Making A Bottle

The word “fiasco” is defined as “a thing that is a complete failure, especially in a ludicrous or humiliating way.”

A theater slang term, fiasco has a curious history.

It comes from the French phrase faire fiasco, meaning "turn out a failure", according to etymonline.com, and the Italian far fiasco "to suffer a complete breakdown in performance."

The literal translation of the phrase means "make a bottle," from fiasco "bottle.”

An Italian dictionary notes the phrase fare il fiasco used to mean "to play a game so that the one that loses will pay the fiasco." In other words, the loser buys the next bottle of wine.

Confused yet? I sure as hell am.

I’ve used the word more than a few times in my life and after a recent trip to the doctor, I’m feeling the need to use it again.

Okay, so my appointment was at 10AM. I should’ve just taken the morning off, but I wanted to do the right thing by my job.

I figured I could bang out an hour or so of work and then take a leisurely stroll over to my doctor’s office.

You must know where this is going, right?

Of course, the work piled up, and of course,I was running late, and, of course, I had a seven-ton conniption fit as I raced up to my doctor’s office in the pouring rain like I was competing in the 100-meter dash.

I kept reminding myself that I had to calm down. I was going to see my cardiologist for God’s sake.

It just wouldn’t do for me to have heart attack at his front door.

And, of course, I got there with time to spare.

I felt my brain going into self-pity mode and I did my best to find some good in the day.

For example, while I was wheezing up Senator Street, I passed this young man pushing a baby in a stroller, who gave me this very nice hello. Maybe he thought I looked like I need it—which I most definitely did.

What Does This Thing Do?

The nurse who took me into the examination room was very pleasant young woman. We had a very nice chat and as she was leaving, she asked how I pronounced my last name.

“Lenihan,” I replied.

“That’s different,” she said. “I like that.”

Different? Really? It’s not different in Ireland, which is where half my family comes from.

The best news came from my doctor who liked every he heard coming out of my heart. He’s a thorough guy, however, and he wants me to come back next month for a stress test.

I tried to explain to him that I had just put myself through a stress test trying to get to his office, but he could not be deterred.

.

Okay, so it was tough morning, which, admittedly was mostly my own doing, but it hardly qualified as a fiasco.

Something ridiculously awful must happen in order to earn that title and that hardly seemed likely now.

Oh, yeah…

On the way out of the doctor’s office I stopped by the gent’s to "shed a tear for Old Ireland," as father used to say, and, as I was leaving, I tugged on this red cord I assumed was a new kind of flush handle.

But it was actually an alarm and when I stepped out into the waiting room, I was greeted with the kind of blaring noise usually reserved for a nuclear power plant meltdown or a prison break.

“That was me!” I said waving my arms at the reception desk staff. “Everything’s okay!”

The staff seemed to take it well, but I felt like certified nincompoop.

And to make matters worse the elevator that would take me the hell of this place apparently got lost on the way up to my floor.

I stood there with the sirens shrieking, watching those red numbers slowly click higher and wishing someone switch off the damn alarm.

Finally, the elevator arrived, I jumped onboard and made my escape, secure in the knowledge that I had just experienced a bona fide fiasco.

I was able to laugh about it on my way home, which I consider to be a good sign, though it might also signal the first stirrings of insanity.

I have a doctor’s appointment in two weeks and I’m taking a personal day.

I can’t afford another bottle of wine.