IOU

I haven't forgotten that I promised to tell the rest of the story about next week's surgery.

It's just that there's a lot to tell, and I want to do it justice.

And this week has been busier than most—in part because I'm trying to cram a lot in before I go under the knife—and that means I've been short on the time and mental energy I need to write about the surgery.

But I can say that the back-to-back pelvic ultrasounds (transabdominal and transvaginal) went fine—other than the fact that they were preceded by two hours in the waiting room. And that for most of those two hours, my fellow waiting-room denizens included one certifiable lunatic. And not the quiet kind, either.

It seems to be my week to be plagued by poorly behaved strangers.

Last night, my friend Elizabeth (hi, Elizabeth!) and I went to a reading at the New York Public Library. Note the words "reading" and "Library." The people sitting behind us apparently didn't, because they were just yapping away through the introductions. Kudos to Elizabeth for turning around and saying, in the most matter-of-fact way possible, "Are you going to talk the entire time?" She said it in the same tone of voice in which you might ask, "Is that seat taken?" As a silencing mechanism, it was very effective.

Then tonight, Zach and I went to the theater for the first time in forever, only to be stuck sitting in front of a very drunk woman and her enabler-husband (or date or paid escort—I couldn't tell for sure). She lurched into me several times, spilled her drink at least once, and audibly murmured along with the proceedings onstage during the entire first act. Then she practically took a header on her way to the bathroom (or maybe back to the bar) a few minutes before intermission.

By that point, steam was very nearly shooting out of our ears, so we resorted to extreme measures. I was tempted to turn around, remove my hat in righteous indignation, and, in an appropriately melodramatic tone, say something like, "You know, I don't get out very often, so I'd really appreciate it if you would SHUT UP and stop ruining our evening."

Instead, we ratted her out to the house manager. (Since she and her companion spent intermission at the bar, it was easy to point them out from the safety and comfort of our seats.) The house manager pulled her aside when she came back, and she and the husband/date/escort spent the remaining minute or so (before the second act began) dissecting the grievous injury she'd been done by virtue of this talking-to. But she did behave after that.

Well, mostly.