Scree

Yesterday it became apparent that through overzealous scratching of her eczema, Olive has several infections on her face that aren't going to leave without oral antibiotics.  Her pediatric dermatologist is slightly less available for consults than the pope, and is generally unwilling to prescribe for Olive without seeing her first or without an appointment on the horizon.  Several months ago Olive had a date to see said dermatologist--an actual appointment, not a walk-in.  We were kept in the waiting room for a little over an hour, at which point Olive made it clear she was ready to leave.  I'll let you draw your own conclusions as to how Olive got her message across; staying was not an option.

So you can imagine how little I was looking forward to booking another appointment with this doctor: this time trying the patience of an Olive who doesn't feel well, and whose face looks like she had a malicious exchange with a cheese grater.  I told LB that this visit was a two-adult job, and thus, he should book it for when he--the more scheduled of the two of us-- is available. An hour later I received the following email from him:

I will take her to such and such doctor at such and such date/time.  You are welcome to join me.

On the surface, it looks like he's booked the appointment and is nobly offering to take Olive there himself.  Actually, that last sentence contains a tacit indictment of my inability to successfully complete the previous appointment, and, perhaps, an added critique on my skill level in fit management of the small and nonverbal.  I replied thusly:

Oooh, Mr. Big shot, Mr. "I'm good with kids," bragging on how he can do it all aloooone...

There was no response.  Later, LB phoned me to say the dermatologist had agreed to call in Olive's antibiotic now, instead of making us wait for next week's appointment. I mentioned that he had not commented on my last email, and LB said, "No I didn't reply to your scree."

Well.  That silenced me for about 24 hours.  I didn't know what a scree was, but I could only imagine it as some sort of noxious litany, a childish tantrum not unlike the one that made it impossible for Olive and me to continue waiting during our last visit. 

Then, this morning, I went to websters.com and found this definition for scree:

–noun

a steep mass of detritus on the side of a mountain.

I quickly emailed LB to point out his error, and he replied that yes, he got it wrong yesterday. The word he meant was screed.

Ha!  He used the wrong word.  Mr. Fancy-Pants-Big-Words.  Mr. I'm soooo mature.

Comments

[Carys]

heh. i kind of thought "you are welcome to join me" was coded man-talk for "omg PLEASE come too!"

'course now i'm picturing detritus the troll lolling against a pile of email...

(i am incredibly behind on mail due to a health issue, but i have not forgotten you.)

Carys

[LB]

Not enought room here to respond with a screed. Suffice to say, you are going to get a spanking for puncturing my machismo. Love, LB

[M.E.]

I knew what a scree was, but now I have to look up screed!

[Irma]

Scree,screed? Who cares? I love you both.

[Lo]

Mom! Some of us here are trying to eat!

[Tamara]

Would that all marital spats were this high-falutin' and amicable.