MY BIG FAT GEEK TV

 

First the movers separated our three-part wall unit, transferring the middle tower to our son’s former bedroom upstairs. As a result, the extra bed in his room had to be stored in the basement. The easy chair had to be moved to the other side of the living room, which meant the sections of our couch had to be reconfigured, but now the coffee table was the wrong shape and had to be replaced. And now you know why it took us eight years to finally decide to buy a big screen TV.

No furniture adjustment was required in our house when we purchased our cell phones, video cameras, or even computers. With all the research and design that companies like Samsung invest in, I ask you: Why can’t they make big screen TVs smaller? 

Before we bought the 55 flat screen television, we did the perfunctory price comparisons between stores. The problem was that we didn’t know the difference between LED and LCD.  My wife realized that any explanation offered to us by the sales associate would have to be directed to her alone because while at the store, I was having too much fun watching the US Open on 47 TV sets at the same time.

Our cable provider came and hooked everything up. When he left, we stared at the behemoth that was already beginning to seem like an intruder in our home. “I feel like a space ship has landed in our living room,” said Mary Ellen. “It’s way too big and high tech.”

“I know. It looks weird next to the shelf with a set of 1989 World Book Encyclopedias.”

We watched a new episode of The Killing on AMC. We stared at the TV silently until finally I had the nerve to say it. “Mary Ellen, I don’t like the picture. It’s almost too sharp. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I was just thinking that I feel like I’m watching an episode of All My Children. I don’t think real life is that crisp and clear.”

We viewed the entire show, convinced that Susan Lucci would eventually make a cameo appearance. I told Mary Ellen that we must never speak of this issue again, not if we had any hopes of ever making new friends with people under the age of 90. We wanted our old TV back, but requesting a return from Goodwill creates a lot of bad will, so we decided to just deal with it.

I went online and discovered hundreds of people posting about what they called SOE (the soap opera effect), a term I had coined in my living room the previous night but was given absolutely no credit for in the blogosphere.

I called the store and the sales associate said this was indeed a common complaint but it was easily remedied. He told me to get my remote and then go to the sub menu. The only sub menu I know how to find gets me a six-inch teriyaki chicken on whole wheat and a drink for $5.95.

Apparently, there is a way to eliminate the SOE on your LED or LCD, but it requires reading directions,  and since I’m ADD, it’s probably easier to just watch soap operas all day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RETIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW

My wife was confident that her retirement would be an easy transition to make. One day she would be hard at work at the office; then suddenly, she wouldn’t be.  Simple as that.  But for the first half of June, she kept asking me what day of the week it was and when I went back in the bedroom one morning while she was still sleeping, she opened her eyes and asked me if I had an appointment.  I told her it was no longer necessary to pack her lunch before she went to bed, nor did she have to eat her sandwich out of a Tupperware container.

Our first vacation to celebrate her retirement was to South Carolina for a look at historic Charleston. We always have great guides, but my problem is that I can never remember anything they tell me, especially if they start ranting about whose sister married whose cousin who moved to Virginia who then settled in Charleston before rebuilding this house and adding an extension that still has the original wallpaper. But when I hear something interesting like: “The slaves were instructed to whistle while transporting the master’s dinner from the kitchen to the dining room, to ensure they didn’t sample the food,” well, I’ll never forget that little tidbit.  But I probably should, because apparently it is not true—at least according to a website called American History Myths. I’m gonna cut the guide some slack here. I’d rather remember something that was incorrect than remember nothing at all. I started to feel more strongly about this when I turned 65.

At one self-guided tour site, we placed headphones on and hung a recording device around our necks.  We were then directed to the first room of this celebrated home of someone whose name I don’t remember who did something I never heard of.  But the real problem was that my wife and I did not push our start buttons at exactly the same time. The result was that when her headset was telling her to look up at a 200-year-old chandelier, mine was instructing me to behold the magnificent original carpeting. Seeing me look down, Mary Ellen thought I was uninterested and kept poking me to pay attention.  Of course, I thought she was just in a daze looking up at the ceiling, so we were both wondering why we paid 40 bucks apiece to be totally bored.

The other problem with the tape was that they tried to time the narration with what was a normal person’s speed of walking, so it was only after I fell down three steps and crashed into a mahogany credenza that I was cautioned to “Watch my step.” At one point I turned the wrong way in a corridor and bumped into Mary Ellen. The audio was telling me that what I was looking at was a true original but was in need of some restoration. I never told my wife why I was laughing.

We are back home now and Mary Ellen is enjoying her leisure time.  She’s even started cooking again. The other night she prepared a delicious meal and asked me if I would mind carrying the dish out to our back porch.  I was happy to oblige, but I wish she hadn’t made me whistle.

MY LUNG BIOPSY ( SERIOUSLY)

BREATHING EASY

This is a humor column about a serious medical concern. Everything turned out fine, but this is my one chance to write funny stuff about a lung biopsy. I hope.

When I arrived at the hospital, I met Jill, the RN, and immediately asked her if the doctor assigned to me was good at what he did. Jill confirmed he was “the best we have here.”  I admire nurses for what they do, but I don’t think they are as forthcoming as waitresses. “How’s the tilapia tonight, Tina?”

“Not so good—it’s a little fishy. The meatloaf special is awesome, though.”

You don’t get this kind of honesty from your average nurse. “Is this Dr. Jones a good radiologist?”

“He’s no Dr. Smith, but I’m sure everything will be okay.”

Jill explained to me that after the procedure I would return to the recovery area and would not be allowed out of bed for any reason for two hours. “So, I am going to encourage you to go to the bathroom now,” she said.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked.

The nurse seemed confused by my attempt at being funny, but my wife became absolutely hysterical at this remark and there was even some talk of sedating her. Nerves, I guess.

I wanted to know if I was the physician’s first patient that morning, because the needle probe requires really good aim and I was hoping he had a chance to warm up on someone else first.  When I saw the doctor, he informed me that we’d be talking to each other during the biopsy, but I would have no memory of what I said.  He promised me that in the very unlikely event I said something amusing (he apparently reads my column every week), he’d note it on my chart.

During the four hours I was there, the staff constantly asked my name and date of birth, confirming that I was the right person getting the correct procedure, and also to see if the meds they had administered were affecting my ability to recall information. Sometimes the same people asked me this question over and over again, so I started to worry about their memories.

In the afternoon, the staff brought me lunch, but before I took a bite I had to confirm my name and date of birth still again, this time because the hospital will not buy you a meal if you’re just having a $69.00 heart scan. The food was good but I’m a messy eater and when I was digging in, the wrist port for my IV got clogged up with mashed potatoes. The nurse said she had never seen that happen before, but she was required note it on my medical records because technically it was a blockage.

Mary Ellen came back into the recovery room and sat by the bed after lunch.  Jill came in and asked my name and date of birth for the 15^th time.  I responded appropriately, but then just to throw her off, I asked her who the strange woman was sitting next to me.

When I left, I told the nurse how incredibly nice everyone had been and that I really appreciated it. She informed me that the staff treats everyone the same way—no matter who they are. But just to be sure, I told her anyway:  Richard Wolfsie, March 5, 1947.