“No one is putting anything up my ass. Sorry, no colonoscopy. This policy is traced to something done to me when I was a child. I don’t know the backstory but my auntie prevailed on my mother to give me an enema. Other than vowing to never let anything go up my ass ever again, I’ve blocked out all memory of it. I believe that Mom regretted it to her death. Whatever it was, whatever happened, I found the equipment in the hall closet, got a pair of scissors, and cut it all up. I was four years old.”
Wrong Words
Traces
Different floofs leave these places
with bits of fur and other traces
bite marks, claw scratches,
round dimples in furniture
where they made their beds
their scents fade
and the signs disappear
but we remember these floofs
which we hold so dear
Digitized Smells
I have my telemedicine video call today. It has an element incorporated that I knew nothing about: digitized smell.
Apparently, recent software improvements has been added to many video-conferencing systems. These improvements capture local air, digitize it, send it through the net to the other end, and then reproduces the smell. This is being done in conjunction with telemedicine calls because studies show that patients develop greater confidence and feel calmer when they experience ‘hospital smells’. That mélange of odors isn’t by accident. It’s actually a carefully contrived blend created by psychologists and marketing specialists over decades of study. It is the smell which makes people feel safer, more secure, and soothed.
Trippy, right? All this time, I thought the smells were an accidental by-product.
The second aspect of the technology is that it allows the healthcare practitioners to smell you. That aids them in their assessment about your state of health.
I can see that. Makes total sense. It’s also fake news. Yes, fiction. Made it all up. Yep, I lied.
Shout Out
I’m always complaining, ranting, and whining about things that don’t work. Especially technology that doesn’t work or that doesn’t live up to the initial hype. Like ATMs. Teller machines. They were supposed to save us all money, they claimed, back in the beginning. Why, with the savings they would make, they’d be paying us zillions of dollars in interest. Sure.
Customer service is usually my target. I’m still dealing with the PIN issued for the new credit card because the PIN still doesn’t work —
But that’s not what this post is supposed to be about, so let me make that shift. This is instead about doing my income taxes.
I use software to do my taxes, been doing that for over twenty years. I’ve been using H&R Block’s software for the last nine years. Each year, the whole process becomes a little better. This year, it sparkled with amazing efficiency. I completed the taxes and filed a few weeks ago. “Your return should be accepted without two to three days,” the software told me. Zap, my Fed return was accepted in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes later, Oregon accepted it.
Well, cool, isn’t that great? I thought so. “You should receive your refund in two to three weeks,” the software told me. The IRS has made this part really easy, establishing a place online where you can put in some info and see what’s going on with your tax return. I figured that I’d check that the next week for an update.
Two days later, I checked into the checking account online. Lo, a deposit was pending, and gave the date when it would be received, along with the amount. Yes, it was my tax refund. I was receiving it less than seven days after filing.
I thought that deserved a shout out.
Morning Routine
The door opened. He tottered out and stopped in shade and sunshine on the hard white ground. Good morning, he said to the air. Good morning, sunshine. He liked the air and sunshine, though neither answered him.
The blue bird came by and said hello. He liked the bird. It was always friendly and noisy.
The man came out, talking to him in his busy language. He liked the man. He mewed that information to the man, who went by him in a scissoring flash of legs.
He decided to follow the man across the dewy wet grass, see what’s what, but the man went back into the house, speaking as he always did, which roughly translated to, I am leaving you, and closed the door, as he always did, leaving him alone, in the grass, staring back.
A bee came by, and another bird (one he didn’t know) stopped on the tree and said hello. He didn’t know the bird, so he didn’t answer. After requesting permission (which he gave with a nod), the bird darted down in the yard to visit the grass, then said good-bye and flew away.
He settled onto the grass. Cold under his belly fur, the grass sent a wet shock up through him. The sun was peeking through trees. It was always shy at first, hiding behind trees, leaves, and clouds. But then it came out and told him, good morning. How are you?
The sunshine stroked his black fur with its warm hand. I am fine, he answered, closing his eyes to nap.
Going-out Day
Going-out day was coming up. Just twelve days until they would toddle out to re-discover the world.
He thought, what should I do about my beard? He played with it during the thirteen months, twice shaving it off to begin again. No matter. It wasn’t the beard that dissatisfied him but the foundation underneath it. The sagging on display. As for his hair…oh.
She brought out her clothes. Examination of style and fit was conducted. Her shoes followed. She thought about what to do with her hair. A lot could happen to hair in thirteen months.
They made tentative plans. Cautious. Visits to new old places were broached. Small dreams of where they could go and what to do were nurtured. They would still wear masks. Of course. Wash hands. Avoid contact. Socialize outside.
She marked her calendar. Hairdresser. Dentist, hard times in cautious ink on the calendar, the first mark on its fresh pages. He planned a day in his mind. Beer with friends. He’d not seen them in thirteen months, except one of them. Two who were there before would not be there.
A lot of life happened in thirteen months. It was a heavy weight.
A Vaccine Tale
The wife and I went out and received our COVID-19 vaccinations this morning. Being in our early sixties and relatively good health, i.e., nothing underlying that’s major, we hadn’t been eligible until guidance as changed a few days ago.
Well, as soon as it was changed, I was online, searching for vaccination opportunities. After three days of searching in which not even a glimmer of hope emerged, we scored with the J&J vaccine at our local RiteAid.
My appointment was for 10:06 AM this morning. My wife was scheduled for three minutes later. Per the store’s guidance, I arrived at 10:00 after leaving at 9:50.
I looked around for guidance. You know, signs. Placards. Anything. Nada. I queried the cashier (he was the only employee around). He gave a vague response about waiting in the store.
Figuring the pharmacy folks will be heavily engaged, I headed toward the prescription drop-off window because an employee was behind the counter there. They were helping another, so I hung around, waiting, masked and six feet away. I gathered the customer being helped was vaccine recipient numero uno for today’s doses. After he drifted off, I drifted up to the window. The employee drifted away. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called.
She returned after about three minutes. We went through the check-in process, showing identifications, answering questions. She explained, “You’re number two.” My wife was number three. “I’ll be doing five at a time, because there are five doses in a vial. Just hang around the store and we’ll call you up.”
Okay. We were a little disappointed. We hoped we’d be in and out. That’s how my friend, Bob, said it went for him at RiteAid, going on (via email) about how they had it all together, right down to the minute.
Wasn’t happening for us. I was scheduled for 10:06. It was now 10:15. But, hey, we’d made progress. We wandered around the store, killing time. RiteAid’s prices shocked us. $1.09 for a little can of Fancy Feast. Holy catcrap! Over at Bi-Mart, they sell for $.65. Albertson’s sells them for $.79, if you buy twenty cans. Yeah, I struggle remembering state capitols, grammar, and the Supreme Court justices, but I can recite can food prices.
Around 10:25, my wife and I wandered back to the pharmacy area to check out the scene. A dozen people were now gathered. Some were in the prescription line. Others seemed to be there for vaccinations.
10:30, the pharmacy cashier whispered a name. I was standing about fifteen feet away. “What name was that?” I called to her. Everyone paused to hear. The cashier whispered it again. I was about to repeat it when a man sprang up. “That’s me,” numero uno proclaimed, rushing up.
I was called up next. I complimented her on her nails. Dark green metallic, they reminded me of beetle’s wings, but they were long and flawless. Not even a chip in them, you know? She worked the register without issue with them. I was highly impressed.
Others were processed after me. We resumed waiting. At last, “William Wisdom” — patient number one — was called to a back room. He emerged four minutes later to cheers. My wife and I were summoned.
We went in. The room was about five feet by five, smaller than a standard office cubicle, crowded with two chairs and two small tables. Being processed first, I took one chair while the pharmacist occupied the other. I was processed, verifying my birthday and name, no allergies, feeling pretty good today. My temperature was read off my forehead. I offered my left arm. Telling me what might happen in the next twenty-four hours, the pharmacist jabbed me. It felt like nothing. A bandage was applied over the mark. I gave the chair up to my wife and she was processed. “We recommend people hang around for fifteen minutes after getting the vaccine,” the pharmacist said. Okay.
We went back into the store. 10:52. We’d left our house sixty-two minutes before. We roamed, heading outside away from people and into sunny fresh air, fantasizing about where to go once our two weeks had passed.
11:05, we headed back home. Two of the cats were in the house. Both were sleeping. Neither woke up to greet us.
Michael Seidel, writer 