“Y’all won’t believe what kind of day this has been,” I yelled out as I bounded into the veterinarian’s office this week, weenie dog in tow. Of course, I tripped over Poe’s leash and nearly hit my head on the corner of the reception desk, winding up in a heap on the highly polished concrete floor. On my way down, I glanced at the two technicians and the receptionist I was attempting to engage in witty banter. Their mouths were all hanging open in that way that one’s mouth hangs open when one isn’t sure if one is supposed to speak, scream, hide, or just wince. I’m a lot to deal with at times. I dusted myself off and triple checked Poe for any signs of smush injury. He was fine. Baseball hat askew and glasses hanging from one ear, I stood to my full 62 inches and stated the obvious. “Doc didn’t tell you I was coming?” The receptionist replied, “He did not.” These are the unfortunate circumstances that exist when your veterinarian is a close friend of your husband. When I called Doc in a panic the prior evening, his direction to “just come on in tomorrow” was a clear indicator that our conversation would not be first and foremost in his mind when tomorrow arrived. Also, that’s the thing with me. I’m awkward, especially when under self-imposed duress. And, there’s no worse duress than feeling like your very presence is a kink in the garden hose of office protocol.
My catalogue of awkward panic goes way back. There was the time I interrupted my first husband during an important meeting with continual 911 pages on his beeper. It wasn’t my fault. A wayward opossum had climbed into his collection of to-be-recycled beer cans, burrowing down into the bottom of the bin and drinking all the spilled beer remnants. You don’t wanna be attacked by a drunken possum flicking his opposable thumbs at you all willy-nilly. I still have n i g h t - mares. There was the time I caught the evil grackle in the foyer at Hobby Lobby because it was dive bombing a poor lady in a scooter chair. I didn’t mean to catch a grackle. It just happened. Don’t try this at home. The release did not go well, but I am thankful his beak didn’t penetrate my hat. There was the time I fell off my front porch trying to catch a wayward goat. I really did think my husband brought him home for me and was hiding around the corner, preparing to jump out with professions of love and adoration. In all honesty, though, goats can knock on doors. Anyone could’ve made the same mistake. There was the time I impaled my left hand with a steak knife trying to pit an avocado after several failed attempts to get that blasted seed to vacate. It made total sense at the time. My daughter-in-law gifted me with a James Avery avocado charm over that escapade. Way before motherhood claimed me, I fell down while dancing in a nightclub. I don’t drink much, but I am pretty clumsy. What else was there to do except turn it into a backward roll and end in the splits? Then, there was the time I had to carry my huge standard poodle puppy into the same vet’s office. During my struggle back into the waiting area, I realized my denim shirt had come unsnapped from stem to stern. Luckily, I was wearing an exercise bra. My cousin J.J. almost called the police, though. I had my cell phone tucked into my waistband and I sent her a tummy text that said, among other nonsensical things, “Kill Kiki.” I panicked. Once I panic, it’s game on.
The vet visit in question turned out fine. The bites covering my dog were nothing more than a mystery irritant, something a medicated bath and antibiotics should solve. I was feeling on top of the world by that point, so I splurged on a doggie toenail trim. That’s when the real panic ensued. See, we were about to take a trip. Who wants to carry a huge purse on a trip? No one does. So, I painstakingly chose a vacation purse from my collection, a cross-body version as a matter of fact. Then, I carefully transferred only the contents needed for our trip. No need for my 35-year-old son’s childhood vaccination records, so that stayed in the everyday purse – essentials only. Imagine my shock and horror when my total was read to me as I returned to the reception desk. I ransacked my vacation purse several times. I turned it upside down. There was no debit card. I looked at Poe. He looked at me, probably just hoping I didn’t fall on him again. The receptionist, thinking I didn’t hear her the first time, announced my total again. That’s when I went wheels off. “It’s just that this is my vacation purse. I can’t find my debit card, because, vacation purse. (30 seconds of nervous laughter.) I had it yesterday at the Walmart, because I remember buying dog food and some new sunscreen for our trip, not the chemical kind. I always buy the mineral kind because they say that’s better for you now. That chemical sunscreen causes cancer. Isn’t that funny? The sunscreen that’s supposed to protect you from cancer causes cancer. (30 more seconds of nervous laughter.) Anyway, did I tell you this is my vacation purse?” I called my husband, who promptly paid for my visit over the phone. I returned home and found my debit card safely tucked into the wrong pocket of my nonvacation purse. I’m blaming it on the heat and the summer cells in my brain. Summer there. Summer not. Stay cool, folks. Don’t answer the door if a goat knocks. You’ll fall off the porch. And, leave Kiki alone. She never did anything to you.
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