Yes or No

I should have known when I heard the east coast accent on the other end of the line that the call would not go smoothly.  You see, Mini Me was scheduled for an MRI, and when we got home yesterday there was a message from the place where the scan was to be done asking me to call them. 

 So, I dialed the number, and Olivia answered the phone. All my previous experience with east coast folks has taught me that they are way more uptight than we are.  Furthermore, if they are living here, they are wound even tighter than usual because being so daggone superior while living amongst us ignorant hilljacks is a constant source of irritation. 

 Olivia needed to ask me some questions.  The first few were things like Hubster’s social security number, how much Mini Me weighs, etc.  Then she said, “Okay, these next few questions are just ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”  Little did I know how serious she was about that one.  So, she starts asking me things:

 East Coast Olivia:  “Does she have a pacemaker?”

 Me: “No.”

 East Coast Olivia: “Does she have a wooden eye?”

 Me: “Uh, no.”

 East Coast Olivia: “Is she claustrophobic?”

 Amused Me: (heh heh) “Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

 Highly Annoyed East Coast Olivia: “NO.  I need to KNOW if she is or not.”

Surprised at how suddenly hostile Olivia has become, and yet still amused, I respond, “Well, I don’t KNOW—I’ve never tried to close her up in anything.” 

 At this point Olivia is about to blow a gasket.  She doesn’t say it, but I can tell that she’s thinking, “Why are you people so difficult, and what part of YES or NO did you not understand?”  Completely put out and devoid of humor, Olivia proceeds to ask me a series of questions to determine whether or not Mini Me is going to freak out in the MRI machine.  Things like “Is she afraid to look under the couch or a bed?”  After several obediently straight “No” answers from me, she decides that I’ve been sufficiently put in my place and she will grant Mini Me the privilege of having an MRI.

Whew!  I was afraid I was gonna have to provide some sort of proof that Mini Me wasn’t claustrophobic.  LIke, maybe a notarized statement detailing how I’d stuffed her in the crawl space for an hour just to be sure.  Or maybe a picture of her smiling at me from under the bed.