Friday was spent at the hospital for the second day of tests for the next phase of the clinical trial.
(Parenthetically, if you have MS and don't want any more fund-raising calls from any MS Society, tell them you are in a clinical trial and that maybe you are doing your part already. And it works! They thank you for your time and get off the phone! As if you weren't getting cutting-edge drugs for free. I should try this with all charity solicitations. Unless Alzheimer's calls, then I'll have to say, "Who are you again? Who are you calling?" every few seconds. )
It was a long day, and here's why: I made a bad decision. I washed my hair the night before, but I didn't get gas in my car the night before. So at 7 am I had to decide if it was more important to get gas or be on time for my MRI. I checked the digital readout on my tank level and it said my range was 33 miles before I ran out of gas. I did not realize Barnes Hospital is 33 miles from my house; I thought it was closer. So I coasted into the spot in the Barnes parking garage, checked my range: approximately 0 miles! I decided if I tried later to drive to the nearest gas station, I'd probably snarl up the entire parking garage by dying in the middle.
While I waited for the MRI, I called about to check if anyone at Barnes could help, where the nearest gas station was (1 mile away), called them to see if they had gas containers AND I KNOW I SHOULDN'T HAVE RUN OUT OF GAS SHUT UP already, Mom-in-head. (Mom-in-head: "I always made sure to fill up when I only had half a tank.")
So before my next test I called a cab, had him drive me to the gas station where they sold me a container and gas. On the drive back, I talked about the mornings breaking news and that someone would have to be particularly stupid to burgle to Nelly's mansion. He replied that committing any crime probably was stupid. Then I sensed that since he was black I'd somehow insulted him or Nelly. Therefore, I tipped him eight dollars. Because I'd suggested Nelly was intimidating. Like a gangsta.
Then, secure that I could drive 60 miles in any direction, I had for lunch something Applebee's was premiering that very day: some citrus chicken salad with apples and basalmic vinegar. And, had I read more cautiously, Pico de Gallo. Pico de Gallo is secret code for cilantro.
When the manager came by to hear the first reaction to the new salad, I mentioned they should put a cilantro warning sticker on anything with cilantro. I don't like cilantro: I didn't like the salad.
"Is there anything I can do to make it better?" he asked.
I thought a moment. "Purge all the cilantro from every field on earth."
After lunch, I called Gary to brag how I'd not bothered him and had not needed to ask for help, and he complained, "I like it when you ask me for help!" As if he wouldn't have complained if I'd dragged him out of work to drive (approximately 33 miles) across town. Cannot win.