2010, SEPTEMBER

September 23

The hottest new chef in town doesn’t even have a fixed place of work: he moves from place to place every few weeks and his fans follow him. He was last seen cooking for some weeks in an art gallery, and before that at a place called Gram & Papa’s. Why does he do this? Apparently because he was a flop (he got one star from our local food critic) when he had a real job in a restaurant. So how does he manage? Well, he’s pretty and has a French accent, his wife is a marketing genius, and he makes cutting-edge cuisine.

What the hell is “cutting edge cuisine”? Sounds dangerous--I’m not sure I’d want it in my mouth. Like blowfish in a sushi bar. Maybe that’s the point.

September 19

Individually wrapped prunes! Why didn’t I think of that?

And here I thought the goal was to reduce the amount of packaging we use. But somebody (undoubtedly the same guy who changed their name to “pitted, dried plums” and put a picture of whole plums instead of prunes on the package because, let’s face it, prunes aren’t sexy) wants to turn prunes into a treat like toffee—each piece to be unwrapped and savored like some decadent indulgence. If there are any historians left to write about the decline and fall of Western Civilization, they will point to individually wrapped prunes as a clear sign of the coming of the end.

September 15: Back to the front

Hopefully by the end of the month, the account of my Confinement will be available as the next chapter in the TC annals. This is an excerpt, detailing an interlude that turns out to be (more or less) unrelated to the larger story. Since I am unwilling to throw it out, I’ll make you read it here. If I don’t remember to take it out of Chapter 4, you have my permission to skip over it the second time.

We managed to get out to a movie yesterday, “The American,” an insultingly poor attempt at an art film that didn’t even live up to its remarkably bad word of mouth. My back was pretty sore on the way into the theater and, despite what seemed pretty comfortable seats, by the time the show was over I could barely get up on the crutches. With every tiny shift in balance lightning strikes exploded on the raw exposed nerves exiting my spine, and if I was not heard to scream with each step, it was only because my full attention was occupied with remaining upright and my back was screaming silently for me. “Please, God, it said, “don’t let that ass in Dr. B’s waiting room be right.” [ed. note: a guy who told me, wrongly, that my crutches were too short and would ruin my back.] When we got home I managed to drag myself up the stairs, where I realized that nothing short of a 3-alarm fire would make me try to go back down. This morning I am unable to get out of bed, even as far as the bedside commode; I am praying the drugs kick in before I have to pee again. I’m really glad I didn’t waste the Vicodin on my silly leg. Another line scratched on the wall of my cell, another lesson learned: don’t complain—things can always get worse.

This has happened a couple of times before, and I know it will be better in two or three days. But I will be staring at the ceiling for that long. Hmm, there’s that little spot where I knocked off some of the cottage cheese while adjusting the air vent. And I see there’s still a little discoloration where the roof leaked. Is that a spider in the corner? And I thought it was boring when I couldn’t walk around without support.

By mid-afternoon I was able to stand up. I know because I tried it for a few seconds, just to see if I could. Not exactly a double twisting dismount from the parallel bars, but it’s progress. Jeanine, a treasure far beyond my deserving, brought up lunch (I mean she delivered lunch to my bedside, not that she brought up lunch in the manner of certain birds who regurgitate in feeding their young.) and my iPod. I have a good book and my music. And good drugs. This isn’t so bad. And, should I be so inclined, I have a guitar practically within reach—I can even practice. Last week, once again able to bend my knee and rest a guitar on my thigh, I ran out of excuses and resumed my lessons. This week I will miss my lesson, but Tom called yesterday to cancel anyway. He’ll be out of town all week—how’s that for luck?

I begin to see how invalidism can be addictive. When your most pressing question is whether you can go to the bathroom, when you really can’t deal with anything beyond your bed, you don’t have to deal with anything. The bills get paid, the lawn gets mowed, the spa gets cleaned or they don’t; it isn’t your problem. I guess I couldn’t live that way for long, but I can see the appeal.

On the other hand, I take note that “INvalid” and “inVALID” are the same word. Maybe I should see if I can bump my way down the stairs….

By the next morning I was able to get out of bed and downstairs for breakfast, a miraculously swift recovery if previous experience is any indication. I don’t know whether to credit my determination and remarkable recuperative powers or some half-felt fear of being seduced by incapacity, but either way I have regained enough mobility to resume doing nothing all over the house.

OK, so… that was a lie. I sometimes write ahead of myself, and in this case the description was a pipe dream—a pharmaceutically enhanced pre-recollection. Anticipatory reportage is a long tradition in journalism (Dewey didn’t really win the election, you know) and sometimes it bites you in the ass. And while I’m in the confessional, I may as well admit that I did that with the buttermilk lemon pudding cake story, too. The dessert in fact turned out just fine but my premonition made a better story than the actual non-event. Now back to the All True Story.

What really happened the next morning hasn’t quite happened yet. What I know is that my bladder woke me up at 4:00 A.M. and I had to wake Jeanine to get me a pill before I could manage the needful. This leads me to suspect that the coming day is not going to be as triumphal as originally reported, and that I may spend another day or so reexamining the cracks in the ceiling.

And so it came to pass. All I can do is wait for another day to come to pass, and another, and another. What if, on the day the cast is supposed to come off, I can’t get out of bed for the ceremony? I wonder if the doctor makes house calls with his saw….

I actually feel significantly better this afternoon. I can stand up again, sort of. I know started down this road before and it turned out to be a dead end, and I ended up having—figuratively, of course--to retrace my steps. But I haven’t had any meds for hours and I feel fairly certain that I could even take a few literal steps, if I had a full complement of legs. But I don’t have anywhere I need to walk to just now anyway and, having learned the hazard of prognostication, I will await developments before reporting them.

It’s a miracle! I can walk! I retrieved my sticks from where Jeanine had hidden them and walked all the way into the study. I sat down, not without difficulty, at the computer and turned it on so I could research a historical detail for these chronicles. Alas, the computer is not working….

I see the drapes are open, so it must be another day. There will be a brief delay while we check to see if this is the day we get up. Thank you for your patience…no, sorry, not today. Come back tomorrow.

Augghh! A paper cut! I foolishly opened the mail, and got the WORST paper cut in history. With bleeding! I can’t even sit in bed without hurting myself! And the mail was bad news, too. Until today, the arrival of the mail was the highlight of my day (if you don’t count lunch). Now what?

This episode in my life has been a real pisser. No, really. I can’t do much else, but I seem to spend a lot of time urinating. With a couple of months of practice under, as it were, my belt, I have become quite expert in the use of the handheld urinal. Left-handed, right-handed, even no-hands if the bottle’s not too full. I could do it standing on my head, if I could stand on my head [N.B.: professional whizzer; do not try this at home]. I may be the best bedside pisser in the county, or at least the best in my prostate category, although it’s difficult to be certain—I don’t know where they keep the records.

Wups, there go the drapes again. Let’s see if today’s the day. Oof, no, not yet. Close, though. I managed a shower and, with a little help, got my clothes on. The stairs will be an adventure I’ll save for another day.

Another day? But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, so this must be another day. Sunday. And today I am going downstairs. If I fall all the way down, by God, I’m going downstairs. It’s Sunday, and we have to go out for breakfast. If we don’t show up, Denny’s will probably send the sheriff to break down the door.

We did it. It was a mistake. But Jeanine was really sick of cooking and schlepping and I was really sick of…well, everything. I had pancake puppies and ice cream (never underestimate the power of ice cream) for breakfast; screw the carbs. The puppies are like donut holes, only made with pancake batter. Like donut holes, only not as good. Then we came home and I had another Vicodin. There’s a message in all of this somewhere. You don’t know how good you feel until you don’t. You don’t know what you can do until you can’t. Downstairs looks pretty much like it did five days ago, so I guess I’ll go back up and lie down. As soon as the Vicodin kicks in.

Chapter 4 (this is Chapter 4) was supposed to be an account of our road trip to Yellowstone, a trip that was supposed to start today. Our traveling companions called from halfway to Vegas to say goodbye and wish me well while they take our trip without us. I hope the lousy rats have a great time. The U.S. Open was rained out, but football season opened today—that’s my consolation. For what it’s worth, Houston upset the Colts, the Packers held off the Eagles, New England beat somebody, and it turns out there is a limit to how much football you can watch in one day.

I guess Gilda Radner was right: it’s always something. After another day without surcease (is there a subcease?) I called the doctor and begged for mercy. He sent me to physical therapy, where they tried to give me an appointment. Appointment my ass. I told the receptionist I couldn’t go home. Then I lay down on the floor until they could take me. The therapist says my back pain has nothing to do with my leg or the crutches (a pity, since Medicare would pay for more therapy if this was a complication) but is related to some injury years ago which caused me to forget how to use all those muscles in there (like the multifidus, a muscle so obscure I haven’t heard the word since my gross anatomy final)["Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself. (I am large, I contain multifidus.)"] to stabilize my spine when I move. The good news is it’s correctible. And the guy in Dr. B’s waiting room was wrong. The bad news is, well, it’s always something.

September 11:More stuff I just don’t get:

1. How did “@” get to be an abbreviation for “at”? The symbol predates typing, so it can’t be the single keystroke it saves. In fact, you have to hold down the shift key, so you don’t actually save anything, either typing or writing. Wh@’s up with th@? “Hi, my name’s Matthew, but you can call me M@thew for short.”

2. I was in the Glee Club one semester in junior high. We just sang, without all the gymnastics or dancing through the halls that they do on TV. It was pleasant enough, but I never understood where the glee was. I looked this one up, after being puzzled about it for five decades, and discovered that “glee” is musical entertainment, especially a part-song for three or more voices, and a glee club is a bunch of people who get together to sing glees. So this one, finally, I do get. I’m not sure how we get great mirth or joy out of that, though, and if it continues to bother me for another fifty years, I’ll try to find out.

3. There’s a new drug out—at least I think it’s new—with a very specific target in mind. It’s called Excedrin Menstrual Complete and the ad says it contains 3 medicines to target 5 menstrual symptoms, namely headache, muscle aches, cramps, fatigue, and bloating. The magic ingredients are aspirin, acetaminophen (Tylenol), and caffeine. This is a combination that has been around for generations, and none of the ingredients has any effect on bloating or cramps, unless you consider the mild diuretic effect of caffeine. How do they get away with that? Midol tried something similar when it first came out fifty years ago, claiming it was good for whatever ailed menstruating women, including cramps as well as stress, nervous tension, fatigue, and depression. Its ingredients are shrouded in mystery: the maker claims it was acetaminophen and an antihistamine, but court records indicate that it was aspirin and cinnamedrine, a purported anti-spasmodic. The FTC at some point determined that there was no scientific evidence to suggest it was effective for menstrual cramps (I’m not sure what they had to say about the other symptoms—it’s difficult to get hard evidence about vague complaints) and Midol had to change its ad campaign or its formulation or both. And pay a hefty fine.

And yet, so far, Excedrin Menstrual gets away with the same claim. I don’t get it.

Midol didn’t go away, of course—it outlasted, or outflanked, the FTC. Today Midol Menstrual Complete contains acetaminophen and an antihistamine plus caffeine—which is mainly to counteract the drowsiness caused by the antihistamine—and apparently everybody’s happy. So what I don’t get is what does the FTC do? Or the FDA?

4. Finally (well, not finally finally: there are a couple of other things I don’t get, but this is enough for one day), there is the new series of Verizon Wireless ads that say you need Verizon cell phone service because when you walk into the conference room to give your presentation, you’re important. Huh?

September 5: Car talk

Another thing that happens when you sit on your ass for a month or two (I’ll tell you that story once I find out how it ends) is your car’s battery dies. This is not only likely but guaranteed if your car is a Prius. The hybrid battery is OK, but the little 12-volt “auxiliary” that keeps your clock going and remembers your radio stations—and, oh yes, powers up the other battery so it can start the car—is famous for crapping out. I knew this—I went through it before and Toyota eventually replaced the battery—so I took pains to make sure Jeanine drove it from time to time. But one time the time between “time” and “to time” was too long and it died again. I could jump start it and drive it in to the dealer, but that charges the battery enough that they tell you it’s fine, so Toyota advised me to have it towed in to them. I figured this is the opportune moment: I’m not using it, so they can keep it as long as they want while they figure things out.

The problem, you may remember from the last time this happened, is that the car is in the garage. It’s a front-wheel drive, the wheels are locked when it’s in Park, and you can’t get it out of park if the battery’s dead. AAA said they could jack up the front, put wheels under it, and pull it out, but this particular free roadside assistance would take two people and cost $95 an hour. That’s just slightly less than the cost of a new battery.

No problem. I sent the tow driver off, jump-started the battery, backed the car out and put it in the driveway facing the street (it turns out I can drive just fine with my leg in a cast, at least that far). Now it’s dead, but accessible. I called the Auto Club again, and the guy should be back any minute. And in case you were wondering, the answer is no, AAA won’t jumpstart a hybrid. They say they’re worried about liability, they’re afraid to screw up the $2000 hybrid battery, and no amount of assurance that it’s only the 12V battery they’re jumping will convince them.

The second tow truck arrived. It was a flatbed as long as a football field, so even if he could have gotten my car into neutral, he couldn’t have maneuvered his truck in front of the car without driving into the kitchen of my neighbor across the street. He offered to jumpstart it (same company, different guy) but after I told him Toyota wanted to check it while it was dead, he called for a small wheel-lift truck and wished me luck. It should be here any minute.

Third time’s the charm, they say, and sure enough the car actually got towed to the dealer. The service guy promised that they would find something wrong with the battery and, since they just put it in 18 months ago, they would replace it with the new, bigger one with no charge. I’m hoping he meant for free. Now if I can just figure out how to drive it home when they’re done with it.

The next morning the shop called to tell me the battery is now fully charged, works perfectly, and is holding the charge as it should. This does not surprise me: it’s pretty much what Toyota said about everything just before the massive recalls. I told them to keep it a while and see what happens—I won’t be driving for a few weeks anyhow. I’m sure that after a week they’ll tell me it’s perfect and I’ll have to go through this 3 more times before they concede there’s a problem.

The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect--well, yes, come to think of it, I guess they do.

all materials on this site ©michael grossman. all rights reserved.

BACK TO CALENDAR

<< PREVIOUS MONTH

NEXT MONTH >>

BACK TO CURRENT MONTH