Quattlebaum

I had a nasty exchange with a young gynecologist this morning. Giant coffee in hand, I swooped into a conference room at 7AM to find it already occupied. (Yes, 7AM. What kind of jerk schedules a 7AM meeting on March 18? Me. Oops. Dark Cloud: I limited myself to a single Guinness on St. Patrick's Day. Silver lining: This one Guinness made me sleepy enough to go to bed pre-midnight for once).

I politely informed the group that I had the room reserved, but the gynecologist tried to tell me otherwise. I second guessed myself, went back to the office to confirm the schedule, and the gynecologist still tried to tell me otherwise. She said they have the room reserved everyday from 7-8AM, which is clearly not true. I resisted the urge to scream - Gynecology isn't even on this floor!! She finally left with the huffy statement: "Huh! I guess I'll just have to check this with our secretary." I guess you will, quattlebaum.

Fast forward to 5:30PM. I'm waiting for the elevator down to the parking garage. The doors open and I'm face-to-face with the same gynecologist. I wait a few seconds for her to exit (we're at the top floor, so she couldn't possibly ride the elevator any higher. It only goes down from here, honey). No movement. Fine. I enter the elevator and reach to push the button. She suddenly squeaks out, "Oooh! This is my floor!" and scoots out of the elevator, almost being crushed by the doors. Quattlebaum.