Charging Your Mercury Poisoning Causes Forgetfulness and Parenthetical Thinking

We have a favorite restaurant for sushi. Hard to believe you can find anything but cold, raw fish in Manchester, NH, but you can. We consider it a good value and we always tip the sushi chef along with the waitress. (It's yummy, nutritious, and delicious!)

The host and waitress laugh as we walk in, "Heh-low!....Ha! Ha! ...you come back for more shumai and tekka don!?"

No, we hate your fish, we just love mercury poisoning. Throw in the salmon, and we'll be ready to launch a business renting ourselves out as hot tub thermometers.

So, I was there with a friend having lunch one day (one day of many days) and it was my turn to pick up the check. When the check came however, I couldn't find my credit card. I keep an emergency card in my glove compartment; it was a little weird to excuse myself and walk out to the parking lot to get it, but it was okay.

But a few days later I still couldn't find my "real" credit card (as though my emergency one is not "real," and is fake, with a name I don't know) and I got a little worried.

I started thinking (for a change -- maybe it was all that mercury poisoning) and realized the last time I had used my card was...for sushi...for...tekka don...at...that restaurant.

So I made a phone call and this is how it went:

Me (In No Japanese): "Hi, my name is [JAF] and I think I might have left my credit card there. I'm wondering if you have it."

Him (In Broken English): "Uh, yes, I check. You please describe and say how it looks."

Me (In No Japanese): "Well, it's blue, and it's small and sort of rectangular and looks like a credit card...it has my name on it." (My thought: Are you an idiot?)

Him (In Broken English): "Yes. Yes. Ha! Ha! In fact, we have SEVERAL of your credit cards! Ha! Ha!" (His thought: "You ARE an idiot -- No Ha-Ha.")

Great.

But I didn't care that much. In order to recover my card(s), we decided to go out for sushi. When we got there everyone greeted us as usual, "Heh-low!....Ha! Ha! ...you come back for more shumai and tekka don!?"

YES. YES. We "come back for more shumai, tekka don," (...and all my American credit cards).

And then they asked for an ID. Seriously. Hello Cultural Awakening, "we" all look alike, I guess.

It would clearly explain something that really bugs me: I might spend $5000 a year on sushi at that restaurant, leave all my credit cards there to prove it, and still, I am charged an extra 50 cents for extra "special sauce." Once you're that good of a customer, you might just get the extra "special sauce" without asking and without being charged, right?

Wrong.

You have to ask AND you get charged, because you look like every other crass American wearing fleece, yelling into your Blackberry, tearing apart California rolls to avoid the carbs, expecting everyone to speak YOUR language, and throwing around your credit card.

On the other hand, it could still be the Mercury Poisoning. It causes forgetfulness.

It's astonishing how two people acting together can do something so much stupider than one person acting alone. My friends' moms used to say, "two heads are better than one!" but mine never did and I think maybe she was on to something. Or maybe she knew me. I don't know; it doesn't matter.

Two people acting together can be way stupider than one and the Y Chromosome and I are proof.

We live in a pretty nice neighborhood. Except for the highway that runs through it, it's nice because people keep their lawns neat and park their cars in their garages. We try to keep up but I destroyed the landscaping one year with a small set of sharp scissors and we've combined so many households, it would be easier to burn the garage down than clean it out.

At the same time, our street is so busy if you set something out on the curb it's usually gone within about 10 minutes. We sold a piece of furniture once as we were moving it down the front steps and we nearly had a nervous breakdown last summer when our neighbors borrowed our lawnmower and left it on the sidewalk when they stopped to talk to each other.

But what we did last week was really obnoxious. Actually, it was more than a week. It was more like two weeks. We had a couch delivered and when the guys asked me if they wanted the old sofa taken out, I said, "sure."

I failed to take into consideration that it was raining and people don't want sofas that have been left out in the rain. Then again, that wouldn't be odd for me considering I think it's strange anyone would want any sofa that once belonged to someone they didn't know. (Ironically however, someone did take the seat cushions. How weird is that?)

So, we live in a neighborhood where no one has a TV on their porch, no one sits outside with a fan blowing on them, people have nice cars parked inside their garages, and we decide to set our old living room furniture out on our curb.

So far you're thinking, "Wait JAF, you're the only one who's done something stupid here..."

Well....When the Y Chromosome got home he said, "No one is going to take that couch, it's been out in the rain." I said, "Well, we should bring it in." He said, "No, we'll call the City and they'll come get it."

The next day I called the City and then I told the Y Chromosome the pick up date was three weeks away and we should bring in the sofa. He said, "No, we can leave it there." I said, "We'll get in trouble." He said, "Our neighbors did it and they didn't get in trouble." I said, "Okay." And there it stayed.

During the week I met someone who asked where I lived and when they said, "Oh, that's a nice area," I felt compelled to admit we had an old sofa sitting out front and told them if they were driving by they should feel free to take it; if they were walking by, they should feel free to take a seat. But of course, the seats were gone. It was so embarrassing.

On Wednesday, the Y Chromosome told me someone from the City, in a pick up truck, one that could easily manage the sofa, stopped to photograph the sofa. We considered a lot of reasons for this: They needed to know how big it was, where it was located, which sofa needed to be picked up versus which one (that was set curbside) was currently in use by residents simply for traffic spotting. Obviously, we had justification for leaving it out there.

On Friday, we received a Citation. It said, "Specifically, the property is in violation of [the HEALTH AND SANITATION Chapter] Section 91.69."

Once again, pretty embarrassing. It's one thing if you're a landlord and you get a citation for violating Health and Sanitation codes but this is our home. I called the Y Chromosome. His somewhat delayed response? This is a direct quote: "Listen, you know what I think? I think that guy who lives across the street from the guy two houses down who's so fastidious about his leaves called the City and told on us."

Okay, so now we live in a nice neighborhood with a leaf-sweeping tattletale.

Curiously, the citation was accompanied by a black and white photo of our sofa, sitting at the end of our driveway, in front of our house.

I guess this was to prevent confusion. They thought we were so stupid they could send us a letter that cited "...any bulky items such as furniture/mattresses..." and we would have thought, "you don't think they could be talking about the sofa, do you?..."

Or maybe it was really a photo intended to mean, "HA! See the sofa!? SEE IT?!!? We've got you now, LOSERS!!"

To Marley, May He Sleep And Slobber In Great Peace

October 7, 2009 -- Marley, The Only Dog, age 12, died peacefully surrounded by family and friends.

Marley was a good dog.

His interests included almost anything he could chase or eat, and he had a deep appreciation for sleep. He especially liked large sofas and he especially loved (along with his dog food and rawhide) steak, fish, shrimp, rotisserie chicken, scrambled eggs, lunch meat, pizza, mayonnaise, chips, cheese, and cookies.

Marley was loved for his free and liberated spirit. He never invested in a retirement account or worried about having a 401K. He didn't have a girlfriend but he loved all women and they loved him back. He never got his driver's license and he never voted. He never had a job or money but he was generous with happiness and love.

Although things got a lot tougher for him in his final years as his health declined, he never complained, not once.

Memorial donations in lieu of flowers may be made to any Golden Retriever rescue organization or your local SPCA.

I read the Mimi Smartypants blog. She's an editor or something. I'm not really sure what she does but I am sure of what she is: hilarious. In one post she writes about the back of a Wheat Thins box and points out that although someone bothered to use a semi colon correctly, they didn't end the sentence with a period.

I thought that was funny and I appreciated the observation. For some reason, finding little things like that sends a charge of triumph through me. She might not be that petty but I am.

So you can imagine how it felt the other day when the guy from Comcast handed me a High-Speed Internet Self-Install Kit and I looked down at the box.

I've provided you with another, larger view.

See anything strange about it?

How about their new way of spelling the word "seperately?"

Immediately, a Google search response flashed before my eyes:

Did you mean: separately

Lately Comcast is getting a lot of exposure for using Twitter. I think it's premature. They haven't even started using Spell Check.

And I hear Comcast customer service is winning awards, but I'll tell you what: they won't be winning any spelling bees. Ironically enough, over the last year Comcast has sponsored a few spelling bees. That's okay, as long as they don't participate in them, but I was thinking maybe they should consider recruiting a few of the winners. Check it out here and here.

A Short Story

The Y Chromosome gave me a couple of books the other night and said, "Here, I got these for you because they were giving them away at the bookstore." (What!? Free stuff? What is it!? I'm interested!)

I asked him if "free" meant he paid the $3.98 price tag stuck to the corners but he said no, the bookstore was giving them away because they couldn't sell them. (Honey, I'm touched!) He wanted to know why I thought he was lying.

Well, I didn't think he was lying, I thought he was using "giving them away" as a euphemism for "cheap." But then I wanted to know why he thought I wanted something the bookstore couldn't sell for less than $4.

And so it goes.

I started the first book the night before last. It's a collection of "fresh fiction from the top writing programs" aptly entitled "Best New American Voices 2007." Seriously.

(Note: Not described as "fresh fiction from the top writers" and not entitled "Best New American Fiction 2007.")

Curiously enough, while I like to write and hope to entertain (myself), I'm not a fan of short stories or fictional essays that are randomly grouped together and serious. I either feel a little like a voyeur or a little like I'm with someone I just met and they're committing a serious sharing violation.

She never felt this way before. It was so unexpected. She opened her bedside drawer where she kept her bible and [some random sex toy] and placed the flower carefully between the two.

Okay, thanks, didn't expect that.

Of course, I can never read a collection of short stories without being reminded of the time I picked up a collection by Ernest Hemingway. You might have heard of it once. I didn't realize it was short stories and it took me until I finished the third "chapter" to think "this book doesn't make any sense."

I also struggle with the hanging endings. Only a few pages and you're implicated in someone's big, beautiful, complicated life. And then it's over. It reminds me of when I was a kid and the super cool insult after someone told you something was, "And then what happened?"

The writers of this collection have quite a pedigree. They write for a living and attended things like the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. (I write, but only for my blog. I attended a Meatloaf concert.)

I've read two of the stories so far. I didn't appreciate the story lines. In fact, I wouldn't call them stories. I would call them annoying and far too intimate, but these people sure can write. Here's one phrase that has drifted all day, unbidden into my mind: "hoping to find some clue to justify her unreasonable interest in this unsuitable rose..."

The End.

Johnny Be Good?

No, johnny be humiliating.

I had to see an orthopedic doctor this week about my back pain. I have very strong opinions about orthopedic doctors and this guy didn't change any of them.

Some of it was my fault. I should have left when the nurse handed me a johnny. Why would I have to wear a johnny? I was wearing yoga pants (no, I don't do yoga; yes, I wear the pants). Any doctor, if they even needed to look at my back, could work with them.

I asked the nurse if I really had to take off my clothes. You would think my surprise would have made her think twice, but in her defense, I don't think she could think once. She just repeated herself and then told me I could leave on my underwear like that was a big treat. She left and I changed into a johnny. Like an idiot.

Then I had to make that decision about where-to-sit-while-waiting-for-the-doctor. If I waited in the chair by the desk I would have a problem. The set up meant that if the doctor asked me to move to the table, it would be quite a bit more than a few steps. I would have to walk across the room. To clarify: I would have to walk across the room in a johnny (opening in the back)...with the doctor sitting at his desk behind me.

Okay, that wasn't going to happen. I waited on the table. Like an idiot. Swinging my legs and thinking about how good I was looking...wearing a johnny and little white sports socks.

The guy finally showed up and introduced himself. Coincidentally, his first name was "Doctor." (That seems to be fairly common in orthopedics.)

He sat at the desk and asked me why I was there. I told him about my back and then he asked again why I was there.

I was stumped. For some reason, sitting there on a table, in a johnny, staring down at my little white socks, I started to feel a little at a loss for words. Maybe...Like an idiot?

He, of course, quickly concluded I had the IQ of a pet hamster. After an awkward silence he said, "Let me rephrase the question. What is it you have come here expecting me to do for you?"

At that point, it started to feel like a test. I was breaking into a nervous, clammy sweat and I was purposely trying to keep my mouth shut.

My back hurt. This guy was being a condescending @#$%&. He had to be more than 10 years younger than I. Put him in jeans and a tee shirt at Target and I'd call him a punk. But there I was, standing in front of him, sweating, wearing a johnny, and little white sports socks. I became painfully aware of MY clothing folded neatly on the chair next to HIS desk.

What was it I came there expecting him to do for me? Perhaps I should have suggested to him that I had come there expecting him to lend me some money. Or maybe give me the outfit they made me put on and in fact, let me wear it home.

I don't know, maybe it was crazy, but I at least expected to be treated in a respectful manner.

The upshot (apparently): My spine looks fine.

"[Almost everyone has arthritis; 10 days of pain is not concerning or unusual. Come back in eight weeks* and if it still hurts, we'll do an MRI.]"

Thanks for the invite, I'll decline.

You would think if my experience was that common one of my friends or relatives (or perhaps the Y Chromosome Who Lives In My House) or maybe the doctor I saw at the urgent care clinic would have pointed that out to me, but they must be as ignorant as I am.

He asked if I needed more vicodin or anaprox and gave me a script for physical therapy. He got a little nicer at the end but certainly not enough to make up for his grand inquisition with regard to why I was wasting his time and certainly not enough to make up for the fact that I had to wear a johnny for no reason at all.

I have wondered how much more I would have gotten out of that appointment if I had not been wearing that stupid gown. I am sure I would have asked more questions, understood more of what was said to me, and would not be wasting more money, making another appointment, with a different doctor, to figure out what's wrong with my back.

I have also wondered this: wouldn't disagreements and negotiations go a whole lot better for me if I made people wear a johnny when they talked to me? THAT'S why doctors are so smart! I bet I would be a lot more successful and I plan to try it.

*I had to live with the pain another 10 weeks before I got an MRI. It showed a protruding disk and two weeks of Prednisone fixed it. In other words, I went through all that pain, missed work, and took all those other drugs for 10 weeks because "an MRI is an expensive test." This confuses me. Was he going to pay for it himself?

Wondering where I've been?

That's okay, I'll tell you anyway.

First, I have to admit (not really, no one ever has to admit anything) I did have blog block.

But then, my back started hurting me. I really thought it would go away by itself but finally, after a few days of it, I just got too annoyed and I caved. I went to see a doc-in-the-box about 15 miles south of my home, one my neighbor has described in the past as "very tidy." (How weird is that description?)

He's right, it was very tidy.

It was also humiliating. They wanted to know 1) How much I weigh, 2) "Where did you get the vicodin?" and 3) Whether I drink ALCOHOL.

Well, of course, my answers were something like this:

1) Weight:..."Too much, okay? Are you happy now?"

2) Vicodin:..."On the street, where else, well, really my primary care, but it sounds cool to say on the street." It also sounds cool to say, "well, I know this dude..."

And finally,

3) Wine, I mean ALCOHOL:..."Hello?!?!...The whole reason I'm here is because I can't sit up to get my drink on."

I was thinking I would do a short review on narcotic pain killers...morphine, nubaine, dilaudid, vicodin...of course, I would never pretend to know anything about those which are illegal...but, like the drugs, it would just be too boring and sort of confusing. Which is kind of the way I'm feeling.

So instead, I'm just going to complain.

I'm sleeping almost as much as the dogs sleep. I'm really finding out what this dog thing is all about and as far as I'm concerned the gig is up. They're all learning the word MUSH and they're all getting jobs. Bunch of freeloaders.

And my back still hurts.

I have bone spurs. You know how you get bone spurs? You get them when your bones have too much weight on them so they grow little things on them to try to distribute the weight better. How insulting is that?

And the doctor described my joints as "raggedy." That's nice, I'll try not to get into a car accident when I have them with me, I wouldn't want the people at the hospital to see them.

There was more, but let's face it, it's all criticism. Apparently, my spine is crooked and my bones are junk. Send them out to Popeye, splash some acrylic paint on them, and call it a day.

(A lot of people will look at this and say, "hey, this doesn't look so bad..." SAVE IT. I don't want to have to keep wondering why it hurts so bad.)