Smile-breaks
Kind'a makes you wish for a boring day
"Sorry, we don't accept that insurance." Don't you love those words?
We'd been waiting patiently in the waiting room after signing in at the front desk when they called Paul to the lab for his blood test—fasting blood test. We'd come prepared, with his specimen in a bottle. Paul doesn't "go" well at the lab, so we brought the specimen from home. This is the lab we've always gone to and I'd made an appointment, so all was in order. I thought.
She was friendly but firm as she said we'd have to go to the Sharp lab "in the building directly behind us. It should be easy to get there." 'Directly behind" was true—as the crow flies, not as the car flies—um, drives. But we got there and circled round and round and round to the top level of the parking structure for a parking spot. The in-out ritual of Paul and his wheelchair began. Again. Once at home, again at the wrong lab and now at the—hopefully—right lab.
We took the elevator down, I wheeled him down the ramp to street level and then into the building. Up another elevator, find the lab, sign in. Luckily we didn't need an appointment here and they called Paul pretty quickly. I wheeled him in and handed the specimen bottle as directed "to the phlebotomist," i.e., the blood-taker.
The friendly phlebotomist didn't take the container from me. She smiled as she said, "We're not supposed to accept this." I explained that I'd been to two drugstores for the proper lab specimen container: Online: "in stock." In-store: Nope!
But. . . the helpful CVS pharmacist had said, "Wait a minute. I think maybe I can help you." He disappeared and came back with a clean—empty—prescription bottle. He'd tested it to be sure it wouldn't leak. Some people are great.
At the lab the blood-taker took a proper lab container off the shelf, reached for our "illegal" container, and told me to go to the restroom. She winked as she tipped the bottle over the lab container in a rather suggestive manner and handed the two containers to me. "Be sure to close the door!" Some people are great.
As I turned to go, "Wait!" She swished the curtain closed, took the bottles from me and poured the contents of our illegal container into the lab container, put the proper one on the shelf and handed me back the prescription bottle. She drew Paul's blood quickly and easily and I parked Paul in the lobby while I fetched the car on the top level. Got Paul in the car, the wheelchair in the trunk and off we went. Home sweet home.
Decided to get my car washed ten minutes later. Great! Line was short. I paid and sat down in the waiting area. When they finished, they didn't jangle my keys in the air as usual. Instead, a carwash guy approached me. Uh-oh. "You're the owner of the Buick? Come with me." He led me to the right front of the car. I figured there was a scratch or something I hadn't noticed.
Not so easy. He pointed to a flap half-torn away from the sidewall of the tire and advised me I should get it taken care of real soon—it wouldn't be safe to drive it too much and by the way, I'd need a new tire since sidewalls can't be repaired.
The day was only half-gone and so far, was not hardly boring. I'm out of time now, so I'll tell you the rest next week. In the meantime, I hope you have a few boring days.
