Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
My wife owns an Apple. She owns several; only one currently functions. She loves her Macs, except for three things.
But she’s loyal to the brand. She always buys Apples.
Of course, she is a stockholder.
Is it redundant to say tiny tidbits? Are not tidbits tiny by definition?
There’s a bit of whinging in this week’s short stuff, because I, an American white male, am a champion first-world complainer, often suffering first world blues much like “The Princess and the Pea”. I play the princess (call me Princess M, please) and the pea is anything from entertainment offerings, food prices, and net speeds to ‘things I can’t do well with my broken arm’.
I think I’ll start there.
Tell me about your world – books, streaming, writing in progress. What’re you watching? Eat anything interesting lately? “Red Dwarf”: for or against?
Got my coffee. Time to do me best to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Yet another rant, a vent of frustration to try to reconcile an experience. One side of me — the spoiled, arrogant, take-everything-for-granted white male, first world side of me – continues responding to the coronavirus actions as though everything is alright with the world and is thus annoyed, I tell you, peeved, even, about things like one day delivery requiring six days. “What in the world is with that?” that side cries in anger and despair.
The other side of me replies, “Dude, you are a jackass.”
The event in focus is my pecker meds (Tamsulosin). I always get it locally, thirty day supply. But with shit going down, I thought it prudent to get a larger supply.
First, I tried ordering it ahead of time at my regular place, Ashland Drugs. Nope, it was too soon, the system said. By then, shutdowns were announced, so I shifted to Express Scripts.
Well, there were delays. My prescription was for thirty days and I was asking for a supply of ninety days. ES contacted my prescribing urologist for approval. He, they said, in updates on their website, didn’t respond. A day passed. Two. I shifted the order to one day shipping, because I could see that this was gonna take more time than planned. Then I called the urologist’s office and explained what was going on and what needed to be done.
That worked. Presto, order was being processed.
The next day, the order continued being processed.
Ship, damn it, ship, I urged.
Yes, it shipped, on 3/31. Hoorah! Here was the tracking number. They didn’t know when it would be delivered.
Have I mentioned that the requested one day shipping cost twice as much as the prescription?
For some reason, “The Wells Fargo Wagon” song from from The Music Man began providing me background music.
I faithfully tracked the shipment from Arizona to California, and then, by truck, from California up to Washington via DHL. The road from California to Washington is a little trail that we locals call I-5. It goes past my house by a few miles.
That irrational, crazy part of me screamed, “Why can’t they just pull over and toss it to me as they’re passing Ashland?” Yes, even the irrational part of me knows how dumb that suggestion is.
By April 2 I learned that my Tamsulosin would arrive on April 6. The plan was for DHL to truck it to Washington. DHL would hand it over to the USPS up there (I imagined a furtive, midnight exchange). Then the USPS would drive it down to Ashland (probably on I-5) and sneak it to a local carrier and deliver it to me.
Okay, a plan. I like having plans. Plans are good. Problem with this plan was that I’d run out of Tamsulosin on Friday, April 3. That was my last dose.
Well, damn. Not much could be done at that point. I’d tried, I consoled myself. Now my body would just need to endure without the med.
Meanwhile, the reasonable side of me said, “You prick.”
(It seems like an appropriate noun for the situation.)
“You should be thankful that there are people out there risking their health so that you can sit on your ass in the safety of your personal space. And be thankful that someone like Express Scripts exists and that you have a computer and Internet to place the order and follow the tracking information. Be thankful, you cretin, that the drugs are there, are so affordable, and that you have a urologist to help you. Stop looking at the dark side of this, you pessimistic, selfish, jerk, and think of the bigger picture and be fucking grateful.”
To which the other side of me said, “Wow. Mean.”
So, seriously, thanks to all the USPS, DHL, and Express Scripts drivers and people working and all they’re doing to help the rest of us survive. Let me not overlook all those healthcare professionals and government employees. We do appreciate it, even if some of us act like jerks.
Please forgive us for being who we are. We are trying to change. At least, one side of me is.
Like many, I awoke this morning and began pondering the eternal questions, like, is my head getting smaller?
I wasn’t being facetious. My new Tilley hat had arrived. When I put it on, I discovered it was much larger than my other hat. I confirmed the other was a seven and a half, so the two hats were the same size.* Ergo, my head must be shrinking.
Walking about with my oversized hat on, I entertained the other questions that often plague modern humans.
1. Am I gaining weight or are my pants shrinking?
2. Are my pants getting longer, or am I getting shorter?
3. Is it possible for me to be both gaining weight and getting shorter?
4. Can my pant legs be getting longer while my pants waist is shrinking?
5. If something really had 1/4 the fat of the regular stuff, can I really eat four times as much?
6. How much beer can a beer drinker drink if a beer drinker only drank beer?
These are serious questions. The one about my shrinking head especially worries me. I can see myself as a man walking around without a head. People would probably soon start head-shaming me, shouting, “Hey, there’s little head,” whenever I pass.
There’s family precedence. My mother, who was much taller than me when I was a child, now seems to be about the size of a garden gnome. She appears to be shrinking more in every dimension every time that I see her. I figure that soon, we’ll be able to hear her, but not see her, unless she stands at the right angle and in the right light. It’s like, “Okay, I see her shadow. Let me just trace that back to her.”
Alas, like others, I found no easy answers to these questions. That’s probably why they plague us.
The quest goes on.
*Editing note: Yes, I know that not all sizes are equal sizes during the modern industrial age. Most people must try on several sets of garments or shoes of the same size before finding one that fits right. Hence, there was one shortcoming to the Tilley replacement hat process: it’s predicated on the idea that all of their hats are the same size.
Yes, it’s a new year but the first-world blues never end. Sometimes they lead to a rant.
Today’s focus is on the pharmacy.
They’ve done a fine job in the past, which is probably what lit this rant. I called my prescription refill in on Sunday, Jan. 5. The happy recording said it would be ready by Monday at 4 PM, all as completely expected.
That’s what’s called ‘foreshadowing’, kids.
Got in line today, Tuesday, Jan. 7. Was the only one in line. One cashier was in action. She was helping someone finish his purchase. When it was completed, she turned, and — ignoring me, shall we note — called across the store, “Rhonda, your prescription is ready.”
Now, that’s okay. She was helping Rhonda before, Rhonda’s prescription wasn’t ready, forcing Rhonda to wait, but, hey, do you mind saying something to the only customer in your line? I would consider it good manners and common sense.
After Rhonda’s purchase was completed, a few minutes later, it was my turn. Hey, short story, my prescription wasn’t ready. It wasn’t here. It would be here this afternoon.
No apology nor explanation. No reason for why I wasn’t called about it.
Now, as it happens, I live in town, so it’s not a big deal. I can return. But what about the people who have mobility issues, or who live outside of town, who need help to pick up their prescription, or who must make a special trip?
Yeah, that’s my rant. After dismissing my irritation (yes, via this post) (after returning a few hours later for the prescription), I’m good to go.
Onward.
Yeah, here we go, a first-world rant.
I’m in ‘my’ coffee shop this morning. It’s about fifty degrees and sunny outside. In here, they have the air-conditioning running. Whaaat? But worse, they’re playing Christmas lullabies. You know what I mean. A Christmas lullaby is one of those old chestnuts being played at a slooow, mellooow speeed, so slow that the singer sounds like they’re on the verge of going to sleep themselves.
I think, the madness, technology, calendar, holidays, and expectations clashing. Oh, the horror, the horror.
Remember, only two million years till Christmas. Make it count.
Brace yourself. It’s time for another first world rant. This time it’s about my car.
It’s a lovely SUV, a Mazda CX-5 that I’ve had three plus years. One of its many features is that it reminds me when maintenance is required. This vehicle requires more maintenance than any car I’ve ever owned, which includes Porsches, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Chevys, Nissan, other Mazdas, and Fords. Although the car is comfortable and reliable, this constant maintenance thing pisses me off.
So that’s number one. But here comes the reminder. Once it decides that maintenance is required, the message in orange is displayed whenever the car is started.
Here is what pisses me off. That thing is so inaccurate. The good Mazda people put a little sticker on the windshield, too, so I know exactly when it’s supposed to be returned for maintenance. According to it, my car should go back for maintenance by January 10, 2019, or by 33,000 miles, whichever is comes first.
My car has 30,000 miles. According to MY calendar, it’s not yet December, let alone January of 2019.
Yeah, it’s a nice feature. Too bad it doesn’t work. Makes you wonder about the rest, doesn’t it?
Sitting down at the coffee shop to write on this Thanksgiving Day in America, I pause to give thanks for how lucky I’ve been. I frequently complain but most of these are first world blues or the general venting against how the world functions in this life-experience-reality-existence.
I could enumerate the many ways that I’ve been lucky, but I don’t think that’s needed. Little of it has been within my control. I’m thankful for the strokes of luck that made and keep me fortunate. That doesn’t mean that I’ve not had bad times, but that I’ve always been able to recover. I wish others the same sort of luck, and that you have the security and health to pursue your dreams.
Now, I have my coffee. With that brief word of thanks, it’s time to write and edit like crazy, at least one more time. Sure, it’s a holiday, but the muses gotta write.
You ever encounter a parking lot with such maddening shapes, narrow lanes and tight corners that people seem unable to turn the vehicles without going up over a curb? SF-SJ Bay Area parking lots seemed home to those lots. Bad as they were in California, some of the newer shopping centers’ parking lots in Medford, Oregon (I’m pointing the finger at you, Trader Joe’s) are terrible. Yet, we must suffer and accept, or we wouldn’t have the store.
One of my biggest irritations this year – besides drivers who don’t utilize turn signals, of course, and people who reach the cash register totally unprepared to pay (as though they’d never had to pay before!), lying politicians, and slow Internet connections – are captions on television shows and movies that do not match what’s actually being said. Some seem to go through a lag of several seconds, as though censors must review the captions before they can be put up. A few memorable times, the captions weren’t even for the episode being watched.
Have you had any of this happen to you? We happen to watch a lot of foreign shows, where we’re not familiar with the language, languages like Irish, Welsh, Australian, Canadian, and American Southern. Captions are needed to understand the words. Even then, the captions don’t always help. “He was bottled,” someone said on a show the other night. I heard it, and saw it on the captions. I didn’t understand what it meant. Or another, where a woman in Australia said she’d been “done over.” They also talked about websites spruiking as part of a scam.
When captions go awry, distract me. Yes, I agree, I am easily distracted. That’s not the point. Please bear with me. I start watching the misaligned captions, to see what’s being said, and then wait for it to the characters to deliver the words, and I lose the plot. I know. It’s a small matter to be peeved about – surely I should be more peeved by the abomination that we call modern television or the abomination of the current state of government in America – but this is a first world household.
We have first world problems.
Michael Seidel, writer 