CAT NIPS

As of this past Saturday morning, I had nothing to write about. Then the cat bit my wife. I know, a cat bite is nothing to make fun of.  Neither was my lung biopsy, but I managed to crank out an entire humor column about that several weeks ago.

Mary Ellen had pretty much forgotten about the feline attack, but that night after dinner with friends, she casually mentioned the redness on her ankle while on the way home in the car. Bob and Cathy, both armed with their iPhones, were in the back seat googling away, entering phrases like: Fatal cat bites; deadly feline teeth; and, lethal kitten puncture wounds.  Hey, what’s more fun than surfing the net?

Once Bob and Cathy had convinced my wife that the swelling was either pasteurella multocida or staphylococcus aureus, we headed for the nearest walk-in med center. At that point, three of us decided to make it a fun evening by socializing in the waiting room while my wife was being examined.  I know that’s a really dumb way to spend a Saturday night with friends, but with my wife’s excellent health insurance, it was actually a cheaper evening than all four of us going to the movies.

Before she was treated, Mary Ellen had to fill out a form. The first part was titled “Victim Information.”  The second section was labeled “If the Victim Was an Animal,” which is either the kind of man-bites-dog story I’m always looking for as a reporter, or if it’s a dog bites dog story, then I want to be there with a news crew when Fido picks up a pen and fills out that form.

The receptionist said there was a long line to see the doctor and requested that Mary Ellen put herself on the waiting list and come back in an hour or so. I told the nurse that the next time my wife needed medical attention like this, we’d try to call about 45 minutes before she planned to torment the cat. Mary Ellen did not think that was funny.

Cats and dogs aren’t the only attacking culprits.  In fact, one part of the form provided a list of species that could potentially bite a human. They were in alphabetical order, so the first one on the list was bats, and number two was cattle (which I think would be embarrassing to admit to.) Okay, maybe a mad cow, but how do you let an entire herd bite you? Squirrel is the very last one listed.  And there is no mention made of pigs, more proof of just how powerful the bacon lobby is. That’s also probably why the expression: “When pigs bite,” never got any traction.

When we finally saw the doctor, he confirmed the potential severity of a cat wound and suggested that an X-Ray be taken to be sure the ankle bone had not been penetrated. Cathy, who was by now the leading cat bite expert in Central Indiana, wanted to know why that procedure was necessary. “Because the cat is now missing two front teeth,” I told her.

By the way, I forgot to mention that two years ago Mary Ellen was at this very clinic after she tried to take a chicken bone away from our beagle. The gash from Toby’s bite required three stitches in her hand.  My wife has a way with animals. Which is why we are not getting a cow.

 

 

 

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.

CURRENT PROBLEMS

 I’m a competitive person. For example, I obsess about how my lawn looks in comparison to others on my block. I noticed some bare spots recently, so I addressed the issue with a trip to a local nursery. Then at the Memorial Day get-together last week, people were discussing Joe’s yard, which was suffering from the same problem. I thought, there, but for the grace of sod, go I.  (That was a long way to travel for a joke, wasn’t it?)

Now I have a new challenge to deal with. It began with a letter from Indianapolis Power and Light, a single page that has reawakened my latent paranoid tendencies.

The envelope seemed innocent enough. It looked like my monthly electric bill.  But the contents were far more ominous.  The page was filled with charts and graphs and the info was labeled:

                         LAST THREE MONTHS NEIGHBOR COMPARISON

My heart jumped and my pulse raced as I scanned the enclosed printout only to learn that I was consuming more energy than those identified by IPL as “Your Most Efficient Neighbors.”  I felt so exposed that I pulled the curtains down and then turned off the eleven lights, three TVs and two computers I had left on the night before. By the way, if they want me to save so much energy, they should email me the information so I don’t have to walk to my mailbox.

To really rub it in, IPL informed me that I used 40 percent more electricity than my most efficient neighbor. Who was this person? Which house did he live in? It didn’t say. Was he hiding in the shadows? It’s hard to find a shadow when you never have any lights on.

I asked my neighbor Mort if he received the same kind of letter. Mort is a nice guy, but he always leaves his garage door open, which I think detracts from the ambience of the neighborhood. I thought he was just forgetful, but apparently this is part of his grand plan to be recognized by IPL as a “conservation superstar.”

“Every kilowatt counts,” Mort told me while we were standing in his driveway. “If I never close that overhead door, I can save $1.49 a year.”  Then he asked what I was doing to conserve resources in my home. I was tired of the conversation so I told him I only shower once a month. Mort walked back into the garage…and down came the door.

The idea that someone is monitoring what goes on in and around my home is creepy. Whenever I look outside, strange people are reading my meters, putting colored lines on my neighbors’ lawns, installing invisible fences, looking through tiny telescopes mounted on tripods, and stuffing propaganda in my mailbox.  Sure, call them coupons if you want, but see those two little dots in the word Meijer? That must be a secret code for something.

Despite this, I really am going to try to do my part in this conservation initiative. Beginning now, I am going to charge my iPad in the car, disconnect my clock radio when I am not home, and make toast only when absolutely necessary. The competition is rigorous to be Number One in the IPL program, but I don’t plan on using up much energy.

ICY RELATIONSHIPS

According to the Associated Press, the biggest issue men have when hooking up with women in Iceland is not that the ladies are frigid. The men can be a little frosty themselves—but temperature is relative. The problem is that the person they meet at the Moose Antler Pub could actually be a relative.  

Here’s why: Iceland is the home of only about 320,000 people with a lineage that has been documented over the past 1,000 years. Generally, people don’t move away from Iceland. (Why would they? And give up the best reindeer barbeque in the world?) And not a lot of people summer in Iceland, largely because summer lasts about four hours. As a result, swinging singles often end up together not realizing that some of their ancestors were once actually swinging from the same family tree. Most Icelanders hail from a group of ninth-century Viking settlers whose descendants are still on the island, except those who went to Hollywood to make Capital One commercials.  

Things had gotten so bad recently that wedding planners and family reunion organizers were competing for the same guests. Web dating services in Iceland were trying hard to match people who engage in sports, love hunting, enjoy moonlight walks, and whenever possible, have different great-grandparents.

Recently, software engineers produced a smart phone that features a “bump” function. Potential lovers tap phones together to see how closely they are related. If it’s too close a match, an “incest alarm” will sound. In Iceland there are only two hours of darkness each day from May through August, so if you enjoy things that go bump in the night, there are times you haven’t got much time to finish your drink.

So far the incest app is drawing rave reviews, with a 4.5 out of 5 rating on the Google Play store. This puts it a little behind the video game Grand Theft Auto, although stealing a car and kissing your cousin both carry similar jail terms. One user who commented on the creator’s website regretted that it wasn’t released a little earlier: “If I had this app last year,” he wrote, “I probably wouldn’t have gone home with a relative.” The operative word is “probably,” because pickins for eligible women are slim in Reykjavik and my guess is that if this gal shared a love of ice fishing and miniature golf, well the heck with her DNA.

Creators of the website have been unhappy with the publicity. They claim that the main intention of the application is actually to give information about the rich genealogical history of the country and also to provide information to customers about relatives’ birthdays and anniversaries. But news of an application alerting you that it is Uncle Olafur’s 50^th just doesn’t have the same chance of going viral as one that tells you who to shack up with. One of the developers of the app, Arnar Freyr Adalsteinsson, says he seldom even uses the bumping feature.  “I just use common sense,” says Arnar. “Even if the girl is hot, if her name is Gloria Freyr Adalsteinsson, I am going to be a little wary.

The manufacturer notes that the application is not for iPhones; it’s only for Androids. I’m no expert on human sexuality, but if you’re an android, it’s probably safe to go home with anybody you want.

LOST CALLS

LOST CALLS

For the longest time, I had a label on my cell phone displaying the devices mobile number so if I lost it, the person who found it could call me. I realized how incredibly dumb this was when I left it at Ace Hardware one day and when I finally went back and found it, I had 24 messages from people who wanted me to know that it was “right here” in Lawn and Garden by the Azaleas.

The other day, I went out to do a few errands and realized that I had forgotten my phone, but when I returned home, I couldn’t find it. I called it, of course, but that required dialing the number from my landline and then racing from room to room to hear the ring. I’m most proud of my sprint (no pun intended, there) from my third floor office to the basement in less than 4.6 seconds.  But I heard nothing. Where was my cell phone?

First I called Kroger and talked to the manager at the service desk. “Where might you have left it, Sir?”

“I started out really health conscious so it could be between the asparagus and the broccoli, but then I got the munchies so I could have left it in the potato chip aisle.  It’s not in the meat department. I’m trying to cut down on beef and pork because…

“Sir, this is Brad, the Kroger manager, not Dr. Oz. I’ll call you on your home phone if I find it.”

Then I remembered that I had stopped to pick up some prescription dog food.  “Yes, good morning, I was at your clinic earlier and wondered if you found a Nokia there?”

“I know there is a Shih Tzu in the back that really needs a home.  I don’t think we have any Nokias, but this is my first day working here.”

When I purchased my phone, I signed up for an extra feature, a way to track the location of your cell phone using a kind of GPS system. I logged into the website.

A map popped up and suddenly this little green dot started floating around a five-mile area where I had indicated I had spent the previous few hours. The dot continued to circle, searching for my lost phone.  It passed over a street whose name I recognized, then moved to another location that also sounded familiar.  Suddenly, it landed on the street where I live. Oh my, it was like that horror movie with Jodi Foster.  IT’S IN MY HOUSE, IT’S IN MY HOUSE.

My eyes widened. The adrenalin was pumping. How did it get back in my home? Where was it hiding?  Calling it was of no use because I had turned off the ringer the night before.  I looked everywhere that I had ever lost my cell phone in the past: the bottom of the dog food container, the freezer, my briefcase, my wife’s pink nighgown. Please don’t ask me to explain that, it’s not what you think.

I called the 800 customer service number and was told that the phone, even if it was turned off, could play a tune that would help me locate it. “Do you have a favorite song, Sir?”  I told him that I did. Suddenly, “Dancing on the Ceiling” was coming from the hall bathroom.

I’m still confused how my cell phone ended up in my medicine cabinet. Not to mention Lionel Richie.