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The surgery center – not to be confused with the Sculptor's office – called halfway through a 90-minute meeting from hell to ask some sensible questions and tell me that I needed to show up at 0615 on the 28th. It's a good thing that I usually get up early, and I won't need to concentrate much that day.
And then Dancer, who's graciously to be my minder for those vital first forty-eight hours, called to tell me that she's got a possible job interview (!) lined up for Monday. It's a pretty big deal, and I don't want to mess it up for her. Last-minute changes in plan are kind of the norm with her, I've noticed, but I don't think this one will mess me up. And as she points out, it might not even happen.
I have confirmed that my dentist is indeed expecting me for a cleaning on Wednesday morning. And I'm not leaving that office until I have written proof that they did it in my hot little double-jointed hands.
Am I ready to be knocked out and sliced* up? Good Goddess, yes.
*I typed "slicked" the first time. My Freudian slip is showing.
And then Dancer, who's graciously to be my minder for those vital first forty-eight hours, called to tell me that she's got a possible job interview (!) lined up for Monday. It's a pretty big deal, and I don't want to mess it up for her. Last-minute changes in plan are kind of the norm with her, I've noticed, but I don't think this one will mess me up. And as she points out, it might not even happen.
I have confirmed that my dentist is indeed expecting me for a cleaning on Wednesday morning. And I'm not leaving that office until I have written proof that they did it in my hot little double-jointed hands.
Am I ready to be knocked out and sliced* up? Good Goddess, yes.
*I typed "slicked" the first time. My Freudian slip is showing.
