Bucking Bronchi

I'm recovering from a bout of bronchitis. I was about to say it hit me like a ton of bricks, but then it occurred to me it's probably just as bad to get hit by one brick as a ton of them. In fact, a ton may be preferable; you'd be unlikely to survive the onslaught and your suffering would be over quickly. However, if someone took a ton of bricks and hurled them at you one at a time, that might be worse than just one to the noggin or left nut or right shin or wherever it landed.

I'm pretty sure my wife regifted me with the bronchitis she'd been fighting off (should have thrown a brick at it) for the prior week and a half. Carol doesn't get sick often but when she does, she puts her all into it. Coughing, wheezing, sneezing, sleeplessness, kvetching... there's your million-dollar idea right there: a version of Sudafed that eliminates cough, congestion and kvetching. I put on my good-husband hat and made tea, warmed soup, brought tissues, expressed empathy. However, what I could NOT bear to do was respond every time Carol blew her nose and then went, "Ugh... look at this!" I know what phlegm looks like and don't need any reminders. Have you seen the TV commercial where some poor woman is being chased down the street by a giant snot monster? "At the first sign of a cold, take --." Believe me, if you think a giant snot monster is pursuing you, you're well past the first sign of a cold and deep into feverish hallucinations and possibly early-onset dementia.

Anyway, after tending to the missus I thought I'd dodged a bullet (brick?) since I didn't seem to be coming down with anything myself. But about 10 days after wifey's first symptoms, I suddenly became congested and starting coughing and had the worst sore throat I could remember -- it felt like I'd tried to swallow a broken coffee mug that had lodged mid-gullet. For a few days I alternated between staying home and going into work; I flattered myself into thinking my presence was required for some meetings but, based on the terrified looks of the other attendees when they saw my condition, that assessment may have been erroneous. I tried to speak at one session and what came out of my mouth was a sound so low, guttural and primal that all the birds, rodents and feral cats living in downtown Boston began to stampede toward the Berkshires as if they'd heard the early off-shore rumblings of an approaching tsunami and were seeking refuge on higher ground.

Surprisingly there was a brief plus side to my ailment. One of the days I dragged myself into work I attempted to return a greeting from a co-worker; while it was obvious that I was ailing she said my voice sounded "sexy". I guess I did sound a little like Barry White if you could imagine him speaking immediately after biting his own tongue. Flash forward a week and a half and I ran into the same co-worker again; she asked if I was feeling better and I replied I was, albeit still getting over it. She said, "Well, you still sound a little sexy." Now I felt belittled and so desperately wanted to recover whatever elusive quality had rendered me full-on sexy mere days before that I considered throwing away the remainder of my supply of Mucinex. 

As I type this, two full weeks after symptoms first appeared, I'm still experiencing the occasional chest-rattling cough and interrupting any interaction lasting more than 90 seconds with a nose-blow. But as much as I complain, Carol's had it worse -- toughing it out at work but exhausted when she gets home. Last night she was in bed by 8:30. Almost 14 hours later and she's still sleeping, so let me wrap this up and see if I can rouse her. Now, where's that brick?

Winds of Spare Change

I've lost all concept of the value of money. At least, nothing that involves double-figures or, as I learned in second grade, when there's a need to carry the "1" to the next column. This is embarrassing, damned inconvenient and portends financial ruin. I blame the Internet.

I've conducted nearly all of my banking online for the last decade, with the effortless convenience that entails: direct deposit of paychecks; automated bill payments; scheduled transfers of funds into retirement accounts; email or text notifications when balances drop below a certain threshold. Other than for rent, or a young niece or nephew's birthday, I haven't written a check or filled out a deposit slip since I don't know when. I use a credit or debit card, or now various mobile apps, to pay for nearly all I buy -- with an increasing number of those purchases (including groceries!) made online. Consequently, I rarely *think* about money because there's no real need to. It's available on demand, upon request, with my own little economy humming along solvently in the background. Money has become more abstract the less I've need to rely on its physical presence in my wallet.

[Aside: Do you carry change around any more? Isn't it just a pain in the ass? I might keep quarters for later use in a parking meter, but generally coins get dumped into whatever heartstring-plucking plea has a can on counter. If I get back a handful of pennies sometimes I'll walk out of the store and just fling them into the street.]

I remember my very first paycheck... I'd gotten a summer job before my junior year of high school as an assistant camp counselor with a municipal recreation department. For thirty hours per week I received a wage of $45, before taxes. We didn't get paid in person; the town mailed checks out to its seasonal employees. I came home from work one Friday afternoon, two weeks into the gig, and there was my first paycheck awaiting me. I... was... RICH! Excitedly, I asked my mother if I could borrow the car so I could rush... er, drive responsibly to the bank to cash it. While the bank lobby was closed, the drive-through was open a few extra hours late Friday afternoons for just such a need. I drove around to the side of the building with the lanes and machinery and told the teller over a tinny speaker what I wanted to do. She flipped a switch from behind her window, I heard a loud WHOOSH! and a few seconds later a small hatch slid open on the rectangular structure next to the car. Once open, I saw a cylindrical object resting in a tray. I now know that I was supposed to place my check inside the cylindrical object, lay it back on the tray, press the button and it would be delivered back to her with my net take returned to me via that same cylindrical object. However, being naive at that age about pretty much everything relating to money and banking and utterly lacking in common sense (some things haven't changed) -- I thought the cylinder was merely a paperweight under which I should place my check while it made its way inside the bank. I laid my check on the tray, placed the cylinder atop it and pressed the button to deliver it back to the teller. The small hatch closed and the system made another WHOOSH! I anxiously awaited my cash... and waited... The teller came back on the speaker a few minutes later and asked me to send my check over; I said I already had. "Where did you put it?" she asked. "Under the cylindrical paperweight," I replied. There was a long silence, and then she exhaled an "Oh-h-h..." Needless to say, my check was now lost in the bowels of the pneumatic system and I was shit out of luck (and $37.65, after taxes). I had to request a duplicate check, which I didn't get until the job -- and summer -- were well over.

That was perhaps the first and last time money ever had a such visceral, dynamic impact on me. Ironically, I didn't get to handle any of it then, just as I handle very little of it now.

But I digress. My theory is the lack of tangibility removes any sense of decimalization regarding money. Yes, I just made up two words in that last sentence. If I pull three tens out of my wallet to pay for a meal, I "feel" that's $30 and intuit that another $5 or $6 are required for a tip. I can see the demarcations on the various bills and recognize the relationship among a ten and a five and a one. But if I hand over my credit card and get back a strip of paper with "30" printed on it, that's an abstract concept; a cardinal number but not actual "money", and I can't connect that display to what I should then be writing in to acknowledge good service. Plus, regardless of what I scribble, I'm now responsible for declaring my version of the total. I've got to add the tip and the tax and the food and beverage amounts all together: "Uh, carry the '1', and..." I'm just as likely to come up with something random than the actual correct sum. That's why most of the mobile payment apps have tip generators built right into them. I use one that is popular in our area; it generates a QR code (it's a mysterious thing that looks like a needlepoint sampler sewn by a collective of cataract patients) that displays on my phone and I then hold in front of a specialized scanner to automagically debit my bank account for the amount due. If I want to include a tip, there's a sliding scale from 0 - 50% and the app does the math for me, adding it to the total by reformatting the QR code. The very first time I used the app I felt very tech-savvy... not realizing the tip slider was set at the maximum level. I thought the server gave me a hug and a kiss because I was a such a charming patron; I now realize he may have had a different motivation for that reaction.

I've become a more generous tipper as I've gotten older, and perhaps by now you realize it's not due to increasing magnanimity but because I: a) can't figure out how much to leave, b) can't properly utilize my phone apps, or c) still think it might lead to a quick make-out session with a member of the waitstaff. This last explanation tends to happen when the tab includes significant expenditures for alcohol. In this instance the math does become visceral, regardless of payment option, since I become the "1" that has to be carried -- out of the bar.

Have You Ever...?

... pulled a frozen pizza out of the oven and realize you'd also "baked" the cardboard platter on the bottom?

... completed a very productive session in the bathroom and then pulled the last 3 sheets of toilet paper off the roll?

... asked a clerk where something was in the store while you were standing right next to it?

... ignored the sender's "NSFW" warning and launched the video at work anyway -- as your boss walked up behind you?

... hit what you thought was the "mute" button to offer a derogatory comment about the person leading a conference call -- but then realized it was the "pound" button and they'd heard what you just said?

... complimented new parents in the aisle on their baby's good looks and asked what his name was -- and it's a little girl?

... farted when you thought you were alone -- but you weren't?

... sipped from someone else's water glass during a business dinner?

... offered a scathing rebuke to a co-worker's statement several forwards down in an email chain and then hit "Reply All" -- with the co-worker included on the distro?

... called your wife or girlfriend "Mom" during a heated argument?

... checked out an entire cart-ful of groceries and then realized you'd forgotten your wallet?

... had the dental hygienist tell you to "open wide" -- and then she paused and requested that you brush your teeth before continuing?

... refereed the fight your kids were having in the backseat by offering withering glances via the rear-view mirror -- and then smacked into the car stopped in front of you?

... told a co-worker during a casual lunchroom conversation that you think organized religion is "idiotic" -- and then found out her spouse is a minister?

... rushed into the bathroom between meetings and noticed on your way to the next one that you've got a pee stain on your pants?

... jokingly asked a co-worker wearing a suit in a workplace where jeans are the norm if he was going to a funeral -- and he was?

... watched helplessly as the empty shopping cart you just launched across the parking lot toward the collection area veered into the side of a car?

... wandered aimlessly through Talbot's while your wife was trying on outfits and found yourself singing along to the store's piped-in version of "Lost In Love" by Air Supply -- in the middle of the lingerie section -- amidst the other shoppers?

Yeah -- me neither...

I'm Such An Idiom

A journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step. It ends with your significant other refusing to speak to you and flying home early.

Early to bed and early to rise works only if you don't have upstairs neighbors.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That's why I tell my wife our dinner reservation is at 7:00 when it's really at 7:30.

Too many cooks spoil the broth. Hence, canned soup.

Bad news travels fast. Who told you we're coming to visit for the holidays?

Clothes don't make the man. Children in third-world countries make the clothes.

He who laughs last never sees the angry fist coming his way.

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. At least, that's what my cardiologist billed me for.

A clear conscience is a soft pillow. I haven't slept well in months.

A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger. I'm angry that I don't know what the word "grievous" meaneth.

A wise man makes his own decisions, an ignorant man follows the public opinion. What do the rest of you think?

Flattery makes friends and truth makes enemies, so please ask someone else to tell you how you look in that outfit.

Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he'll eat forever. He'll also be gone every weekend.

How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself. But I forget to empty the dishwasher one lousy time...

Actions speak louder than words. I said, "ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS."

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow / Don't walk behind me, I may not lead / Just walk beside me and be my friend / But enough with the talking already.

The first half of our lives are ruined by our parents, and the second half by our children. The third half of our lives are ruined by our mathematicians.

No man is a failure who is enjoying life. Are we out of beer again?

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes.

Whom we love best, to them we can say least. That's why the missus and I aren't on speaking terms.

Master Of My Domain Name

Hello regular readers of my blog (all seven of you). Before I forget, please update your bookmark to:

• www.factsoptional.com

You can, if you wish, skip the "dub-dub-dub" but it's so much more fun to say that.

Getting this URL (which is pronounced "You-Are-Ell going to misspell the address") to function properly with my blog site was a bit of a struggle. I had to see if the domain name was available; it was, so then I needed to purchase it. There are a multitude of online companies that facilitate this transaction, all with varying come-ons and pricing schemes. I could have paid as little as $6.99 or as much as $25 to "own" the domain for a year, all conditional on whether I added web hosting, email, online calendars, tinted windows or surround sound.

I decided for a two-year, bare-bones option through GoDaddy.com. They've made a name for themselves over the last few years through their Super Bowl commercials which feature Danica Patrick and were, until this year, always deemed too suggestive to be shown in their entirety during the broadcast. This year they went "cute" -- it was still Danica but instead of featuring her figure, they positioned her as the Donald Trump of the Speedway and somehow it was all tied in to helping a woman quit her day job to fulfill her lifelong dream of starting her own company to make puppets. I was going to say GoDaddy now has a hand in the puppet business but you likely got there before I did.

Anyway, I ran into some difficulty dropping the "www." and still getting the URL to forward to the blog site, so I ended up contacting GoDaddy's online product support. I was told to delete a "parked IP address" via my "zone file editor" and all would be well. Now, I work with software engineers and web designers and am fairly entrenched in their processes and I had NO fuckin' idea what I was being asked to do. But I dutifully followed the instructions and within minutes everything was working perfectly. My online chat support agent was named Heather, and I commended her on her insights and typing skills and then asked if she'd like to move to a private chat room to see where else we might like to park my IP address. Chat session terminated.

Another confusing element in this activity was the discovery that there's another blog with the address "factsoptional.blogspot.com". I think that one is written by someone who isn't me but am not sure since I read through some of her posts and we share uncannily parallel interests in obscenities along with disdain for the working environment (if that's not redundant). However, my blog soul-mate seems to have been laying low since last summer. Maybe she's distracted by trying to launch a puppet business.

Here's a puppet riddle I just came up with:

     Why did the puppet decline an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner?
     He was afraid someone would knock the stuffing out of him.

Once you stop laughing at that one -- oh, you're all set; OK -- here's another riddle:

     Why didn't they release The King's Speech in Brazil?
     Because they couldn't find someone to dub-dub-dub the dialogue into Portuguese.

Guess I won't quit my day job either. Much to my employer's regret.

Blow Me

I recently had another birthday and again wasn't gifted with what I really wanted -- an harmonica.

I've been hinting at wanting one for many years, having offered subtle hints and suggestions along the lines of:

• "Wow! Did you hear that guy wailing on an harmonica? Sure wish I had one so I could learn to play."
• "Honey, do you know anyone who plays an harmonica? No? Well, I know what would change that..."
• "What would I like for my birthday? Gee, I'd really love an harmonica."

Now, please don't think I'm one of those "make a fuss over me because it's My Special Day" sort of people -- I'm not, I'm really not. Quite frankly, I'd be happiest if there were no acknowledgment whatsoever regarding the occasion. Birthdays are an odd celebration to begin with, since the accomplishment they are recognizing is that you managed not to die during the previous year. It's an anniversary, but not like a wedding anniversary -- a wedding anniversary is supposed to commemorate that one or the other of you managed to attract a mate and, despite your in-laws' efforts to the contrary, continue to live together and possibly even share a joint checking account. There's some effort involved. It's something you choose to do. The "event" that perhaps merits celebration regarding our births should be the anniversary of the date when our parents decided to engage in the act of sexual congress that later resulted in our slippery entrance into the world. For many of you, your parents were so enamored of each other that their passion resulted in you being born just nine months after they married. Or, in my case, being born just six months after.

A birthday is different - none of us choose to be born, much less on a specific date. A birthday just means you managed to plod through another 12 months of dreary existence on this earth while avoiding being sneezed upon and contracting swine flu, or run over by a bus, or "accidentally" mixing prescription drugs and cinnamon schnapps. What little effort may have been expended in these avoidance maneuvers is minimal at most. So, cheerful sort that I am, I'm happy for my birthday to be just another ordinary day of avoiding sneezes and buses. But -- if my wife or son ask, "What do you want for your birthday?" and I offer a gentle and unobtrusive suggestion such as "I'd like some warm socks" or "I'd enjoy going out for a hamburger" or, most significantly, "I'D LIKE AN HARMONICA", then dammit! they'd better gimme those socks/that burger/AN HARMONICA.

Actual conversation, reproduced verbatim and occurs every year:

• WIFE: "What kind of birthday cake would you like?"
• ME: "I'd like a JELL-O cake."
• WIFE: "I am not making you a JELL-O cake."

She says a JELL-O cake is "gross". Well, I think potato salad is "gross" but I don't tell her she can't eat it, especially if she asked for it for her birthday (although I would not allow her to eat it anywhere within a thousand-yard proximity to me). Why doesn't she just tell me what kind of cake *she* would enjoy for my birthday? And then ask me to go to the store and pick one up?

See, this is exactly the kind of fracas I want to avoid by side-stepping the societal obligation to "celebrate" my birthday. It creates tension, angst, dissent, tumult... all feelings that leave me feeling rather blue. And what instrument best captures the essence of the blues? AN HARMONICA.

Am I the only one who sees the irony here? The one gift in the whole world that would make me happiest is precisely what I need to express my despair. Receiving an harmonica would fill me with such joy that I'd no longer have any need to play it.

Perhaps what I should get for my birthday is an oxymoron. Especially since I'm now starting to feel like one.

GPS-hole

In the car late yesterday, heading for one of the warehouse stores to stock up on some bulk supplies, after which we'll go out for dinner and then grocery shop for the week before heading home. Heading in the direction of our pre-last-summer's-move neighborhood, since we know where everything is up there but still can't find our way to the corner from our new apartment.

Car is in motion, about to enter the highway, when Carol asks if there's a branch of the store closer to where we now live. I reply if she can find it and direct us to the location, I'll go that way.

Out comes the smartphone and voilà! there's another store only half the distance away. Google Maps says "5.6 mi., 15 mins." Of course, we have *just* driven past the first exit we need to take, so I make a U-ey and head back on the other side of the road.

45 minutes, umpteen missed turns and 2 screaming matches later, we still haven't found the "closer" store. "F*ck it! I'm not going to f*cking BJ's now! I don't know where the f*ck I am!" I calmly state. Carol responds in a huff, "Perhaps if we pull over for a moment..." Christ Almighty! She sure knows how to push my buttons.

As we start to head back toward where we think we live, we pass a supermarket on our left. I rapidly reassess our plans and decide to mitigate any further risk by moving grocery shopping to the top of our remaining priorities for the evening. At the intersection, I expertly veer across two lanes of oncoming traffic, fly into the lot and glide to a stop in an open space, just barely crumpling the fender of the car parked facing us.

We enter the store and find ourselves in the produce section. Carol prods me: "Would you like some salad tonight?" "NO!" I tranquilly respond. "Do we need any cold cuts?" "I HAVE NO F*CKING IDEA!" "How many jalapeños do you want for the chili?" "HAVEN'T YOU EVER MADE CHILI BEFORE?" "If I make sausage and peppers this week, will you want some?" "I HATE SAUSAGE AND PEPPERS!" "What kind of ice cream do you want?" "I DON'T... uh, Peanut Butter Cup."

After we check out and put our groceries in the car, Carol says she's happy to drive home if I prefer to navigate. "Good," I think to myself, "she recognizes her limitations." I quickly pull up the directions home and promptly point us toward the wrong exit from the parking lot. "Jesus," I think to myself, "she can't use the GPS and she can't drive, either..."

After missing several road signs since it's now dark out, we finally find ourselves on a road with which Carol is familiar and she gets us home in just a few more minutes. I bring in the groceries while Carol throws our frozen pizza in the oven, and by the time everything's put away and the cats -- who have been underfoot since the moment we walked back into the house, no doubt reacting to Carol's mood -- are fed, dinner is ready.

We sit on the couch with our slices, flipping on the TV and ready to decompress from our brief excursion gone horribly wrong. The tension between us appears to be dissipating. I don't intend to make a big deal out of this mishegas and am prepared to forgive Carol for her earlier unwarranted outbursts.

I take a bite of my pizza and burn the f*cking sh*t out of my mouth. I can't believe Carol is still being so petty AND she's willing to have me suffer second-degree burns just so she can settle the score between us? I glare at her -- she is watching the TV, not looking at me. Oh, she is SO evil -- she doesn't even glance in my direction to see if her cunning effort has succeeded. Fuming, I take another bite of my pizza and again burn the f*cking sh*t out of my mouth. My GOD this woman is so vindictive.

After we finish our pizza, I extract my revenge. I cheerfully offer to get ice cream for both of us and short her one scoop. Then the pièce de résistance -- I recommend we watch Woody Allen's To Rome With Love, telling her the star-studded cast combined with the filmmaker’s pedigree ensures it will be hilarious.

Heh-heh-heh. Talk about mis-direction…