What Goes Around

I walked into the overflowing radiology waiting room, rubbing my hands with gel sanitizer for at least the fifth time since arriving at the hospital. I'm not a germaphobe, I swear, it's just that those little wall dispensers are everywhere and the constant stream of coughing, bleeding people wheeling past has a way of making a quick scrub always seem like a good idea.

While the door swung slowly shut behind me, my eyes darted around the room in search of a precious empty seat. As much as my screaming back wanted me to sit! sit anywhere! sit on someone's lap!, I forced myself to be a bit more cautious.

I immediately ruled out a few available spaces -- next to the woman in the burqa on the one-and-a-half person love seat (I'm sure she wouldn't have minded, I just felt almost offensively male at the thought of it); amidst the loudmouthed gaggle of retirees bragging to each other about their texting abilities (no explanation needed, I hope); in between two children who appeared to have very recently been very sick all over their T-shirts (likewise).

Finally, mercifully, I spotted an open chair in the far corner next to an overgrown-looking fake plant. I gingerly eased myself into the seat and looked around for the nearest sanitizer dispenser, feeling about due for a refresher. Not seeing one - how was this possible? - I tried to keep from staring at the Vomit Twins and leafed through the tattered pages of a June 2005 Newsweek.

This Newsweek, an even more ancient People magazine, and a "Say No To Tobacco" pamphlet later, I finally got called in and had my X-ray and CT scans performed. On my way out, I asked if I could get a couple of copies of the images from the scans (one to send to my doctor uncle, and one to add to my open-in-case-of-Lyme-disease medical file).

The middle-aged nurse - "Tami," I think - who I'd charmed earlier by referring to the preposterous outfit the orderly had instructed me to change into - underwear, flip-flops, and two hospital gowns, one forward, one backward ("so nobody sees your underwear") - as my "Jesus costume" (picture the entire ensemble, and add in a 4-month beard), was more than happy to oblige. She said she'd call ahead to the Film Library on the first floor, and that everything would be ready when I showed up.

Well, I don't want to blame someone as kind and comedically-discerning as Tami, but something definitely got crossed up somewhere between the 8th and 1st floors. I showed up at the Film Library just like I was supposed to, but no one was expecting my arrival, and nothing was ready. The attendant (librarian?), a pouty, slothlike specimen named Beth, stared at me through her locked office door with the enthusiasm of someone about to have her toenails ripped out.

When it became painfully apparent that, yes, I was there to see her, and no, I wasn't conversant in her personal dialect of American Sign Language, she sighed, shuffled over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it narrowly enough that I wouldn't feel invited to step inside. I apologized for the inconvenience and explained my request as politely as possible.

"Two copies?" she asked, looking at me like I'd asked her to do a backflip off the top of her desk. "Two copies?" she asked again, wielding her repetition like a mighty whiny sword against the perceived outrageousness of my request. "We'll have to charge you for the second one and it'll take a while, 30 or 40 minutes at least," she said.

For a brief moment, I felt a nearly overpowering urge to headbutt her in the brain. I'm not a violent person - to recap: not a germaphobe and not violent - but a relatively sane soul can only take so much.

Here I was, a patient in a hospital, asking a staff member to do, oh I don't know, exactly what her employer pays her to, and she acts like I'm the one who's somehow being unreasonable. And 30 to 40 minutes (at least!) to burn two CDs? They do appendectomies in less time than that! I'd literally make better time if I had a surgeon physically insert two copies of my scans into my abdomen than if I waited around for Beth Gates and her supercomputer.

Still, as it almost always somehow does, the logical 10% of my brain reeled in the emotional remainder and restrained me from any headbutting and unnecessary-if-lightning-fast surgical procedures. It convinced me that, as immediately satisfying as these two options might seem, simply pretending to be nice was my best chance of getting the two things that I most wanted out of the situation: my CDs and my revenge.

This is why I overlooked Beth's theatrics, apologized for interrupting her "busy" schedule, and thanked her for her "incredibly kind" help. It's why I sat in the lobby across the hall and watched CNN's round-the-clock coverage of Steve McNair's death and Michael Jackson's life for over an hour without complaint.

It's also why, when she finally emerged and wordlessly handed me my two discs, I waited until she slowly - oh-so-slowly - turned around and slithered back into her office, then I taped a "Free Candy, Just Knock!" sign, at optimal child viewing height, right next to her door.

I'd like to think the Vomit Twins were all over it on their way out.

Burrs, Etc.

I passed through the last of the waist-high underbrush and entered the stand of white pines at the top of the hill. Breathing heavily, I sat down on a fallen trunk, both to catch my breath and to pick the tangle of burrs out of my knee-high socks. There were at least a few dozen of them - burrs, not socks - and I was in no hurry as I removed them one by one and savored the fragrant forest air.

It was true that I'd only embarked upon this hike to ensure that whatever is wrong with my back would be as visible as possible during tomorrow's latest round of scans (no, not those scans), but neither this fact nor my pain scale "frowny face" were able to diminish my delight at being outside and active on such a perfect summer day.

After a few minutes of plucking, my breath was back and my socks were cleaned, and I was ready to resume walking. I surveyed the rest of my clothing as I stood up, making sure I hadn't missed anything. It all looked fine. Shirt, clear. Shorts, clear. Wait.

Wait.

There it was. One last burr, this one lodged in the hair of my right leg, just above the top of my sock and just below my kneecap.

As I leaned over to extricate it, I marveled at how it could cling to something so insubstantial as a couple of hairs.

Then it moved.

The burr moved.

I froze.

It moved again.

I took a closer look at it, and as soon as I did, I exhaled with relief. It was just one of those little jumping spiders. You know the ones: dark gray, a little bigger than a match head, jump all over the place but are totally harmless. That's all it was.

I flicked it off my leg.

At least I tried to. It didn't budge.

I flicked it again. A direct hit. Nothing. It simply crawled (burrowed?) further along (into!) my leg.

Right then, I knew. This wasn't any harmless little jumping spider; it was a tick. A filthy, life-sucking tick, and it was everything I could do to keep from immediately gouging it out of my leg, caveman-style, with the nearest sharp rock.

Fortunately (for my leg, if not my cave cred), I remembered reading somewhere that ticks had to be removed very carefully to minimize the extent to which their disease-infested body parts and fluids entered the host's bloodstream. This meant that as much as I valued the Sharp Rock Technique's positives (immediate parasite removal, productive use of natural resources, cavewoman turn-on) even in the face of its notable negatives (hole in leg, possible tetanus, possible bleed-out, cavewoman turn-on), the significantly-increased risk of Lyme Disease was just enough to steer me towards a more modern approach.

This settled, I double-timed it back to the trail head, the whole time my mind attempting to trick me into thinking my leg was falling off - it's a tick, not a rattlesnake, mind!, and drove home at approximately four times the speed limit.

Once there, I quickly confirmed that fire, petroleum jelly, nail polish, alcohol, and any napalm-like combination thereof are all strictly discouraged approaches to tick removal. The recommended technique is simply a slow, steady, straight pull with flat tweezers.

With my wonderfully kind mother (i) supervising, (ii) overlooking my steady stream of cursing, and (iii) trying not to laugh (too hard) at my (ahem) slightly melodramatic performance, I finally tweezer-wrestled the little beast out of my leg after several heated minutes.

For the record, removing a tick is not at all like removing a really deep splinter. That's what I thought it would be like, but I was wrong. Splinters don't have scrambly little claw-legs and anchors for heads. This was more like pulling a lion off of a zebra with two broom handles. Fortunately, I'm an overcomer. Also fortunately, I'm pretty sure the entire process allowed me to flare my back up into a pain scale "crying face" in preparation for tomorrow.

Win-win.

P.S. - While conducting the above-referenced emergency research, I discovered that once you've extracted the tick, you're supposed to save and freeze its carcass so that if it infected you with something and you start to die, your medical professional can thaw it out and analyze it and figure out how to save you. Or maybe it's just to make things easier for whoever does your autopsy. I don't know.

P.P.S. - The reason the tweezers are in the freezer bag with my vanquished attacker is that after I finally removed it from my leg, it latched onto the them instead. Not interested in tweezing the tweezers, I just decided I'd just freeze everything and sort it all out later.

P.P.P.S. - The reason that I didn't take any gory pictures of the live tick while it was still eating my leg is that I was too focused on bravery and research and not dying to waste time on your entertainment. I'm sorry.

Crash Out

A couple of weeks ago, an apparently orphaned baby raccoon moved into the hollow tree in my parents' backyard. Partly because I possess an inordinately kind soul, partly because I'm bored out of my mind waiting for my stupid back to finally get well, but mostly because I'm an idiot, I began putting little pieces of fruit up on the branch just outside his hole.

I also named him - "Crash," both because he reminds me a bit of a certain bandicoot, and because he slips and staggers around his tree about as gracefully as a drunken toddler. Truly, I've never seen a climbing animal that so regularly looked so likely to fall, and fall catastrophically. It's quite endearing.

But after several exciting days of leaving fruit and watching him bumble after it, leaving fruit and watching him bumble after it, I began to dementedly dream of much more. I just needed to gradually transition from these hit-and-run food drops to feeding him directly with a stick, I told myself, and from there it'd be but a few short steps to feeding him by hand, becoming fast friends, and traipsing adventurously through the woods together.

Yes, I really thought this. And yes, it could hardly be more insane. Me and my trusty sidekick, the raccoon. It's like some bizarre offspring of a Beverly Cleary book and one of those prison rehabilitation programs where inmates train seeing eye puppies.

But wait. It gets worse.

Because, you see, I actually did transition to go-go-gadget fruit kabobs. I actually did directly feed him two strawberries that I'd skewered at the end of a long stick. And for an instant, visions of old-timey children's literature once again danced through my addled head. Danny and His Raccoon or Danny and Crash, something like that. It was wonderful.

But as quickly as it began, this reverie came to a, well, crashing halt.

For as I continued to help this incredibly cute, incredibly endearing little creature consume approximately half its body weight in fruit, it hit me. Hard, and with lots of exclamation points. This wasn't a pet! It was a raccoon! Raccoons eat garbage! And spread diseases! Like right down this stick and right onto my hand and right this second!

And just like that, I knew.

I knew that Crash and I weren't the stars of a 1950s adventure book, no matter how much I wanted us to be. I knew that when baby raccoons grow up they become adult raccoons. And I knew that the only long-term relationship possible between an adult raccoon and an adult human is the kind that kept Davy Crockett's head warm right up until it got blown off at the Alamo. I knew all of these things.

It's just that no matter what I knew, or what I know, or how pointedly I've been trying to discuss this little forest fantasy in the past tense, I'm still having trouble not taking a little snack out there right now. He's just so cute. And I'm just so bored. And so kind. I'm so kind.

So shouldn't I just give him one more strawberry? Just one? The bubonic plague can't be that bad, can it?

The Ginger Prince

I'm delighted to say that I have very bad news. Not for myself, of course - I'm not insane - and not for you, either - how terrible a person do you think I am? - but rather for your cousin or your co-worker or anyone else obnoxious enough to believe that they're in possession of The World's Greatest Child.

Please don't get me wrong. I love children. I do. I just don't love entitled little brats or the preening, coddling parents who make them possible. This is why what happened during the Italy-Brazil match at the Confederations Cup soccer tournament this past Sunday was so wonderful.

There were actually two things.

The first was the Brazilian freak show (this could have an entirely non-wonderful double meaning) that, in combination with the surprising U.S. victory over Egypt, allowed us to sneak into the tournament semifinals. This was a truly amazing turn of events (if slightly eclipsed by Wednesday's stunner over #1-ranked Spain), but is completely irrelevant to our current discussion.

The second reason for the match's noteworthiness, however, is entirely relevant to us, for it was nothing less than the internationally-televised coronation of The Official World's Greatest Child.

I came perilously close to laughing myself into a heart attack when I saw it live, and I think Paddy might have had a minor seizure (sometimes it's hard to tell with him; he's a Silent Laugher). Fortunately, we both survived, and as amazing as the match and the day's results had otherwise been, it was still the only thing that either of us wanted to talk about afterward. I can't tell you how overjoyed I am to have found it online and to be able to share it with you now:

Incredible, right? Unquestionably The World's Greatest, right?

The determination, the enthusiasm, the delicate index finger recalibration of the Klondike stylus right before the forehead smear coup de grâce. I'm still speechlessly in awe of this young man, several dozen viewings later.

So let it be known - officially and conclusively - all you derangedly self-impressed, ceaselessly-trumpeting parents out there. Your little Harpers and Averys and Madisons may be good, they may be great, but they will never, ever be The Greatest.

Magic Chair

I'll admit it. No matter how hard I've crossed my eyes, or how long I've stared, or how devotedly I've followed any of the other vision-endangering "tips," I've never been able to see the 3-D images hidden in those "Magic Eye" posters.

In fact, several years ago, the owner of a little bookstore actually informed me that, since I'm nearsighted in one eye but not the other (we'd been discussing my difficulties rather extensively), it was physically impossible for my brain to see in 3-D.

Now, to be fair, this gentleman probably would have said anything to keep me from manhandling any more of his merchandise in my desperate bid to gain entry into The Awesome People Who Can See The Secret Pictures Club. Also to be fair, I'm not sure how many bookmongers are qualified to make ophthalmological diagnoses. Still, the man's words wounded me. Deeply. And despite all of the time that's passed and how much of it I've spent in the specialty sections of Borders and Barnes and Noble, I've yet to prove him wrong.

So maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe it's just my still-unfulfilled need to see something - anything - hidden or subtle or mysterious, whether it's a magical 3-D image or something very different.

And this, o friendly and perceptive reader, is where you come in.

I need you provide a neutral assessment of the photograph below. Was I losing my mind as I stood in the exam room at the doctor's office earlier today, or is there indeed a suspiciously-colored, suspiciously-located stain on the seat of this chair?

In case your vision isn't that great (or you're nearsighted in one eye but not the other), I've magnified the photo, zoomed in on the suspicious area, and circled it in red:

Can there really be any doubt?

There is something there! I am able to see hidden images! Take that you hateful shrew of a bookman!

Of course, there are really only two possibilities as to the identity of such a stain, and neither of them are proper subjects for discussion on a family website. Neither are they proper subjects for sitting upon, which is why I politely, then forcibly, declined to make use of this chair when encouraged, then ordered, to do so by the lumpy nurse that eventually arrived.

Urgent Message of Infinite Wisdom

Unless you want your throat to feel like it's just had one of those lung-cancery cigarette-smoking holes cut out of it, do not - repeat, do not - under any circumstances swallow Crest Pro-Health toothpaste.

Okay, that's all. You may now return to your (less urgent, less wise) regularly scheduled program.

Persuasion, or, The Carrot and the Stick, Reversed

I took this picture in the parking lot at the injection doctor's on Friday. I was having a bit of trouble figuring out how exactly to orient my phone to capture both decals and enough of the van to provide context - my art is my obsession - so I ended up standing in the position reflected here, directly behind the rear window, for a good deal longer than expected.

As I moved left and right to change the angle, and switched from vertical to horizontal back to vertical a few dozen times, I couldn't help but chuckle at the contrast between the two stickers.

Then, I thought a little harder about the gun one and the type of person who might apply such a thing to a vehicle and my chuckling sputtered into more of an awkward cough.

Then, I noticed the silhouette of a human head emerge from the outline of the vehicle's driver seat and the cough staggered into a panicky wheeze.

Had I been spotted? How long had I been standing there - and - God help me - laughingly taking pictures - in open defiance of the "Please Go Away" sticker? How long did it take to load a Glock?

All good questions, these, and I pondered them thoroughly as I sprint-limped 50 yards across the pavement, up a handicapped ramp, through two of those impossibly-slow-moving automatic doors, and into the relative safety of the waiting room.

Fortunately, I was neither pursued nor fired upon, and no one in the office seemed to think it too unusual for a patient to return for a little extra waiting after his appointment. Even better, twenty minutes and at least that many peeks out the window later, the Gunmobile peaceably departed and I was able make my escape. For now, at least.

Get Out Of My Face

Why am I still getting 900 Facebook "suggestions" a day based upon the profile of some spaz I "removed as a friend" two weeks ago for this very reason?

Is it possible to still get suggestions from someone's Facebook ghost? Do I have to actually "remove" him in real life to make this stop? Why do I even visit this stupid site at all? Someone please help.

Things I Ate Tonight

Dinner: Pork Chops, Steamed Barley, and Beet Greens (tasted just like spinach). This was a delicious and happily-eaten meal that resulted in nothing more than a comfortably mild fullness.

Dessert #1: Two Pounds of Cherries. This was a horrible and tragic mistake, certain to result in much worse than any sort of fullness. It took pace as I sat outside after the aforementioned pleasant dinner, enjoying the beautiful summer evening and "a few" pieces of this perfect summer fruit. As day slowly meandered towards night, I gazed dreamily into the quietly exhaling sky and contemplated profound, existential issues like what the world record for pit spitting distance might be and how close I must be coming to breaking it. I pondered where I might find a tape measure.

Suddenly, shockingly, as I reached into the two-pound bag from which I'd been eating, I realized that in the brief time I'd been outside, it had somehow morphed from mostly full to completely empty. I immediately examined it, inside and out, for holes, space-time distortions, hermit crabs - anything that might indicate I hadn't just eaten approximately 20 times the recommended daily intake of fiber - but found nothing. I tried as hard as I could to avoid thinking about what this meant, gastrointestinally speaking, failed almost immediately, then put the stupid bag in my stupid pocket and glared at the stupid sky.

Dessert #2: One Unidentified, Golf-Ball-Sized Insect (tasted nothing like spinach). If the cherry overdose was a mistake, this was an unmitigated catastrophe. As I sat cursing and pouting and vowing to never again allow myself access to more than a single serving of anything, I somehow left my mouth gaping wide open enough for this 1/160 scale Hindenburg to buzz right in and crash right down my throat. It may have happened right at the apex of an especially heartfelt swear; it may have happened as I barked back at some jogger's noisy dog. It's hard to say. Regardless, the 15 minutes of tuberculous hacking that ensued wouldn't have even been so bad if it'd at least forced a few of the cherries back up, but, of course, it didn't. The bug/bat was eventually dislodged, but the little fiberbombs were left unmolested, free to wreak their havoc in the very near future. If only I'd swallowed a hermit crab instead.

May The Flower Be With You, Part III: "The Final Five"

If you feel as if you've already had much more than your fill of (i) Penguins posts, (ii) inside jokes, and/or (iii) my Internet coloring book, you're probably going to want to stop reading right here.

If you somehow don't yet feel this way, you're either unhealthily kind or unhealthily deranged. Whichever it is, we're now officially friends (these things almost always go hand in hand (in hand)).

And with that, my official friends, I present you the final commemorative series of Penguins Patches. From this point forward, I'll be applying my limited skills and unlimited time to getting my new senior portrait / fortunetelling combo venture off the ground. Let me know if you or anyone you know might be interested in a somewhat-non-traditional, magical-good-luck commemoration of their educational experience. Thanks!

The Margie Patch. Featuring the only resident Penguins fan not yet represented, it was moved directly to the top of the queue after what can only be described a frighteningly polite terroristic threat. PS - I told you she loved Jordy. PPS - Yes, that really is a frozen banana on a stick.

The Maxie Patch. I shouldn't have to explain why he's one of The Final Five, but if you'd like a little insight into what the "superstar" title is all about, and how it predates his Game 7 theatrics, feast your eyes on this.

The Flower Patch. The only reason that my favorite Penguin had to wait this long to get his own patch was that I was already wearing a lucky Flower shirt for all of the games and didn't want to disrupt the mojo. If you think I wouldn't really vote for him if they ever changed the Constitution and he decided to give it a shot, you don't know me as well as our blossoming (get it? (sorry!)) friendship might indicate.

The Sid Patch. I don't believe it's physically possible to stare at it for more than 30 seconds without (i) reflexively imagining shaving his face (or your own), or (ii) blowing your brains out. As a self-congratulatory side note, although it doesn't hold up terribly well under magnification because I had to make it so small, that's some pretty flashy metallic text.

The Mario Patch. Do owners usually come down onto the ice and grab the cup? Is there a rinkside employee on the planet who'd have had the guts to tell Mario Lemiuex that he wasn't supposed to? The text is one the all-time greatest calls from one of the all-time greatest announcers in any sport, Mike Lange.