Apparently, a quirky sense of humor is one of the requirements of employment at the hospital where I’ve been twice in the past 4 days to deal with accidentally stabbing myself with a utility knife on Saturday. First the admitting nurse (see previous post), and yesterday’s conversation with the hand specialist/plastic surgeon.
He walked in the examining room, squinted at me, and said, “You look really familiar, have we met before?” I said, joking, “I don’t think so, but a WHOLE lot of people look EXACTLY like me, so chances are it was the person you saw before me.” He smiled, then pretended to scowl and said, “No, it’s not that. Do I owe you money?”
I wish I’d said, “You sure do, pal. I believe you’re underwriting my adventures in blogdom to the tune of $100/hour, which is 33% less than I would charge if I were a plumber coming to pump out your basement.” But, alas, I didn’t. Still, it was funny to me that a doctor whose business card says he specializes in “Plastic, Reconstructive and Hand Surgery” is even pretending to wonder if he owes me money. Maybe operating on plastic just doesn’t bring in the Benjamins anymore.
The skinny: my scofflaw of a hand surgeon says there’s a 50/50 chance he’ll need to “go in there and clean it out” if I still have pain in my fingers and hand by the weekend. Oy. And with that, I offer you this. One of the top 10 concerts of my life was getting to see and hear Ella Fitzgerald in person. The chick, may she rest in a jazzy peace, could get her sing on.