Aiy-yaiy-yaiy

Nineteen-year-olds SHOULD be able to take a message.

The birthday thing was cool. Brian and I went to O'Charleys (and, as usual, thought about Ben and Ruthie the entire time because we were introduced to this lovely place by them) and had a great time. Brett drug his English class up to the library to sing "Happy Birthday" to me. Kids I didn't even know (and that is few of them indeed) passed me in the halls and wished me a happy birthday. It felt nice. It certainly helped get rid of the grumpies I had anticipated this year. (See May 13th post--not the "crying" one).

Back to the top line. As I said, things went well. When we got home, though, Bart suddenly remembered a call that I received at 11:30 yesterday morning from the Health Alliance. Considering I had one of "those" X-rays done just the day before, I thought the worst. (My aunt has had cancer twice and my great-grandmother died of it. I had every right to be concerned.) I called the number on our caller ID only to get a referral to another line. (Of course, it was 9:00 PM by that time.) I slept, but I fell asleep wondering what the call was all about. Woke up wondering the same thing. Finally, in a burst of inspiration I called radiology. Her advice was to call the doctor. I called to leave a message. One of the wonderful office staff called within 20 minutes to say that nothing was in his box, so everything was most likely OK.

That means the call must have come from billing, but why in the world I would get a call from them is beyond me.

So it boils down to this: if Bart would only take messages as he should...He calls me when he finds a hangnail, but he didn't call me for this?!