Open Wide

I went to the doctor today for my annual checkup, and no, it was not the dentist or the gynecologist. It was an eye appointment, which I dread more than those other two combined. Having significant myopia, I am always slightly embarrassed by how poorly I see, as if had I only tried harder growing up, I could have aced my vision tests, been the vision valedictorian. But unfortunately, eye exams don’t work that way.

To make matters worse, a few years ago, while still nursing my youngest daughter, I experienced such rapid deterioration of my distance vision due to hormonal changes and some condition that I am unable to spell. I found myself weekly at the ophthalmologist’s, funding his new SUV and lake property while trying every brand of contacts available on the US market with short lived, if any, success. Finally, my exasperated eye doctor fired me, since he couldn’t fix me, sending me instead to his colleague who specializes in problem eyeballs with bad contact issues. He ruled out LASIK as an option due to the double whammy of thin corneas and large pupils. I ruled out wearing glasses because of my vanity, my long eyelashes, and my intense desire to see peripherally. We compromised on hard lenses, not the most comfortable solution, but definitely the one with the best results. So now when I go to the eye doctor for what is a routine appointment, I sweat it, fearful that my unspellable condition is back, which will leave me sightless, wandering the streets with a dented tin cup full of pencils and a sign around my neck.

Today was no exception to my irrational fear of eye appointments but what made it worse was that I was due for dilation. Dilation can be fun, but not when it’s your eyeballs. No one I know likes to have their pupils dilated, and every two years when it is my turn, I am hopeful that some new technology has been invented that makes those evil eye drops obsolete. Alas, this was not the year. I sat in that Rube Goldberg of an exam chair and peered at the eye chart behind my black plastic spoon, trying desperately to not memorize the 20/20 letter line before switching to the next eye. I then read a close up eye chart, again relieved that I had dodged the reading glasses bullet for another year, thank you Jesus.

Dr. S came in next to work his magic, the portion of the eye exam that makes me both nervous and amused. I popped out my contacts and he moved the large apparatus in front of my face, blurring the eye chart. He then rapidly flipped lenses back and forth, a succession of “One or two? One or two?” that happened too fast to discern a difference. This part of the eye exam reminded me of a cartoon show on Comedy Central  from years ago, Dr. Katz. Dr. Katz was a squiggly animated therapist to comedians who would sit on his couch and tell jokes about their lives. One time, a comedienne said she had to break up with an optometrist she was dating because every time they were in bed together, he would ask her “Is it better like this or like this? Like this or like this?” I cannot go to the eye doctor without thinking about that episode, but Dr. S doesn’t appear to share my sense of humor, so I kept that story to myself.

After all that fun, and no significant changes in my prescription, it was time for the bad part. Dr. S left the room so his assistant could have the pleasure of administering stinging eye drops.
She handed me a tissue, telling me, “Blot, don’t rub.”
I did as told and discovered bright splotches on my Kleenex. “They’re yellow!”
“You should see what it does to your boogers,” she laughed.
“Aren’t they already that color?”
“I guess,” she said, “But it makes for a cool party trick.”
“I don’t think I want to go to any of your parties,” I told her as she gave me another round of eye drops, this time clear ones.
“Well, maybe one for second graders. Second graders would appreciate a booger trick.”
I raised my fist in solidarity. “My peeps!”

She parked me in the waiting room and I read my book until I could no longer focus. A good friend of mine, after earlier hearing of my scheduled appointment, had said to me that eye dilation is worse than torture at Guatanamo, which at the time I felt was an exaggeration. But as I sat there, unable to do anything but stare plaintively at the other patients, I had to agree with him. Pupil dilation is not just a mild inconvenience or a slight discomfort. It is a mindfuck for half a day, impairing your sense of reality to the point of near madness.

As I lost my ability to see, I began to rely on my other senses. Eavesdropping on the optical department was my only entertainment option since smelling wasn’t something I really wanted to do, and the idea of sitting and doing nothing for forty-five minutes would make me insane. I have an irrational fear of sleeping in public, so a nap was never an option. But after listening to an elderly couple argue over their remote and where they parked the car, I was ready to confess to anything just to make it stop.

Finally, the assistant called my name and gently guided me back to a room. Dr. S entered and acquainted himself with my optic nerves. I was given a clean bill of eye. No obvious tumors, no significant floaters, no high pressure build up. I stumbled to check out, declining the attractive free wraparound sunglasses in favor of wearing my own sunglasses over my regular glasses. I discovered once outside and in my car that the effect made me look more unattractive and unstable than the freebies, but I wasn’t about to walk back in the office to grab a pair. I drove home, more impaired than after a couple of cosmopolitans, wondering if I did get stopped and ticketed, could I bill the doctor’s office.

So now I am home, my pupils more dilated than at a Grateful Dead concert, waiting for the sun to dim. It is almost time to get my girls from school, and I am hoping that over the next thirty minutes, the effects of these eye drops will wear off, after over 5 hours, and I can again multitask while driving instead of clenching the steering wheel tightly and breaking at every imaginary obstacle. Why is it that preventive care can make you feel as unhealthy as an actual disease? All I know is, being debilitated for a day is the last thing a hypochondriac needs.

No Rodney King Impersonation Necessary

The beauty parlor (ha! I bet you think I get my hair washed and set once a week, don't you?) is one of those places where a woman is free to talk about her friends, her spouse, sex, and any other topic that would normally be off limits in most other settings. When I go to the salon, however, I usually resort to talking about politics and the trials of owning a small business, since my (gasp) straight male hair dresser doesn't seem to enjoy cattiness as much as I would like. With the election coming up, he was more than happy to dive right into an intense discussion of Obama and McCain, complete with his usual wonky opinions and misunderstandings. Don't get me wrong, I normally enjoy our political discourse, even though we typically are on opposing sides of an issue. But this last appointment, he took things too far.

While blowing dry my hair, he found himself running behind, so he asked his young assistant to flat iron the dry sections on the right side of my head while he worked on the left side. I sat in my zebra striped smock wondering how that would feel, hot air blowing on the left, intense dry heat near my ear on the right. My head tends to bobble everywhere when he yanks the round brush through my hair, so I didn't see how I was supposed to remain statue like while they double upped on me. His assistant stepped up and began her chore of flat ironing sections of my hair while trying to stay out of his way and not burn me, and kudos to her for her success.

If that wasn't bad enough, though, he thought tag teaming my head was a good time to begin a political debate with his assistant.

"So who are you going to vote for?" he asked her while ripping my hair out of my scalp.

"I don't know," she replied, quite articulate for a nineteen year old, I thought.

"No, tell me, you have to know who you are voting for," he pushed.

"I guess McCain."

"Why would you vote for him?" He sounded indignant. I don't want an indignant hair dresser. I want a happy one. And by the way, is it even legal for him to ask his employee about who she was voting for? Did I need to report him to the voter's registration office or the ACLU?

"I don't know. I don't like that Obama." How many Obamas does she know?

"That's not a reason to vote for McCain. Do you even know what he stands for?" Now, if they weren't debating politics over my head, I would have found this funny. He has been a staunch Republican since I met him, but he does great color, so I overlook it. But now that he is voting anti-Bush, he cannot fathom why anyone would not agree with him. I do agree with him, but I was more concerned about how his needling her would affect my blow out. She was smart enough to not take the bait, and just shrugged her shoulders. He did not take body language to be any kind of an answer.

"Well, what do you think about Sarah Palin?"

"I kind of like her," she said, running the flat iron along another section of my hair.

"How could you like her? She is kind of against what most women like, isn't she?" I thought about participating at this point, but they were paying so little attention to me as it was, I didn't think it would be smart to distract them further from their tasks. They were supposed to be making me look hot, for which I was paying good money.

"She seems real nice to me. And a Christian." Lucky for me, the assistant had finished all the flat ironing of the dry sections. She stood there watching him continue to blow dry, but got bored and set the flat iron down before walking out of the room. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

I survived the political discourse and the hair style. But can our country survive this polarization of politics? Can we survive four more years of governmental snafus and mismanagement? I offer another option, a candidate that is perhaps overlooked by the majority, yet someone we can all get behind. He is old, no doubt, but but clearly has a clear intelligence and fair mindedness that no one can deny. He transcends the Democratic and Republican ideals, and that alone makes him worth a chance. Look for him next week on your ballot, and if not, consider him as a write in....

Bad Karma on Yom Kippur

I must have some things to atone for over the past year. And I did choose to not go to services last night, which I based on the amount of rain relative to the amount of exhaustion and general blah I was feeling. So it seems only fair that I experience some things out of my control this morning as a reminder of some sort, possibly of Murphy's Law, which I assume is the English equivalent of a good dose of Jewish guilt.

I skipped the gym today, so I put on some jeans and a cool shirt to take the girls to school. MJ got me this shirt, a long sleeve flowy yoga garment the color of a nice claret. And since I am solidly in my fast, I felt willowy and lithe and so I put on this shirt that normally makes me look like a red globe grape. I loved the shirt, and MJ for buying it for me. She did so because she knew I would never treat myself to something like that, since I tend to shop the clearance rack at Target for a taste of funky on a budget. And she thought it would look good on me. And I am pretty sure she also thought if it didn't fit she could keep it for herself.

When I got back from my school run, my husband K was still home, late for work even by his standards. I came inside and he was standing there with a wad of paper towels in his hand. "Did you or the girls spill something over by the back door?" he asked. "Nope, no one was over there. Why?" "I was going to check the locks and I noticed some wet spots on the floor. But it doesn't smell." Not yet, I thought. Wet doesn't just mysteriously show up on the floor. We walked over to the place where he had cleaned the floor moments before, and the cats followed us over to inspect as well. "You sure no one spilled a drink over here?" He took his wad of Kleenex to the trash can in the kitchen, and I stood there thinking, no one drinks pee for breakfast, knowing that piss is the only possible explanation for the strange puddle.

And for confirmation, Yoko sort of squatted right in front of me, mere inches from the floor vent, and strained to produce another accident while I watched. "It's pee," I called out to my husband. "I'm watching Yoko do it again." I stood there to let her finish. No point in chasing her, as then I would have a trail of pee to clean instead of a reasonably well contained leak. She sat there for a while, obviously not enjoying the process or the audience. "Do you think you can take her to the vet this afternoon if I make an appointment?" I asked K. "I guess so," he answered before rushing out the door.

I called the vet's office, hoping for an after lunch appointment. Instead, they wanted her right then, for an all day observation and potential urine collection. Good luck with that one. So I tucked Yoko under my arm and carried her to the garage, where her cat carrier is stored. She thought she was finally going to see what was behind that door we always step through, but then she spied the box, her arch enemy, and the fight was on.

Shoving her into that box was like lacing a giant squid in a straight jacket. Arms and legs I didn't know she even had shot out and blocked the opening of the carrier, and she hooked onto anything within reach with her little switchblades. We wrestled for about a good five minutes before I finally shoved her in. I am not convinced one of her limbs wasn't lost in the process, but I am sure she can regenerate at some point in the future, probably when she will have to be put back in the carrier to come home. She hissed at me but I ignored it. I put her on the front seat and backed out of the driveway before I realized she got me, that I was hit. My palm and the side of my right hand were a little shredded and bloody. We didn't speak the entire way there. Once inside the vet's office, I gave them Yoko's information and story while she tried desperately to claw her way out of her cage. I was more than happy to pass her over to the vet tech.

When I got home, I went upstairs to take a shower. That's when I saw the holes in my brand new couture yoga shirt. That bitch on wheels sliced my shirt open in three different places, and I wore it in public, looking like her crack whore owner. A series of bloody scratches peeked through the holes, adding to the overall sex-for-drugs appearance. That right there is why I shop Target and not Haute Look. Because I manage to fuck up the good stuff the first time I put it on. Somehow I have a hard time believing things like this happen for a reason. Why today? Why that shirt? Why now, when Yoko has never had a bladder infection in her life? I can only assume it is my fault, that I must deserve this because of some transgression I committed. If not, then it is further evidence that sometimes life sucks. Or that it's just a shirt, and get over it. I'll let you know if I figure that out. Right after I pay the vet bill.

Someone's Big Day

My sister L and I chatted on the phone today, while she cruised around for oldies (what my daughter S calls old people, and my sister does that for profit, not fun) and I caught up on the more unusual headlines of the day. I like to share what goes on in the world with L, who limits all exposure to media on the basis that it is too depressing. So if something is going on in the world that she needs to know, I take it upon myself to be her news source. Whether she wants me to or not.

Case in point. I read today that love knows no boundaries, as it was reported by the AP that the world's heaviest man, who lives in Mexico, is getting married this month. He has found love, or rather, love has found him, and he will be wed on October 26 to his girlfriend of several years, a woman who is clearly more able than I to see beyond the physical. They have yet to select a wedding location, as he will need to be delivered to it on his special bed, so I cannot report with any accuracy on his reception.

I shared this news-worthy information with my sister, who surprisingly was aware of this obese man and his girlfriend. I asked if she had been invited to the ceremony, since she was so in the know. She said no, although she wished she were, since she is a big fan of Mexican wedding cookies.

Since L can't be there, and neither can most of you, I figured you might like to make your own Mexican wedding cookies, to celebrate their love and happiness. And a big felicitaciones por tu casamiento to the happy couple!