Saturday, August 5, 2017


E-mail from my duplicate bridge partner. . .
From: Diane Gramarossa To: Barbara Malley
Sent:  Tuesday, April 26, 2005  Much good luck on your trip to Mass General.  You are one very brave lady and I do so admire you.

 From: Barbara Malley  To: Diane Gramarossa
Tuesday, April 26, 2005 
     This very brave lady had a HORRIBLE morning on the trip to Mass General.  Since I hadn't driven to Boston in two years, it was like tooling along in a foreign English-speaking country.  As I neared the city, I wondered a little about the Big Dig, wondered a little again as I passed an exit saying Storrow Drive but forged onward, fully expecting to bear right on the ramp that would, with a left turn, take me past North Station, then leftish to get to Cambridge Street, then right to get to the hospital's main entrance. 
     Instead I found myself on a beautiful new bridge with exotic white curving spans that held the thing up, I presumed.  Soon I began to see signs informing me that I was approaching Somerville and Medford.  Luckily, I had been smart enough to allow an hour and a half to get to my appointment. 
     I managed to get turned from north to south but still had to cope with impatient horn honkings as I tried to figure out where in h-e-l-l Cambridge St. was.  Meanwhile an hour had gone by, and my overactive bladder was acting up.  All of a sudden I saw Cambridge Street materialize ahead of me, had to wait and wait and wait at lights as the time ticked by and my OAB was giving a final warning.  A nice policeman, who had been on the verge of arresting me because I was driving so slowly (to the tune of more horn-honkings), took pity on me and told me exactly where to turn right.
    Drove into the garage, came to a barrier but saw no place to take a ticket.  The impatient driver behind me pointed out that I had passed it. Got out and went back for the ticket, fortunately found a space not too far along, turned into it, and wet my pants as I was getting out of the car.  I sneaked into a dark corner in front of my car, crouched down, hoping drivers passing by wouldn't notice what I was doing, made a puddle, then hurried damply to my appointment.  I was 15 minutes early, almost time enough to dry out before my annual little pre-exam talk with Dr. Schiff.  I tried to pull my jacket down far enough in back so I'd be sitting more on it than on the fabric of the chair in front of the doc's desk.  I told him what a difficult time I had had getting there but didn't confess about the pants-wetting.  He already knows enough about me without adding that to his notes.  
     My blood pressure was up only a little, the pelvic and rectal exams were the most peaceful moments I'd had all day, and now it was time to go to my car and leave the garage.  Drove up to the yellow bar at the exit, was told by a pleasant female voice to put my parking ticket face up in the slot.  The slot spit it out again.  Pushed the emergency button several times for Help.  A man's voice told me I must have put the ticket in the wrong way.  I commented that I didn't see any place to pay for the ticket.  "You haven't PAID yet?"  An irate male appeared at my window and gave me instructions on where to back up and park so I could go into the office to make my payment.
     "Watch it," he said about three times, "You almost hit that car. Oops, you barely missed that one."
     At last I paid my $7.00 and was now was ready to head home. Hah!  I headed everywhere but home, including the wrong way on a one-way street.  Horn-honkings galore made me realize I'd made another faux pas, so I got turned round, pulled over, put on my Lady-in-Distress blinkers, and finally a driver leaned out his window and gave me directions to 93 South.  In a long, dark tunnel, I somehow managed to take the exit to Logan Airport, which I definitely knew was a mistake.  Floundered around for a while, trying to get out of that situation. 
    Soon I was on 93 North again, going over the same beautiful bridge to Somerville and Medford.  Took some lefts and some rights, and ended up at the toll gates for -- I think it was the Sumner Tunnel.  At any rate, it cost me another $3.00 to go where, I knew not.  It took me another half hour to extricate myself from Boston and find 93 South.  The sign saying Quincy was more glorious than one saying Paradise, This Way. 
    At Weymouthport at last, I rushed down the hall to my apartment, practically knocking over a dear
little neighbor in my hopes of reaching the bathroom in time.  No such luck   And that, beloved bridge partner, is the story of My Day.

bridge partner, is the story of My Day.
   April 26th, 2005 resolution:  NEVER, NEVER, EVER WILL I DRIVE TO BOSTON AGAIN!!!  

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