Is there a doctor in the house?

 I visited a COVID clinic to get tested.  Courtesy of a medical app I was able to see the notes the doc left regarding my visit.  These are the notes with my comments interrupting in italics.

Nasopharyngeal aspirate swab as per IPAC/Public Health 

Yes, it was a painful as this sounds

The patient has been instructed to return home for self-isolation x 14 days (instructions written out and given) 

I guess he gave this to me with invisible ink...on invisible paper.  He neither said this nor gave me written instructions.

They should await call from public health with follow-up of results and Should they develop worsening SOB, 

...you calling me an SOB??

dyspnea,

I ordered that from McDonald's the other day with large fries

cough or fever, lethargy or inability to tolerate PO intake 

I hate it when my PO intake sucks

then they should call public health so that they may be brought to ED 

I take pills for ED

for reassessment.  The patient has been asked to follow up with their primary care physician in 2-3 days for reassessment. 

...this must also be on that invisible piece of paper...

I should get my results back in a few days.  Can't wait to read the results.  It'll probably tell me I tested negative...for malaria....

What I Should Have Known

I didn't know what I should have known

And the thoughts I received deceived my own

My dreams were fancy and spoke of hope

With a wrought-iron future and bound with rope


Too meek to speak to the one with truth

Seeking stamps of approval to provide the proof

With needs comes wants and wants come bare

Without the need to want to be fair


In fact I claim to have won the race

And dare to spare the grin on my face

As I act and want and think and condone

If I didn't know what I should have known

Halfway

 *Warning:  This is damn-long.  If you want the Coles Notes version...well, there isn't one.  What do I look like?  Shakespeare?*

I've always thought of myself as being an optimist -- or at least trying to think positively.  When going through a rough patch -- my late teens, my early 30's, the entire year of 2020 -- I try to remember to "face forward" and look to the future.  I want to focus on the things I can control and change instead of dwell on what might have been.

**The beginning**

About a month ago I was visiting a provincial park about 12 hours north of me called Sleeping Giant -- Google it, it's gorgeous -- and I was on what turned out to be about a 4 hour hike.  I was alone.  Literally.  I saw no other human being for the entire 4 hours.  Now, as relatively new diabetic, that probably wasn't a smart move on my part -- more on this later -- but it got me to thinking about one of my strongest "facing forward" thoughts.

Years ago I was a half-marathon runner and one of the ways I kept myself going during a run was the notion of being halfway.  Rather than thinking of the run as being 21 km (or 13 miles for you strange U.S. folks), I would focus on just getting to halfway.  I *knew* I could easily -- or "easily" -- run 10 km.  If I could just get to that point I'd be halfway and rather than counting up, I'd be counting down.  It would be a countdown towards the finish line.

I began applying this philosophy to all sorts of things in life:  A long-term goal, a project, a boring meeting, a long drive, a date...  I found it was helpful and almost exciting in a way:  I'm always looking forward!  Get halfway!  Perhaps even get halfway to halfway, then I'm counting down to the halfway point, then I'm counting down to the finish.  It worked!  It's great!

**Halfway**

Back to my hike in Sleeping Giant.  About 2 hours into my hike I reached a dead end on the trail, for the lack of a better word.  I could have kept going, but it would've been a lengthy, challenging walk that was above my skills (and equipment), and I realized I would have to turn and go back the way I came.

As I began to walk up a modestly steep slope on the path I notice I was labouring far more than I should.  I was drinking plenty of water.  My blood sugar was probably a bit lower than it should've been, and I forgot to bring sugar pills with me on the hike -- a big booboo on my part.  (Yes, I said booboo.  I don't see a problem with that.)

It struck me that part of the reason I was labouring a bit was because I was older.  You see, in my mind I'm still this 18 year old full of youthful energy, curiosity, and excitement.  However, my body disagreed with me.  Vehemently.  

I began to think about "facing forward":  I was more than halfway and I was counting down to getting back to my car.  It wasn't a 2 hour hike back, but 30 minutes to get to halfway of being halfway back.  My body was fading, but I kept reminding myself of facing forward.

But a new, disturbing though crept into my mind:  I'm more than halfway...in my life.

The Countdown

Suddenly the thought consumed me and overwhelmed me.  I'm 49.  Unless I live to something like 110, I'm more than halfway through my life.  Perhaps I'm more than two-thirds through life.  There was no rationalizing it; no making the thought go away:  I'm in the countdown portion of my life.  My 4 hour hike in Sleeping Giant was going from an amazing, scenic, secluded hike into a full-blown, panic-filled (and slightly diabetically dangerous) mid-life crisis.  Though, arguably I was past halfway.

Now, my life didn't flash before my eyes.  I didn't start sobbing uncontrollably.  I didn't go buy a ferrari.  (Ok, I *want* to buy a ferrari, but I can't drive stick, and I just got two speeding tickets, so I have to hold off on the whole fast car thing for now.)  But I did think back about some of the things I did and wished I had done.

I wished I was before halfway once again.  Given I have diabetes I wish I had eaten a hell of a lot more chocolate and a hell of a lot more cake.  I love cake now, but I cannot have it.  I wish I had taken up photography earlier.  I wish I hadn't been so damn shy as a child.  And I wish I wasn't halfway already.  

Already.

This is one countdown I cannot stop.  The conflict in my mind as I continued my journey back to the car was incredible.  How do I face forward with the biggest countdown I have.  How do I get excited about the fact I am counting down in life instead of counting up?

Halfway past halfway

My mind and body both were very tired during the final parts of my walk.  I found myself weaving down the path, almost as if I were a snake slowly making my way towards some distant prey.  I reached a fork in trail and I knew I had to go left, yet I stood at the trail signage reading it 4 and 5 times over to ensure I was going in the right direct.  (I'm pretty sure I was in a mild hypoglycemic state at this point.)

Interestingly, my thoughts were focused on wishing I could share with "you" -- whoever the hell you are -- this story, especially if you're younger. Especially if you're still counting up.

Counting up

When you're young, you think you're invincible.  You embrace life, take risks -- sometimes not even realizing it -- challenge yourself, challenge others, and look at the world in awe, fear, excitement, and trepidation.  

But you do not think about the fact you're counting up and counting up to halfway.  Once you reach halfway, you're counting down.  I wish I had thought of that.  I'm not sure what I would have done differently, but I would like to think I would've at least appreciated all those experiences more.

The end of the countdown

After staggering back to my car, I popped a couple of sugar pills, chugged more water, and closed my eyes.

I wish I had eaten more cake.

My First Facial Massage

**Important note:  This is about my massage and facial on my cruise.  What’d you think I was talking about?**
*Editor’s note:  Click-bait!*

Just to set the stage, I’ve had massages before, many times.  I’m also on a cruise right now in the middle of the Caribbean Sea just having left Bonaire.  (Yes, this was said to make all of you jealous – except for those of you who live in Bonaire.)

Without getting into details, I’ve had a bit of a rough year and I’ve been rather stressed (understating things a lot).  When I saw a flyer on the cruise for a 75 minute massage, I jumped at the chance as it’d been a few months.

Now, I’m well aware that most massages on a cruise are actually “massages” + a chance to upsell every spray, cream, oil, and foam they have in their cabinets and drawers.  “There.  Do you feel more relaxed?  I bet you’d feel even more relaxed if you tried our 1 ounce bottle of Ultra-Relax spray.  Just one spray per day will make you feel so happy.  It smells just like weed, and the bottle will last you 2 weeks.  It’s on sale for only $200…”

The lady doing my massage had a very thick accent and a very annoying laugh.  It’s not a bad thing she has an accent – I’m just horrible at understanding accents.  So when she said something like “Bleh bleh bleh underwear bleh bleh bleh…” I’m not sure if she was telling me to remove my underwear or keep it on.  I chose to keep it on.

She put her hands on my back and within moments I was in excruciating pain as she attempted to massage my back.  There was more popping sounds than a 5 year old kid with ADHD playing with bubble wrap.  “My goodness,” she exclaimed.  “You’re as hard as a rock!” 

Of course it’s as hard as a rock.  You’re literally shifting my entire spinal column based on how hard you’re pressing into my back.  I’m pretty sure my muscles don’t stretch that way.  She was making me more tense, not less. 

I asked her to go a bit lighter.  She replied with “Bleh bleh bleh.” And laughed.
She did not go a bit lighter. 

Perhaps she didn’t understand me.  Perhaps she thought I said “I already feel better.”  It’s difficult to speak when you’re wincing in pain as someone re-arranges your musculoskeletal system.

Like a steak being cooked to well-done, after 45 minutes, she flipped me over to do the other side.  I was excited about the potential scalp massage as I love scalp massages! 

Now I’m laying there, on my back, eyes closed, awaiting my scalp massage when I feel some wet things go over my eyes. 

*Editor’s note:  Again, this is click-bait!*

She had put cucumbers over my eyes!  I had not requested this, nor was I expecting it and I’ve never had this happen before.  Oddly enough, I somehow new they were cucumber slices.  I’m not sure how I knew – it’s not like I’ve sampled a variety of fruits and vegetables with my eyelids, but I seemed to intuitively know that’s what it was.

Now I’m not sure what the cucumbers were supposed to do, but I felt instinctively I should pour some vinegar and olive oil over my face with some slices of mozzarella and call it a day.  I’ve since been told that the cucumbers would help with age lines and puffiness.  All I can say is after the session I didn’t look 10 years younger, but I’m pretty sure the cucumber slices looked 10 years older, so perhaps there’s something to that.

Perhaps those of you that have had *coughs* facials before can help me with this next bit.  All I know is over the next 15 minutes, I’d feel her rub a cream all over my face…then wipe it off with a wet towel.  Then wipe on a *different* cream for a few minutes and wipe that one off with a towel. 

Then an oil.

Then some sort of scrub.

Then a cream.

But a different cream for the cheeks – the cheeks on my face!

I don’t think I’ve ever had that much of any substance on my face at any time.  *coughs*.  And she kept wiping it off over and over, so I guess it couldn’t have been that important.

Finally, while feeling relaxed with cucumbers doing what cucumbers do and covered in some sort of oily sheen, I hear this loud DING from a triangle next to my ear.  She softly told me that she was finished and I could get up – at least that’s what I *think* she said given I was deaf in that ear, and my other ear could only hear my heart pounding in fear.

After removing the cucumbers, she lectured me on a ‘de-stressing mist’ that I should use – I kid you not – and then handed me the bill.  Let’s just say I really could have used that de-stressing cream afterwards, not beforehand.

Interestingly, the moment I said I wasn’t interested in any sort of creams or mists, she said something to the effect of “Okthatsfinetalktoyoulateryoucangonowbye.” And opened the door.  Oh, and she laughed again.

I slithered to my room, leaving a slimy mess behind me that only slugs could appreciate.  I would have showered, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve created some sort of ecological disaster off the coast of Bonaire.

I’m no longer a facial virgin.  Can’t wait for my next one…

*Coughs*

What Happens in Vegas...Gets Blogged

I just returned from a trip to Las Vegas.  It was my first time ever visiting Vegas, so I have some observations and thoughts around my entire trip.  I'll get right to the point.  No one likes a talker; someone who rambles forever.  And ever.

Don't you hate that?

I do.

Totally.

The flight to Vegas
Wouldn't it be awesome if the pilots and staff got everyone in the mood for Vegas?  You should be able to make bets on various events occurring!

• 2:1 odds the pilot will do a rolling take-off
• An over/under on the altitude.  "Awwww, damn!  He only climbed to 38,000 feet and I had it at 38,500!"
• 10:1 odds someone gets caught smoking
• 100:1 odds someone is joining the mile-high club on your plane
• Even odds that Trump writes at least one executive order during the flight

Vegas

• My overall impression of Vegas:  Niagara Falls, but drier.
• I stayed at the Luxor Hotel.  As a Jew, I found that a bit odd and uncomfortable.
• To save a bit of time, I just gave random pit boss's my money.  I don't even bother doing the gambling part.  Saved me a lot of time.
• The cup sizes for soft drinks at the buffet was ridiculous!  They had small, medium, and olympic-sized pool.

The flight back home

I had a layover in Chicago.  Once the plane landed and got to the gate, we all made that mad rush to stand up and grab our bags from the overhead bin to leave.  However, the stewardess asked everyone to return to their seats.  Immediately I knew something was up.

Everyone sat down and three massive cops came on board the plane -- you know, the kind that can't even walk down the aisles without having to turn sideways.  

It was funny to watch everyone's reactions.  You could immediately tell who all the guilty people were on the plane.  There were so many people with looks of panic on their faces!

"OMG, how'd they know about the weed in my purse?!"

"Shit, the stewardess caught me watching that pirated movie!"

"Seriously?  I'm going to get busted for not putting my phone in airplane mode?"

The cops surrounded a guy -- as best as one can be surrounded on a plane -- and escorted him off.  Can you imagine being the guy seated next to him?  You see these cops walking right towards you and you have every single petty crime you've committed running through your head.  

As it turns out, the guy had been caught smoking in the washroom twice during the flight -- a big no-no.  As I left the plane, the guy was surrounded by a total of 6 burly cops.  I think that was pretty much the entire compliment of cops in the entire airport.  Chaos ensued while this guy was busted for smoking.

Baggage

Hey, here's an idea:  Wouldn't it be handy to know your bags were lost *before* you get to the carousel and wait for an hour as you watch the crowd slowly dwindle away?  Don't you feel like a loser when that second-to-last person grabs their bags and looks at you with that knowing smile: "You suck."

Look, the baggage handler scans each bag.  They *know* which bags made it on the plane.  In fact, they'll remove the bags from the plane if the bags are on but the passenger didn't check in.

So if John Smith boards the plane, but there is no scan for John Smith's bags, can't some computer compare the lists and alert John Smith either on the plane or right after?  It would be angering to get off the plane and be told your bags didn't make it, but at least you can begin to make plans immediately.  

Instead of spending an hour by the carousel, you can spend an hour clearing customs and filling out those forms they ask you to fill out.

"Well, it was luggage.  It had clothes in it.  It is rectangular in shape.  And I'd like to have it back, please.  I gave it to you, so I kind of figured I'd get it back later.  Kthanx."

"Don't worry, sir.  I'm sure we'll have your luggage found and delivered to you by tomorrow."

"Wanna bet?"

Don't go breakin' my heart

I'm watching the US elections from up here in Canada and man oh man, I must say it's quite entertaining! (Notice how I went from dog shit to the elections.)

Editor's note: The following views are meant in jest and used for entertainment purposes only. They are not the actual views of the writer, blogger.com, or any other sane human being

I swear it's almost like watching some sort of demented reality show. I'm waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out on election day and point to the cameras screaming that we've all been punk'd and then introduce the real candidates: Joe Biden and someone whose last name is Bush. (There seems to be a good dozen of them, I think, so pick one.)

It's like choosing between the liar and the sociopath. And you know what's interesting about what I just said? The labels are interchangeable. They apply to both candidates.

George Carlin, the comedian for all you young folks, had it right. “In America, anyone can become president. That's the problem.”

Trump scares me. He's full of little asides, conspiracies and catch-phrases, but I've yet to hear about a coherent policy that lasted longer then 5 minutes before he changed his mind. I honestly think he wants to get elected so he can re-brand the White House to be Trump Mansion and Casino and offer free cases of wine to visiting heads of state.

Hilary scares me. Every time I watch her, I feel like she's petting me on the head and there-thereing me. "Awwww, don't be scared of the taxes and the big, bad, email scandal. It's all ok. I'll take care of it. You just keep your head down and pretend to be happy."

Ultimately, when I'm voting in an election -- a Canadian election, thank goodness -- the question I ask myself is: Who do I want sitting at the table across from other leaders during a G20 summit? It's 'easy' to govern at home. You can say whatever shit you want and people will agree or disagree with you but otherwise go abouts their business.

But you can't do that around foreign leaders. You can't tell off a country. You cannot tell a leader to go fuck themselves. Well, I mean, you can, and if they're hot and all, maybe you join them in some kinky "international trade".

If you tell off the wrong guy, suddenly all the electronics being shipped into the country triple in price or suddenly oil seems to stop being shipped over, or someone decides to 'oops' a missile launch that slams into the U.S. I mean if it lands in West Virginia, who cares, but beyond that...

Speaking of Russians... (watch the segue here) ... I was visiting a cardiologist's clinic the other day and damn if I wasn't accosted by three large Russian technicians. Now in some circles that might be exciting, but I'm more of a square kinda guy.

I had to get an ultrasound of my heart, followed by a heart stress test, followed by them attaching a monitor to measure my heart rate for 48 hours. (If you want to know why I needed this done, have your people contact my people.)

The ultrasound was annoying as the Russian lady jammed the ultrasound device against my chest in order to get a clear picture (or 5) of my heart. She spent a good 20 minutes really leaning into it while I winced in pain. She continuously asked me to take slow, small breaths. Apparently she didn't hear my blood curdling screams. (I'm a hypnotist, not a masochist.) I'm waiting for the bruises to form.

At the end, I smiled and asked her if she could indeed confirm I had a heart. There was a small pause and she said "Yes, ok, please get dressed now." Ouch. Joke-fail. Russian judge gives me a 3.6 out of 10 on technical merit and a 4 on artistic impression.

The stress test was slightly more entertaining. I had to 'walk' in a treadmill with various electrodes attached to me measuring my heart rate. The treadmill would speed up incrementally every 3 minutes until my heart rate reached a certain limit at which point it would stop.

So after being wired up, the technician started the machine and told me the exercise was meant to get me tired quickly. I could walk -- not run -- and I could stop it at any time if I got too tired.

I asked how long people normally last and she said 6 to 8 minutes. Instantly, being the manly man that I am, I proclaimed I'll be on there for a good 10 minutes and he might as well go get a coffee while I break some records. The pace of the machine was brisk, but nothing I couldn't handle.

After 3 minutes, the machine kicked it up a notch. I started to lightly jog and I was admonished sharply by the technician. Jogging bad! But the machine was going so fast, walking was very difficult. I looked like some sort of drunken speed walker. My heart rate was picking up. Must. Get. To. 10. Minutes.

At the 6-minute mark, the speed went up again. No human can walk this fast. I tried as I desperately held onto the rail while my legs were flinging out behind me. The technician smiled. I smiled. I looked over at the clock. Seven minutes! Must. Hang. On.

At 7 minutes, 32 seconds, I reached the heart rate I needed to be at. I looked over at the monitor and the graphs were all lover the place. Rather than this lovely rhythm one normally sees, they looked more like some sort of earth quake monitor. I wasn't sure if I reached 150 beats per minute, or 4.7 on the Richter Scale. Regardless, the treadmill instantly slowed and I almost flung myself forward off the treadmill.

He brought up a 'comments' section on the monitor and noted that my heart had been at sinus rhythm (apparently at the beginning, because no way it was that at the end), and that I was suffering from 'shortness of breath'.

Well no shit! You just had me doing a spasmic version of the chicken dance for 7 minutes, so yeah, I'm going to have a bit of a breathing problem after that. Luckily, that rarely happens to me in real life, so let's not worry about it too much, alright?

And now? Now I'm wearing a heart monitor until tomorrow morning to see that my heart is normal. The technician, as she attached the electrodes to me, told me that I should "lead my normal life for the next 48 hours" as the machine records my heart rate.

So I went home and masturbated furiously. I'm waiting to get the report back: "We have some concerns. The entire measurement period you had an elevated heart rate followed by this sudden spike and then a drop in rate for about 20 minutes. Then it would start all over again....this happened 10 times."

Damn right! I'm a manly man.

You're getting verrrrrry sleeeeeepy

Editor’s note:  Jeff is a little tired and grumpy this morning after his sleep study, so he will not put up with bullshit.  He expects you to find every joke funny and to leave plenty of comments.  What an ass.  

I’m back from my latest sleep study and boy am I tired.  The irony isn’t lost on me.

Just to backtrack for a moment, I have sleep apnea and occasionally the various doctors in my life send me to a sleep clinic so they can monitor my sleep and make little notes on my sleep patterns – such as do I breathe while I sleep.  Each visit has been rather interesting and you can read about two of my prior visits here and here.

This was my first visit to a new sleep clinic, so I was looking forward to the lovely amenities the sleep clinic offered.  My previous clinic had free wifi, an ensuite bathroom with shower, a TV, a large bed (though not comfy), and I chose my bed time.  Not quite the Hilton, but better than the Super 8 Motel. 

I should have known I was in trouble right from the beginning.  The nurse arrived in the waiting room to collect my health card.  (For you American folks reading this, that’s because we have socialized medicine and we need a health card to show we’re not American.)  I asked her if there was free wifi and she said yes there was and the password was the phone number to the clinic.  “Oh, and what’s that?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” she said and offered to look it up.  Strike one.  She didn’t know the phone number of the clinic she worked at.  A comforting thought.  I suddenly became proud of her for finding her office each night.

A few minutes later, she returned to the waiting room and called out my name by reading from my health card – but just my middle and last name.  I looked at her and smiled and said she kind of missed the name at the far left of my health card.  She looked puzzled and then realized her mistake.  I hope I taught her a life lesson about how one reads from left to right as opposed to somewhere-in-the-middle-to-right.

Perhaps she was just tired.  Strike two.

As I was being led to my room, she pointed out the communal bathroom/shower --- grrrrr! – and communal sink to get a glass of water -- grrrr! – and my room with no TV – grrrrr! – and then she asked what time I went to bed.  I told her midnight and she said that was great – she’ll come in at 1030pm to

shut off the lights with a wake up time of 6am.  We were getting close to this being *worse* than a Super 8 Motel…

After wandering down the hall to get a drink of water and waiting in line to use the washroom, the same nurse that had greeted me in the waiting room came in and explained she was going to be the one wiring me up.  This is the nurse that didn’t know the phone number and couldn’t read my name on the health card.  Now she was going to attach electrodes to my skull.  Couldn’t wait.

First, she explained, she needed to use an exfoliant on little patches of my face and scalp to create a better signal for the electrodes.  I jokingly told her she didn’t need to use electrodes because I broadcast in the FM signal band.  She didn’t get it.  I then jokingly said if she’s exfoliating small portions of my face, can she just exfoliate my entire face and maybe she can do my fingers and toes after. 

She didn’t get that either.

After spending a good 5 minutes exfoliating seemingly random patches of skin on my face and scalp, she then took some paste and covered those clean spots and attached electrodes to them.  There were 3 on my scalp, 3 on my chin, a couple under my eyes, and a partridge in a pear tree. 

She then had me stand up and extend my arms to my sides.  Apparently we were about to do some calisthenics before bed time.  A second nurse wandered in explaining she was here to assist the first nurse and hey, that works for me!  Two nurses fawning over me, attaching electrodes to my body?  It’s kinda hot in a way…sort of.

While I was standing there, the first nurse was explaining how she’d be wrapping some bands around my chest.  At the same time, the second nurse was behind me, putting on gloves.  I’ve always found the concept of nurses wearing gloves to be odd.  I’m not sure if they’re doing it for my protection or their own.  “Oh my gosh!  Look at him!  I don’t want to get whatever the fuck he has!  I’m going to put on these gloves and heck, we’ll put on this mask and full body armour just for good measure.”

So, being (semi) kinky guy that I am, I said out loud:  “I’m standing here with my arms extended at my sides and there’s a nurse behind me putting on gloves.  I saw a movie like this once.”  They both laughed.  I also wondered if they were going to spend the night sending shocks to my brain.

The second nurse noticed that the first nurse was putting some of the electrodes in the wrong spot.  Strike three.  They actually had a slight argument in front of me about whether certain electrodes were supposed to be attached to the top of my head or slightly to the side.  I wanted to tell them to flip a coin and get on with it already, but again, I was already nervous about them shocking me all night.

Finally, they were done!  I was wired up with no place to go.  They gently laid me down in bed, wires dangling everywhere.  My feet were totally hanging off the edge of the bed.  Apparently the sleep clinic normally only dealt with small people. 

The pillows were also fun..  As I laid down on them, they felt like they were literally deflating.  I went from having two fluffy pillows beneath my head to these two dimensional, paper-thin wafers.  I’ve seen soft pillows before, but this was ridiculous.  I would’ve had a bigger bump beneath me if I was laying on two saltine crackers!  These pillows were so thin, I could fold them up and take them away with me in my wallet.  They were pocket pillows!

My CPAP mask was on, I was laying down, and that first nurse announced that she was now going to turn on the CPAP machine.  She asked if I was ready.  If I was prepared.  That I should take a deep breath first.  (Note:  I’ve been using a CPAP machine for 5 years and she was aware of this.)  She pushed the button and…

A loud whooshing sound came out of the machine.  Why?  Because she hadn’t attached the air hose from the machine to my mask. 

Seriously. 

Strike four. 

Because of how I was laying down, all I saw was some frantic scrambling and mumbling.  The second nurse glided in and calmly told the first nurse to turn off the CPAP machine and attach the hose.  Meanwhile I’m thinking:  “And that’s a wrap, folks!  Can I get this order to go?  I think I’m done here.”

They finally hooked me up – properly – got the machine going, and I spent the next 7+ hours being woken up periodically because of loose wires; my cold feet sliding off the bed and outside of the covers; the oxygen meter on my finger sliding off; and almost choking myself to death everytime I tried to roll over. 

Basically your standard play party.

I was so tired this morning that as I was leaving the clinic, I almost walked into a mirror by the entrance that was a reflection of the parking lot.  And now here I am writing this.

I’m afraid to shower because I fear that the first nurse accidentally left a few wires and electrodes strapped to my body and I’ll be found dead days later in some sort of bizarre post-sleep clinic aftercare accident.

Laugh, dammit!  That was funny.

What an ass.

How to answer your phone and other ways to go insane

Yes, it’s the “May 2-4” weekend and it’s time to get out and enjoy the bugs, bird shit and damp grass and earth. Fun stuff! To you Americans reading this, us Canadians celebrate Victoria Day in celebration of Queen Victoria’s birthday.

Who was Queen Victoria? Well, she was a…well…a Queen. And, well, um, it was her birthday once, and when she was alive I guess people found it important to stop what they were doing to celebrate it. And they always seemed to stop to celebrate her birthday on the Monday on the third weekend of May. Every year. And drive to the cottage and get drunk.

And the tradition carries on to this day.

As I wander the streets this long weekend, I will be carrying my new cellphone with me. It’s my first upgrade in 2 years and in turn, my first real “smart phone.” I do find it a little disconcerting I now hold in the palm of my hands a mechanical object that knows more than me – as long as I don’t go over my data cap.

Now here’s the thing: I build and repair computers. I have “inventory” of computer hardware. I even have a registered side business building and repairing computers. (Side note: Need your computer repaired and be hypnotized while you wait? I’m the one to talk to! I even have coupon days. Kidding.) However, I can’t figure out how to operate my damn cellphone.

I came from a time where phones came with cords that plugged into the wall and you had to spin a rotary dial to make a phone call. I came from a time where calling customer service meant you didn’t have to push 1 then 5 then 3 then hang up then do the hokey pokey, then call again, push 3 and get an operator who, after 15 minutes of conversation, would tell you you’ve called the wrong department and offer to transfer you to the right one only to abruptly cut you off leaving you to start again.

When I got my first cell phone, I distinctly recall it coming with numbers on a keypad that you could push to make a call and there was a handy answer button if someone called you. I also seem to recall it did those sorts of things because it was called a cellphone.

Now let’s move forward in time to one month ago. There I was, staring helplessly at my new cell phone while it vibrated in my hands and belted out some sort of horrific tune. I had a phone call.

And I had no idea how to answer it.

I glanced at the keyboard. I didn’t see any sort of answer button there. Maybe itwas there, but when you try to cram a keyboard that’s normally about 16 inches across into a space that’s about 3 inches across, you kinda lose track of what button does what.

I scanned across the keyboard frantically looking for an answer key. I found a key that had the @ symbol, but it also made the number 2 and it would auto-fill .comand if you held down SHIFT and ALT and @ at the same time, it would send flowers to your girlfriend, but nope, no sign of an answer key.

“Ah ha!” I thought. “What about the touch screen! Maybe something about the touch screen makes me answer the phone!” I touched the screen. The screen didn’t react. It just showed a constant background. I touched it again. Nothing. I touched it a third time with still no reaction. I was going to touch it a fourth time, but I was concerned about the phone either laughing at me or threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit.

I then noticed what appeared to be some sort of arrow-like slider at the bottom of the touch screen with a lock on one side of it.

“It’s locked!” I yelled to no one in particular over the now blaring music emanating from my phone.

I pushed the lock icon expecting it to become unlocked. Nope. I pushed harder. Nope. I pushed on it twice quickly – double-clicking, if you will. Nope.

At this point I debated on whether or not to start talking to my phone. Reason with it. Plead with it. Try different phrases. Answer. Open. Pick up. Unlock.

I figured talking to it would make me sound even weirder than normal, so I gave up, but as I grasped the phone to put it back in my pocket, I noticed that my thumb caused the lock to move slightly to one side.

IT’S A SLIDER!!

I frantically wiggled and slid my finger back and forth across the screen that made nearby women wet just by watching me. One of them even gave me her phone number and asked me if we could role play pretending she was a ringing iPhone. In my most seductive tone, I told her I’d be very interested and what ring tone would she scream out when I made her ring.

She took back her phone number.

I put the phone to my ear, crying out a hello. No answer. Ah, I’m holding the phone backwards. Adjust. Another hello. “Can you hear me?” I said, as I assumed the infamous cell phone pose.

You know the pose? Phone in one ear, finger in your other ear? It’s like you’re trying to keep your brains from leaking out after they melt from the radiation spewing out from your cell phone.

I heard a voice at the other end – it’s working! They asked if Gagandeep was there. Wrong number. They apologized and hung up. I had worked up a sweat. I was shaking. I needed water. But I had answered my new smart phone for the first time.

Now, how do I hang up the phone...

You know what would make a smart phone smart? If it knew it was a wrong phone number and just hung up on them, now that would be a smart phone!

Frankly, given the way smart phones are set up these days, the ability to send and receive actual phone calls is very much a secondary feature. Its primary purpose is to text, take pictures and videos and steal porn using your neighbours WIFI. I predict in 5 years you’ll have to pay extra to have the “bonus feature” of having the ability to send and receive phone calls. You heard it here first, folks!

Enough about my phone. Time for some random thoughts. They’re mobile-friendly, too.

• Is it possible to fail at doing a car crash-test? How would that work? “We tried to ram that car into a wall and it missed?”
• I wish I were invisible. If I was, the first thing I’d do is go around from house to house and reverse all the toilet paper rolls in everyone’s washroom.
• Rather than tossing doves in the air at a wedding, I say you toss squirrels. If anyone catches one, as tradition goes, they’re the next one to go nuts
• Poor career choice: an armless mime
• I’d like to harness the technology dogs use to shake themselves dry. They could be sopping wet after standing out in the rain for 10 minutes, yet they can walk indoors, shake for 30 seconds, and they’re not only dry, their fur is right back to how it was in the first place. I want to do that! Can you imagine? You finish your shower, step out, shake for a few seconds and you’re not only dry, but your hair is set the way you want?
• Most frustrating thing in the world: You’re hungry and the vending machine will not accept your change. Is there anything more frustrating? Think about it.
• In order to help save the environment, from now on, all light bulbs that go on over your head when you have an idea must be a fluorescent bulb. Yes, they cost more, but you’ll get ideas for 7 years before having to replace it.
• I want to be a consultant. I wonder who I should talk to about that to help me decide…
• Screw having a Jack Russell Terrier. I want to have a Jack Daniels Terrier. Way more mellow, relaxed dog.

Speaking of random thoughts, I was speaking to a friend of mine about random thoughts and if they ever creep into the hypnotic commands I give whenever I’m doing a session. (For those of you reading who may not know, I'm a hypnotist). I answered no, they usually don’t, but it got me thinking.

That’s usually a bad thing because it means I come up with answers…and write them down in a journal.

Below are some silly post-hypnotic commands I may give in the future. Fair warning!

• "You will put relish on your hotdog only from right to left."
• "You will consider the chicken dance to be a piece of art"
• "There will be no right angles in your household"
• "You will never use a salad fork again"
• "All colours of your socks must be Disney-themed"
• “At the end of every telephone conversation, you will ask ‘And would you like fries with that?’”
• “You will fully believe you’ve been misled all these years and in fact it islogs that are man’s best friend.”
• “You will vote for Mitt Romney.”

Alright, that’s all for this post, folks. It’s time for the long weekend and some fun with friends. Hopefully I’ll be able to figure out how to call them before the weekend is over.

Some Like It Hot

It's been 3 1/2 weeks since there was any rain.  The current forecast suggests it might rain...on August 1st.  It's July 19th right now.  That could mean 5 1/2 weeks of no rain and since that's a long-range forecast anyways, it's likely to be wrong.  Hell, tomorrow's forecast is likely to be wrong.

At a certain point, does it really matter if it's 103F or 113F?  Can someone really tell the difference at that point?  When it's 103F are there people saying "...well at least it's not 113!"  At a certain point, temperature no longer matters.  The weather forecast should simply be:  "It's fucking hot with no chance of rain," and leave it like that.  Imagine your local weather forecaster saying that during the evening news -- with a smile on their face:  "Thanks, Bob, this weather forecast is brought to you by Gina's Snack And Wrap.  When you need a snack, it's a wrap!  Today's forecast is incredibly fucking hot once again!  Not a cloud in the sky for the next week, folks, so my 7-day forecast remains the same:  Fucking hot times 7.  Back to you, Bob."

Time for another random post of random thoughts and random ideas in a random order.  Just a short one for today, though.

• My phone died yesterday.   Where do people put phones once they die?  Is there a ceremony first?  I put mine in my garden with a little headstone:  Sony Ericsson  c. 2011-2011.  May it ring in peace.
• I've always found it odd that I dispense with advice.  Doesn't that sound like it's just something I'm trying to get rid of?  "I have this bullshit advice stuck in my head.  If I could only get rid of it.  Hey!  Bob!  Want some advice?"
• Support bra:  "Come on, boobs, you can do it!  Hang in there!"
• People who are not the centre of attention are considered to be off-centre of attention.
• In order to reduce the amount of NIMBY-ism, from now on, all major projects will be constructed in front of houses.
• Elephant toilet paper must be massive!
• The hypnotists' union always seem to win their contract negotiations. 
• You're driving along a roadway and some complete stranger actually tries to flag you down so they can hop in your car.  Would you pick them up?  Of course not.  Now think of what cab drivers do daily.
• Unstable people should randomly display a Blue Screen of Death in the middle of a conversation
• Wouldn't it be cool if all drugs came in the form of gummi bears?  No more injections, pills, or IVs!  "He's having a heart attack!  Quick, get me two red and three green gummis, stat!"
• When I hear that it's so hot out, you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, I don't get it.  If it's that hot, why just fry an egg?  Let's go all out!  Give me a steak, some potatoes and maybe some asparagus -- just to be healthy.
• Any zoo can be a petting zoo if you try hard enough

My Butt

Warning: Graphic content. This is a story about my butt and the contents thereof. Viewer discretion is advised.


Editor’s note: This actually happened in December, 2009, but was not posted on my regular blog as originally intended. Since then, the story has always sat in the back of my mind waiting for the right time to be shared.


Editor’s note: I do not have an editor. I just like to write things in italics.

Back in October of 2009, my doc said to me some words that immediately frightened me and sent a shock down my spine: “Jeff, you’re getting old.” After I finished weeping, she told me she felt I should go for a colonoscopy. After she revived me with smelling salts, she told me she thought it would be important as part of my “thorough exam”.

Apparently “thorough exam” means they check every hole your body has to offer to see what’s inside. Thank goodness she forgot about one, otherwise I likely would’ve lopped the thing off and said “Here, it’s yours. Look at it all you want.”

For those of you who don’t know, a colonoscopy is where they take an instrument approximately three times wider than the diameter of your anus and attempt to shove it up your butt while telling you to relax so they can see your colon – because apparently the colon is a very exciting thing to view for some people.

After getting the appointment set up for mid-December, I wanted to know more about the procedure, so I started asking around. But it’s a little difficult to say “Hey, Frank. Yeah, how are you? How’s the wife? Oh that’s cool. The kids? Oh that’s awesome. Listen, Frank, you have had someone shove a tube up your butt before? Frank? Frank, you there? No, no, don’t get the wife, it’s not a threesome sort of thing. I meant at the doctor’s office. No, no, don’t tell your wife to put on a nurse’s uniform, you’re not understanding me…”

I ended up having two “assessments” prior to the actual procedure. The first one was a little unnerving. I was first greeted by a lovely nurse who asked me about my height and weight – why, I’m not sure. “Oh, you’re 200 lbs? Ok, so you have a big butt. And you’re 6’0”. Ok, so we’ll need a longer tube…”

After she got my measurements, I was shuttled off to a doctor who essentially asked me how I was feeling – only it took him 20 minutes-worth of questions to ask me. He filled out a form while I answered his questions. After completing the form he told me to take it to another doctor who welcomed me and asked me why I was there.

I was a little stunned by the question and silently handed him the form. He read it over, smiled, and told me I’d made the right decision. I didn’t realize I had a choice! He also seemed a little too happy that I’d chosen to go through this procedure.

He then explained how the procedure would work and if I had any questions. I did ask why I had to see a nurse, two doctors and it would be performed by yet another doctor. He stared at me blankly and wished me luck. You know when you accidentally insult your waiter and you wonder if he’ll spit in his soup? At that moment, I was very concerned the doctor would spit in my soup.

________________________________________

The night before I had the pleasure of having to clean out my system. Now let me explain to you what this meant. It meant trying to get rid of any type of food or liquid that might be lurking in, oh, I don’t know…your entire digestive system? Before they shoved a scope up my butt, they didn’t want to encounter anything coming towards them in the opposite direction. Apparently, even a low-speed collision in the lower intestinal tract would be dangerous and lord knows you can’t send in a mechanic for repairs on the probe. So I had to do a few things to wipe out any evidence of sustenance.

I had to take -- I hope you’re sitting down for this, as I had to – four Dulcolax pills up front. Give myself about 30 minutes for those to kick in and then I had to make these wonderful shake-like drinks using a system called – wait for it – Klean-Prep. Seriously. Now If you’re not sure what Klean-Prep does to your system, imagine taking one of those high-pressure power washers – you know, the kind you’d use to clean dirt off of bricks? – and shove it down your throat. And turn it on.

I’m quite sure Klean-Prep was some concoction invented by some sadist during a play session. First, it allegedly claimed to have a flavour – vanilla. Let me tell you, if this is what they call vanilla, they could have used it to torture the intimates at Guantanamo Bay and gotten Osama bin Laden about 10 years earlier than they did. Secondly, I had to drink 4 litres of the stuff over the course of 80 minutes! Four litres of any liquid is not a good thing. Hell, my car doesn’t go through 4 litres in 80 minutes.

Let’s just say I sat comfortably on the toilet seat for much of the night while about a year’s-worth of food came jettisoning out of my body at speeds that caused a sonic boom as it entered the toilet bowl. I’m pretty sure stuff came out that I hadn’t even eaten yet. I tested the capacity of the neighbourhood’s sewer system and while I can say it passed with flying colours, I think the bathroom fan gave up trying to clear the air within the first 10 minutes. Finally, 80 minutes and about 10 pounds later, I declared myself done. Unfortunately, it took my bowels about 3 more hours to reach the same conclusion.

________________________________________

Finally, the day arrived. I actually had to bust my butt to get there (pun intended) because of a bad snow storm. A friend travelled with me since there was a possibility they’d have to knock me out for the procedure. As she parked the car, I went up and got situated.

I was actually nervous, but not nervous about the procedure itself. What if there’s still stuff in me? What if my colon isn’t truly clean? I’ll be so ashamed! My family will disown me! Yes, we used to have a son named Jeff until that shameful day where the doctor found a half-eaten grape in his colon. That was the last straw!

I was ushered into the office by a beautiful nurse who explained to me who sat me down on a bed in front of a monitor where apparently I’d have my own, wonderful view of my colon. I had a choice of being given a light sedative, being knocked out, or nothing at all. If I was given nothing, I could leave right after the 15 minute procedure was over, otherwise I’d be in recovery for an hour and then I’d be let out. I opted to try it without any form of anesthesia. I figured, hey, if I can stay up and watch the Colon Channel, starring me, I should. How many times can a person say they got to see their own colon? Then again, how many people would actually care to?

While she was explaining this to me, I noticed a sudden wave of pressure forming in my bowels. I panicked. There was something left inside of me! The doctor will see this! I will be an outcast. I began forming my plans of moving to Lithuania. I meekly mentioned to the nurse that it felt like I had to go to the washroom and she calmly told me it was normal and not to worry, the unit had “powerful suction” to take care of any remaining liquid inside of me. This was likely the first and only time to think of “powerful suction” and “my butt” in the same thought and actually be excited about it.

The doctor wandered in at this point and without introduction he casually told me to take off my pants, underwear, lay on my left side and to curl up my legs and at which time, he’ll start to insert a rubber-like hose up, into my colon. Without missing a beat, I replied with: “Whoa! Flashback to my last date!” The nurse laughed. The doctor stared at me. My thoughts of him spitting into my soup came back.

To make what’s turned into an extremely long story short (too late, Jeff!) I did not need to be knocked out. I got to see my own, clean colon as the doctor gave me a tour of my insides. While I was trying to breathe through the relatively light discomfort, the doctor kept asking me questions, breaking my concentration. I seriously wanted strangle him, or in lieu of that, fart on his probe. I suddenly felt like I was in labour and he was the husband pestering me with comments like “its ok, honey. I’m sure the pain isn’t that bad.”

He declared my colon to be clean and tidy. Gave it a buff and polish while he was at it and told me I was free to go and reminded me to wait until he removed the probe first. I wasn’t concerned I’d forget.

I walked out to see my friend had just sat down after taking 15 minutes to find a parking spot. Boy, was she pissed! She told me to shove it up my butt. I told her it’d been done.