Monday I went for the lab work. I HATE needles. I can handle anything, but I hide my eyes when they poke people on House. I had an awesome lab tech who reminded me of Franklin from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. He come out to the waiting room and said "I'm gonna draw some blood." Which I answered with a sarcastically enthusiastic Woohoo! When we got where we were going he said "Ok, which arm? And it can't be mine." I sympathized that he heard that terrible joke a lot and told him to do whatever would make it go by faster. He did his thing and I was breathing deeply and looking the other way when I heard "Uh-oh." Not a great moment for me. He assured me that it wasn't me (isn't that always the way?!?) Anyway, the tube was defective he switched it and apologized. He also added that "it never happens to the cranky old man it has to be the sweet little blonde."
Then "Franklin" informed me he needed a urine sample as well. This sounds simple enough, but let me paint you a picture of me in my wheelchair and my round little friend trying to maneuver in a bathroom that is only slightly larger than a port-a-potty. Well I got in there and peed without breaking my ankles, but then I couldn't get out! No kidding I was trapped (think the scene in Austin Powers when he backs the golf cart up and hits the wall, pulls forward and hits the wall repeatedly). I was banging into walls inside and "Franklin" was banging the door against the wheelchair trying to help me escape. Somehow I got out laughing my head off and the rest of my tests (chest x-ray, EKG...) happened without incident.
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