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Turn left where the red barn burned down last year
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Becca is now in a purple cast, from tip of pinky to bend of elbow. In addition to a spiral fracture of the little finger, she may have a break in her wrist. It's hard to tell because of where the growth plates occur in those bones, but she's cast as if it is broken. Tomorrow is the visit to the ear, nose and throat doctor, where we shall learn what will need to be done about her nose (in an effort to cheer her up, I told her she looks even more like her aunt now, but that observation was not particularly well received), and whether she has a broken orbital bone. We will see if he'll throw in an examination of her grossly oversized tonsils at the same time, and make a recommendation for them to be removed. Although she has frequent strep infections, they are apparently not often enough (you must need to be perpetually infected to qualify for an -echtomy) for the new standards that dictate whether they can be removed according to insurance policies.

A few days ago, I had two people in two different situations ask me for directions. They were obviously not aware of the warning sign that should be flashing in 72 point crimson font just in front of my mouth when I am asked for directions. Even if I know precisely where the location is that I am asked about, and I know how to get from where I am to where the direction-asker wants to go, and even if I can see the desired location from the current location, I am incapable of providing accurate verbal directions. (I fare better with written directions, although I do occasionally confuse left with "the other left".)

The poor guy who asked for directions from the library to the firehouse ended up at the original firehouse that's been closed for approximately 100 years. The woman who wanted to know if the audiobooks were in the music side of the store or the book side of the store is probably still wandering among the CDs wondering why someone would lie to her about something so simple. I don't mean to lie, but the stress of being asked makes me forget everything I know and reach for an answer, which I feel compelled to give, rather than just blurting out "I don't know! Don't ask me because I'll lie to you! I know where you want to go, but I can't tell you! Leave me alone." Instead, I look the direction-seeker straight in the eye and tell them a complete and utter fabrication. If my approval ratings were in the toilet, I'd be able to feel just like W.

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