "Oh, it says here you were a no-show at 9:30 yesterday." That's yesterday, as in Thursday, the day I was NOT scheduled for, NEVER asked about, and which most certainly did NOT come up in my conversation. They did, however, still have a slot at 10:30, so I got to miss an extra hour of work this morning, AND get the extra added bonus of a tetanus booster.
But at least I won't be causing a widespread bridesmaid collapse. At least not because of my hand.
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