Today I have my mammogram. And my well-woman. And lunch with BestFriend. [Lorelai gets her turn at the car doc this afternoon.] I have my list of questions printed off to ask the doctor, and a copy of my advance directive. Because we know how deadly a mammogram can be. (I do realize that the online pre-registration form is intended for major surgery, every bit as much as the technically non-invasive slamming of The Girls into a vise that is a mammogram, which is why the form asks if one has an advance directive, and then says to bring a copy. I just find it amusing.)
If there is sufficient time, I may get to squeeze in a trip to a local yarn shop that carries those stiletto needles. I have not yet visited her shop, and she’s been open for a little over a year. In my defense, I only found out that she has a brick-and-mortar shop about six weeks ago. Oh drat, I just checked online. She’s not open on Mondays. I see from the manufacturer’s website that the needles are also sold at another local shop owned by a woman to whom we refer as She Who Must Not Be Named. No thanks.
I need to be out the door in half an hour, to be at the