Morning of Extreme Loathsomeness

[serinde]

Backstory: I had a 9am dermatologist appointment downtown, for something I have not talked about in this august forum--to wit, a thing like a mole, but apparently not, that appeared on my neck some 5-6 weeks ago; and being as how I have a tendency towards incautious sun enjoyment, it seemed prudent to get this checked out.

Trains were already running somewhat delayed due to pouring rain (dear weather.com: take your "occasional showers" forecast, fold it until it is all corners...) but I figured I could make it fairly close to on time. And indeed, I was at 315 Hudson by 9am sharp. Except, looking at the building directory, "I see no dermatologist here." I phoned sweh in gibbering agitation, and he, wielding the power of the Intarnets, enlightened me that the address was in fact 315 *Church*. How did I mix this up? I have No. Fucking. Idea.

It is now 9:10, it is sheeting down rain, I have no umbrella, and I'm probably 3/4 of a mile from where I need to be. I phone the dermatologist and pour out my tale of woe. "OK, we can take you at 9:45." Hello, super lateness! I realize I am standing two doors down from a little cafe, so I nip in, get a latte and the best cranberry scone I've ever tasted, and take a post-12. (And phone Office Mom to let her know I'll be even later.) Refreshment complete, I step to the door. It's raining even harder now. Oh look! A free cab! My luck is in. I hail it and request to be taken to 315 Church St. "Where's that?" Yes, I landed the only cabbie in Lower Manhattan who does not know where Church St. is. Or to be precise, he thought he could find it but said "Oh, it is a very long street [no it isn't.] and I need to know where you need to go on it [just get ON THE FUCKING STREET, and turn south from Canal]". Finally he wanders around and drops me off on what he says is Church St, but isn't, but is right near Canal so I'm not too far off.

Of course, it's raining even harder now. (Which I hadn't thought possible without hurricane warnings.) I'm in front of a construction site so I dash forward to get under the scaffolding. Oh wait! I'm wearing the fake-leather sandals that are impossible to wear when they're wet! I slip and fall in the grit and debris, skinning my hand. Oh and my shoulder bag was still open from digging out my cellphone. At this point I'm about 80% soaked; have I mentioned how much I hate wet jeans? I get under the scaffolding with a bunch of others waiting out the tempest, and take my bearings. Church should be a block *that* way, and this is Lispenard which sweh told me was the cross street, so okay. I start to cross the street. I start to slip and fall again. I am now at half-past End Of Rope. I take my sandals off and stomp the rest of the way barefoot, not hurrying, just stomping. I am not just soaked, I am dripping. I arrive with five minutes to go before the appointment; so naturally I have to wait for half an hour in the frigidly air conditioned waiting room. Finally make it to the office at 11, change into emergency pants which are very snuggly, wish I had stopped for Starbucks.

It's just a mole, not pre-skin-cancer or anything horrifying.

SO NOT WORTH THE BOTHER.