Last night I did something I'd never done before. I cannot recall anyone else doing it either. So you're thinking, hmmm, standing up in a hammock? Everyone's done that. This was 14% more unique than saddle sores on a turtle. <inane reference>(This imaginary colloquialism comes from a 70's Colt Malt Liquor radio commercial.)</inane reference>
I broke a toothbrush in my mouth as I was brushing my teeth. (Yeah, lots of people break toothbrushes trying to open paint cans, but claim that the toothbrush broke in their mouth because they don't want to be fined for using the wrong end of a toothbrush as a tool.)
The specifics (in case you want to try to replicate the feat): it was a fairly new Walgreens toothbrush and I was using Colgate toothpaste with calcium. I don't think it's important, but on the offchance that toothbrushes have circadian rhythms the time was about 1 AM daylight savings time.
"Fairly new" means that I'd only been using the toothbrush a few weeks, but it could have been years since I bought the toothbrush. (I tend to buy a few and forget them. Sometime later the packages rematerialize from under a stack of clothes, the back of dresser, or, hey, so that's where it's been hiding under/behind car seats, on top of bookcases, in an old suitcase, etc.)
I'm toying with the idea of sending the toothbrush to Walgreen's to see if they might want to replace the toothbrush. I don't think this is worth an entry in the Guiness Book of Records.
Photos to follow.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
An Excursion to the Supermarket
Bloomsday. I went shopping for my parents. Deja vu all over again.
For many years I shopped for a friend. I think she was 70 when I started and over 90 when we parted ways. It took a few months for me to learn her preferences and for us to come to an agreement. Some items had to be specific. If she asked for the 22 oz. lemon-scented version, I never substituted. If that item wasn't available I didn't buy a substitute.
On the other hand "sherbet" was either raspberry or strawberry, the brand was immaterial. While she didn't express a preference in ice cream, it took a while for her to finally explain why she wasn't as thankful when I bought ice cream with fudge or nuts: she liked to put ice cream in her coffee. I purchased grated Parmesan cheese once. In her cosmos grated Parmesan cheese was an affront to god.
Looking at my parents' list I asked them for specs: brand, size, was substitution allowed, etc.
I digress to describe my supermarket shopping style. Except when I go shopping for myself I only go down certain aisles: pasta, bread, dairy, and the vegetable area. Unless someone asks me to pick up soda and chips I never go in that aisle. I can usually pick up what I need in a supermarket in 5-10 minutes because my shopping lists are almost always short.
Today was far different. It was more of a random walk.
Holding my parents list I found myself wandering through the housewares aisle several times looking for camphor balls. (There were none.) My mother wanted instant cocoa. (My throat constricts in a defensive reaction at the thought of it.) I scanned the shelves trying to match what I'd remembered in their kitchen with what was available on the shelves. Wandering down the housewares aisle I noted that the toilet bowl cleaner was sold out. (Was this significant? Would my stock broker devine a market shift from this observation?)
They wanted the store brand pancake syrup. Why? My brother had given them real maple syrup. Who can understand parents? I had neglected to ask them what size to get. My educational background makes me want to estimate the monthly usage and extend that to 6 months. The holistic/emotive side tried to conjure the image of the container in their kitchen. I couldn't recall a discussion of an imminent pancake syrup crisis. That meant that they probably hadn't reached the reorder point so they could make it through a few pancake breakfasts if I didn't buy anything. I got the middle size bottle because I could exchange it if the size was wrong.
Potatoes. Jeez! The last time I bought potatoes they were 30¢ a pound. Now the cheapest was 60¢ a pound! I've got a general concept of capitalism. A higher price is supposed to reflect higher demand or perhaps collusion among producers. Are potatoes suddenly the "in" food. Did I miss an article at the checkout counter? ("Potatoes Make You Bigger Where It Counts", "Potatoes - the Secret of Long Life", "The New Potato Diet - Lose 20 Pounds Over Night") Maybe it was a collusive effort to make potatoes seem more desirable. (These 60¢ a pound potatoes are so much better than those old 30¢ a pound potatoes.)
When I reported back that I couldn't find the mothballs my mother said that she hadn't been able to buy them for some time. (A friend eventually bought a box at National Wholesale Liquitators. This is a public service and unsolicited plug.)
For many years I shopped for a friend. I think she was 70 when I started and over 90 when we parted ways. It took a few months for me to learn her preferences and for us to come to an agreement. Some items had to be specific. If she asked for the 22 oz. lemon-scented version, I never substituted. If that item wasn't available I didn't buy a substitute.
On the other hand "sherbet" was either raspberry or strawberry, the brand was immaterial. While she didn't express a preference in ice cream, it took a while for her to finally explain why she wasn't as thankful when I bought ice cream with fudge or nuts: she liked to put ice cream in her coffee. I purchased grated Parmesan cheese once. In her cosmos grated Parmesan cheese was an affront to god.
Looking at my parents' list I asked them for specs: brand, size, was substitution allowed, etc.
I digress to describe my supermarket shopping style. Except when I go shopping for myself I only go down certain aisles: pasta, bread, dairy, and the vegetable area. Unless someone asks me to pick up soda and chips I never go in that aisle. I can usually pick up what I need in a supermarket in 5-10 minutes because my shopping lists are almost always short.
Today was far different. It was more of a random walk.
Holding my parents list I found myself wandering through the housewares aisle several times looking for camphor balls. (There were none.) My mother wanted instant cocoa. (My throat constricts in a defensive reaction at the thought of it.) I scanned the shelves trying to match what I'd remembered in their kitchen with what was available on the shelves. Wandering down the housewares aisle I noted that the toilet bowl cleaner was sold out. (Was this significant? Would my stock broker devine a market shift from this observation?)
They wanted the store brand pancake syrup. Why? My brother had given them real maple syrup. Who can understand parents? I had neglected to ask them what size to get. My educational background makes me want to estimate the monthly usage and extend that to 6 months. The holistic/emotive side tried to conjure the image of the container in their kitchen. I couldn't recall a discussion of an imminent pancake syrup crisis. That meant that they probably hadn't reached the reorder point so they could make it through a few pancake breakfasts if I didn't buy anything. I got the middle size bottle because I could exchange it if the size was wrong.
Potatoes. Jeez! The last time I bought potatoes they were 30¢ a pound. Now the cheapest was 60¢ a pound! I've got a general concept of capitalism. A higher price is supposed to reflect higher demand or perhaps collusion among producers. Are potatoes suddenly the "in" food. Did I miss an article at the checkout counter? ("Potatoes Make You Bigger Where It Counts", "Potatoes - the Secret of Long Life", "The New Potato Diet - Lose 20 Pounds Over Night") Maybe it was a collusive effort to make potatoes seem more desirable. (These 60¢ a pound potatoes are so much better than those old 30¢ a pound potatoes.)
When I reported back that I couldn't find the mothballs my mother said that she hadn't been able to buy them for some time. (A friend eventually bought a box at National Wholesale Liquitators. This is a public service and unsolicited plug.)
Friday, June 09, 2006
Contra-Contraception
After reading the May 7, 2006 NY Times article on the "Contra-Contraception" movement among conservatives circles and President Bush's failure to respond to the four letters Representative Carolyn Maloney of New York, sent to the president asking "Mr. President, do you support the right to use contraception?" I can only hope that the damage done to he United States by the Bush administration will be mitigated by the humor it will provide for future generations.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Career Suicide
I was trying to find the online version of an Infoworld "Off The Record" column ("Anonynmous Tales from the Front Lines") entitled "Recipe for Career Suicide". The story, describes how good programming practices got the anonymous narrator in trouble with the founder of his company. The founder and president wrote the original product code. At the time referred to in the story the president didn't realize that his own programming expertise was sadly out of date. The president reacted very badly when a client preferred the programmer's code to his.
If I had typed "Career Suicide" (with the quotes) into Infoworld's search engine, the first hit would have been the article I wanted and I wouldn't have been prompted to write this. Because I didn't include the quotes, the article I wanted didn't appear on the first page of links I was distracted by a link to eBay. EBay had auctions of recordings by a hardcore punk band named "Career Suicide", a T-shirt from their 2004 tour, and CDs with that title by Lennon Murphy.
By now we're accustomed to the inanities of automated procedures. Even so, I'll remember the page contained this link:
Looking for Career Suicide?
Find exactly what you want today.
I don't think I need help in this regard, thank you very much, but I'm saving the link just in case.
If I had typed "Career Suicide" (with the quotes) into Infoworld's search engine, the first hit would have been the article I wanted and I wouldn't have been prompted to write this. Because I didn't include the quotes, the article I wanted didn't appear on the first page of links I was distracted by a link to eBay. EBay had auctions of recordings by a hardcore punk band named "Career Suicide", a T-shirt from their 2004 tour, and CDs with that title by Lennon Murphy.
By now we're accustomed to the inanities of automated procedures. Even so, I'll remember the page contained this link:
Looking for Career Suicide?
Find exactly what you want today.
I don't think I need help in this regard, thank you very much, but I'm saving the link just in case.
 |  |  |
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Medical Excursion
While lifting an empty bookcase off my car <needless detail>in the pouring rain in the wee small hours of the morning</needless detail>, I felt a sharp pain in my right side about 5 inches below my arm pit. I'd never felt anything similar. Even with my limited knowledge of physiology I knew it wasn't a heart attack. It felt like something tore, but that was as far as my diagnosis went.
The most peculiar aspect of the injury was that that whatever it was didn't hurt when I haul the bookcase into the house. I just lifted the bookcase and sort of slid it along on some boards until I got the bookcase into the house.
Battling my usual inclination to ignore injuries, I didn't try to determine just how much pain I could take. I took it easy during the next few days. I was giving myself little gold stars for being so sensible as the ache decreased when the aching increased. Whether it was sit-ups or something else the ache grew to the point here I had to avoid letting my arm rest across my right side when I went to sleep.
Last night I lay back against the pillows before going to sleep. Remembering something I tried to sit up and couldn't - it hurt too much to sit up. (Well, I could sit up, but thought the most sensible thing was not to exacerbate what ever it was.)
Sitting up became a mechanical puzzle. My solution was to extend my legs off the bed and then slowly slide off. Gravity folded my torso forward.
Today I went to see the doctor. After noting the absence of hematomas and the localization of the sensitivity he opined that it was not a cracked rib, but most likely a problem with the cartilege - a fracture, tear, something. He estimated it would take 6-8 weeks to heal provided I didn't do anything stupid. The doctor gave me a hard, meaningful look when he said this to be sure I got the message. To be sure of his diagnosis he sent me for radiography.
Now friends, a few miles west of the "Miracle Mile", a toney shopping area in Manhassett, New York, there's "Medical Row" a half mile of medical specialists on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck. (Many people have heard the name, but did not realized that the Miracle Mile is an actual place, the Americana Manhasset Shopping Center. "Are you gonna cruise the Miracle Mile?" from "It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" - Billy Joel. There is a Miracle Mile in the Mid-Wilshire region of Los Angeles, California near the La Brea tar pits, but I digress.)
Because the radiology place was "just over there" (said the doctor's receptionist) I decided to walk. I don't mind driving, but I thought "over there" was the next building. Driving would mean crossing a solid double line on Northern Blvd where drivers get points taken off their licenses for every pedestrian they hit or driving on the sidewalk ("Brazilian driving"). (The points off rule was the result of the powerful auto body lobby. As I understand it, the number of points removed from someone's driving record is on a sliding scale related to the cost of the body work required to restore the car. Splatter someone with a Maserati or a Ferrari and the New York State Motor Vehicles Department will give you credits toward future points.)
The building turned out to be the very last building on Medical Row, not a long distance actually, but instructive: there was no entrance on Northern Boulevard. The building has no street entrance. Everyone has to enter through a door in the parking area at the back of the building.
Did I stumbled across a new architectural phenomenon or something well established but unbeknowst to me? Was the design to keep the riffraff out or, given the building's location, just obvious - who would walk to the building?
I enjoyed filling out the forms at the radiologists: there were three typographical errors on a single intake form. I asked if I could get a discount for spotting them, but as always, my proofreading skills proved a source of amusement, not profit. Getting up on the X-ray table was easy. Getting off required the same slithering technique I used to get out of bed.
The X-rays showed nothing, just as the doctor had expected. And I have avoided doing anything to injure whatever it is/was.
June 14, 2006 postscript: My side does not seem to ache and it seems that I should try to get back to the washboard abs (of my imaginary life).
The most peculiar aspect of the injury was that that whatever it was didn't hurt when I haul the bookcase into the house. I just lifted the bookcase and sort of slid it along on some boards until I got the bookcase into the house.
Battling my usual inclination to ignore injuries, I didn't try to determine just how much pain I could take. I took it easy during the next few days. I was giving myself little gold stars for being so sensible as the ache decreased when the aching increased. Whether it was sit-ups or something else the ache grew to the point here I had to avoid letting my arm rest across my right side when I went to sleep.
Last night I lay back against the pillows before going to sleep. Remembering something I tried to sit up and couldn't - it hurt too much to sit up. (Well, I could sit up, but thought the most sensible thing was not to exacerbate what ever it was.)
Sitting up became a mechanical puzzle. My solution was to extend my legs off the bed and then slowly slide off. Gravity folded my torso forward.
Today I went to see the doctor. After noting the absence of hematomas and the localization of the sensitivity he opined that it was not a cracked rib, but most likely a problem with the cartilege - a fracture, tear, something. He estimated it would take 6-8 weeks to heal provided I didn't do anything stupid. The doctor gave me a hard, meaningful look when he said this to be sure I got the message. To be sure of his diagnosis he sent me for radiography.
Now friends, a few miles west of the "Miracle Mile", a toney shopping area in Manhassett, New York, there's "Medical Row" a half mile of medical specialists on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck. (Many people have heard the name, but did not realized that the Miracle Mile is an actual place, the Americana Manhasset Shopping Center. "Are you gonna cruise the Miracle Mile?" from "It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" - Billy Joel. There is a Miracle Mile in the Mid-Wilshire region of Los Angeles, California near the La Brea tar pits, but I digress.)
Because the radiology place was "just over there" (said the doctor's receptionist) I decided to walk. I don't mind driving, but I thought "over there" was the next building. Driving would mean crossing a solid double line on Northern Blvd where drivers get points taken off their licenses for every pedestrian they hit or driving on the sidewalk ("Brazilian driving"). (The points off rule was the result of the powerful auto body lobby. As I understand it, the number of points removed from someone's driving record is on a sliding scale related to the cost of the body work required to restore the car. Splatter someone with a Maserati or a Ferrari and the New York State Motor Vehicles Department will give you credits toward future points.)
The building turned out to be the very last building on Medical Row, not a long distance actually, but instructive: there was no entrance on Northern Boulevard. The building has no street entrance. Everyone has to enter through a door in the parking area at the back of the building.
Did I stumbled across a new architectural phenomenon or something well established but unbeknowst to me? Was the design to keep the riffraff out or, given the building's location, just obvious - who would walk to the building?
I enjoyed filling out the forms at the radiologists: there were three typographical errors on a single intake form. I asked if I could get a discount for spotting them, but as always, my proofreading skills proved a source of amusement, not profit. Getting up on the X-ray table was easy. Getting off required the same slithering technique I used to get out of bed.
The X-rays showed nothing, just as the doctor had expected. And I have avoided doing anything to injure whatever it is/was.
June 14, 2006 postscript: My side does not seem to ache and it seems that I should try to get back to the washboard abs (of my imaginary life).
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