I'm screwed

I have a fairly sizable scar on my right forearm. When people see it, they always ask what happened. And every time, depending on the mood I'm in, they get a different story.

Sometimes it's the one where I was scuba diving off Catalina and a baby shark bit my arm. Other times, it's the guy who pulled a knife on me so I shot him. Rarely is it what really happened: a bad auto accident.

Decades ago, a guy in a Monte Carlo decided to run a red light just as I was going through the intersection at Crescent Heights and San Vicente (for you Angelenos). I was driving an orange '71 Super Beetle. He t-boned me, and because I wasn't wearing a seat belt (which the police said probably saved my life) I flew out of the car, wound up sanding the asphalt with my face and breaking my right radius in three places.

I know, stay out of those places.

And unlike the kind I'm used to making from jobs and relationships, it wasn't a clean break. So in order to set it properly, they had to put in the steel plate you see here.

Now when I think of medical equipment, I think of hi-tech, thin, durable composite whammy-jammy that can stay in my body unnoticed for eternity. What I don't think of is a door hinge with five screws in it.

There were some interesting things about it. When I ran my thumb over the scar, I could feel the five screw heads. I used to always set off the metal detectors at the airport. And when the weather would turn damp or cold, my arm would ache like a sonofabitch.

Eventually the arm healed. But then, in a moment of over-confidence and feeling thin, I had to go play volleyball one day with my then girlfriend, now wife, and repeatedly smack my arm until it swelled up three times its size.

That was the minute I decided I was going to have the plate taken out. I wasn't looking for a second surgery, but the arm muscles (yes, I have them) rubbing over the plate and screws all the time was just too irritating.

After the plate was removed, it took about seven months for the five holes from the screws to completely heal.

So it's all good. I have a nice souvenir and a good story. Plus now I can walk down alleys at midnight with my sleeves rolled up and no one bothers me.

It's because of the scar, you know, the one I got when I was sky-diving and my arm caught the door just as I jumped.

The always waiting room

Since my four-month gig working on a Japanese car brand (starts with an M, ends with an A) ended last Friday, I decided to take this short week off and catch up on some things that needed doing.

One of those was running my beautiful daughter to a couple doctor appointments. I always jump at the chance to do it, because my girl is pretty smart and extremely funny, and there are few things I enjoy as much as getting the chance to spend quality time with her whenever I can.

I just didn't know we were going to have that much time together.

Yesterday I took her to the eye doctor. Now, me being me, I don't go to just any doctor. I always look for The Guy. Our eye doctor is one of the top guys in the country, so just getting in is an accomplishment.

Her appointment was for 10:30 a.m. And since I'd rather be an hour early than a minute late, we were there around 10:20. We waited patiently in the waiting area as other people got called in. About 11:00 a.m. they came out and then made the psyche move you've seen so many times in doctors' offices. They called her in, and we thought the appointment was going to happen. But they brought her into a room, where an intern or nurse or assistant or someone gave her a quick vision test, then directed us to wait in another badly decorated waiting room.

At 11:30 I went to the front desk and in my nicest, most charming, impatient voice said we'd been there an hour and did they have an ETA on her seeing the doctor.

She was next in line, and about ten minutes later she finally got in to see The Guy.

Today, she had an appointment at 3 p.m. for a problem she's been having with her wrist. She played volleyball for a few years, and has had a some injuries to her hands and wrist. Her current pain is a souvenir from those days.

Her hand and wrist doctor also happens to be The Guy in his field. Directions they provide include how to get there from LAX, where people from all over the world fly in to see him.

Virtually the exact same thing happened - into another room, an assistant asking some questions, and then made to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, an hour and ten minutes after the appointed time, he breezed in, said sorry about the wait, and proceeded with his brief exam.

I understand the top people are in demand, and a little waiting is to be expected. But how many bad schedulers can there be in the same city? Color me old fashioned, but isn't the idea of an appointment to get there at a time convenient to you? And doesn't waiting over an hour after that time defeat the purpose of making an appointment in the first place?

Naive I know.

All this waiting does at least give me a chance to use a line I like to use when I ask how long it'll be. I go up to the desk and ask, then I say "I had black hair when we came in here." If you knew me, you'd know how funny that is (hashtag Silver Fox).

Anyway, doctor visits are done for a while now, and what with school and her social life I probably won't get to spend as much quality time with my girl as I'd like. But at least I know she'll still make time to talk with me every day.

"Dad, can I borrow your car?" and "Do you have a twenty?" counts as talking, right?

I get Misty

I like shopping at Bristol Farms. After all, why pay discount prices at regular markets when you can pay three times as much at Bristol. Besides, you never know who you'll run into. Like the time four years ago when I ran into Misty May-Treanor.

Come to find out, Misty is a neighbor of mine who lives just a few blocks away. On the family's annual trip to the Hotel Del Coronado in 2008, we'd spent most of the evenings watching Misty and her volleyball partner Kerri Walsh in Beijing, spiking and acing their way to Olympic gold.

Watching her then, it never occurred to me that she shops at the market just like regular people.

I had the good fortune of chatting with her at the checkout counter. I told her how much we'd enjoyed watching her win while we were on vacation, and asked her what it was like in Beijing. She was extremely approachable, genuinely giving of her time. And, dare I say it, downright chatty. She was telling me about how she had to get ready for an appearance on "Ellen" later on that afternoon.

I was asking her about her medal, and because she had it with her for her talk show appearance, much to my surprise she popped the question to me: she asked if I wanted to see it.

The medal itself is heavier than you think, and even more impressive in person. I told Misty I knew she was tired of being asked, but if she wouldn't mind could I take a picture of her with it. Her answer is above.

The other thing is Misty drives the same car as mine (or she did at the time), only in a different color. We're kindred Lexus spirits.

I said goodbye and thanked her for her time.

We're not on vacation yet, but you can bet we'll still be watching her and Kerri go for the gold in London this year.

It's what neighbors do for each other.