Okay, so I cut my hand. The pad of my thumb, the single most annoying (you see? the Annoying is starting) place to get a cut. The next thing not to do in this hypothetical scenario is act all, oh, I don't need stitches, I will be fine, see, it stopped bleeding only two hours later.
Still! Okay, I was (hypothetically) stupid. But the way that the doctor reacted is even stupider! Really! Today was the third visit, about a cut. To sum:
Visit #1: It's infected. Wait two days. Antibiotics. Oh, and I am a surgeon, so I am a snot.
Visit #3: You waited too long! I cannot stitch you now! So you must wear butterfly stitches for the REST of your LIFE! Oh, and I am a surgeon in a bad mood, so I am beyond snooty. I am a brat.
But really, my two girlys, Princess and Coco-pop, ages 3 and 1 respectively, are very impressed with The Bandage. I look like I set myself on fire. It's a cut, people!....
I try not to get mad at a situation that is what it is. Places have personality, and those who grow up with it perhaps don't even really see it as anything other than the way it is supposed to be. But I am an american living six thousand miles from the red brick houses I called home, and The Customer is Always Right sits better with me than I am Doing You a Big Favor, Giveret. As someone who is fascinated with what make people tick in terms of cultural nuances, I can give my theories of where the prevailing attitudes come from, and know that none of it is personal and I probably will, in a few days. When this stupid Burn Victim Bandage is in the trash.
I live in the holy city, and we have a tradition and law not to say disparaging things about it at all. I don't think, however, saying negative things about the current state is referring at all to the actual ancient city. In fact, I just made up a lovely poem about my love/hate relationship with this complicated and very beautiful (beautiful sometimes in the snooty and bratty way of a chick who KNOWS that she is beautiful) place. I will share it with you, because you are a great lover of poetry, I just know it.
I can gripe about the bills--
But not about the hills.
Because my water bill---You know what? I can't even talk about it.