The End of the World As We Know It
One evening last summer I had a guest at my apartment and we were vegging out in the living room watching So You Think You Can Dance (one of my favorite shows). At one point she turned to me and asked, “do you have any sherbet?” I imagine I had a rather shocked look on my face as I replied, “you know I don’t do alcohol anymore.”
Of course, then it was her turn for a totally confused stare.
So, upon reading her nonverbals, I said, “oh, you said sherbet…I was thinking sherry. Sorry. But, still, the answer is no. I really don’t have that kind of dessert stuff around here.”
However, thinking I would try to be an accommodating host, the next time I went to the grocery store I looked for the sherbets in the frozen food case. I didn’t find any. What I did find, though, was a small selection of sorbets. I have since learned that a sorbet is a non-dairy version of the frozen product known as a sherbet (the latter having modest butterfat contents).
I picked out a couple different flavors and took them home so that if I were ever asked that question again, I could say, “well, I have no sherbet, but would you care for some sorbet?”
As it turned out, she only visited once more when the topic came up, and, indeed, we enjoyed small dishes of sorbet together. (She lives out of town and doesn’t often stop by.)
The funny thing is, I have rarely in my life ever indulged in sherbets, sorbets, ice creams, or any kind of frozen desserts … well, except the very infrequent Dairy Queen Blizzard.
But, having been asked that question, and then having sought out those sorbets, I now find myself having become rather hooked. What the heck is going on in this world when I can get addicted to sweet, fruity, frozen water?
The explanation must be: the end is nigh. It’s 2012. I suspect we’re getting close to the end of the world as we know it.
Soundtrack Suggestion
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it.
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.
(“It’s The End of the World” – R.E.M.)
Roto-Rooter & Recovery: Part I
I had tried valiantly to avoid this operation for at least a decade. Of all the invasive procedures that can happen … I mean, wow. Not that I’d rather have brain surgery, of course, but still … here I was. The wait was over and the dreaded TURP was going to happen. This was the week I was going to show up at the hospital, point to my private parts, and say “have at it.”
The morning before the surgery, the schedule called for me to go to the hospital and pre-register … which is a smart way to do things. This appointment did exactly what was intended: to save a lot of time during the day of the operation. I answered the receptionist’s and nurse’s questions (verified that I had not been taking blood-thinning drugs, for example), signed their forms, asked my own questions (can I bring my iPhone? my Kindle? my dietary supplements? – yes, yes, yes), and received my hospital wristband (along with the warning not to take it off or I’d have to do the check-in procedure all over again tomorrow). Then, I went to the lab for the final blood work, where I had to be stuck TWO times, by TWO techs, so they could do DUPLICATE tests. Oh, well, better safe than sorry?
I did my best to keep breathing the rest of that day. The anesthesiologist called me in the evening for a short chat, and told me a little bit about the approach: we’d be using a spinal anesthetic, a technique that, when combined with the other drugs, would totally put me out, and also provide maximum benefit to the surgeon by relaxing my midsection for the work on my prostate. I wouldn’t remember a thing, he assured me.
That night I slept very fitfully and awoke early. According to instructions, I didn’t eat or drink anything. My ride was going to be here at 6:45 so I could be at the hospital by 7:00. Surgery was scheduled for 7:30.
The rest of the following two-day period (my time in the hospital) is somewhat of a blur. But I do remember parts …
The receptionist downstairs pointed me to the elevator. I went up to the waiting area and they almost immediately called my name. I was shown to a tiny curtained-off area where I was asked to disrobe and put all my belongings into a plastic bag. (Luckily, I had also brought along a gym bag to carry things in.) I put on the hospital garb and lay down. “Could I have another blanket, please?” They brought a nice, pre-warmed one. Ahhhh.
Somebody came by and inserted an IV into my lower left arm. Poke. Ouch. The nurses were very nice, though business-like. The anesthesiologist came by and introduced himself. My urologist (the surgeon) stopped by to say hello and to let me know that we’d be underway shortly.
Soon I was rolling down the hallway toward the operating room. We entered, I looked the place over, and said something like: “hmmmm… it doesn’t look like the Grey’s Anatomy rooms.” (I guess things are always different in real life, eh?) The put me on the table and …
… almost immediately I woke up in the recovery room: in the little curtained area where I’d left my stuff. What? It’s over?!? Really?
Well, of course it wasn’t over. The surgery was rather the easy part, even if it did involve inserting a tube up my penis and carving away part of my prostate. (They don’t call it a roto-rooter job for nothing!)
[The story continues here.]
Insurance Rates
Dear Farmers Insurance Group:
This note is to inform you that I will not be renewing my auto insurance policy with you, effective February 7, 2012.
The bill I recently received, for my six-month renewal, is $649.70. As I spent some time trying to wrap my head around this number, I did the math and discovered this is exactly 25% more than my previous bill. I did not understand at all how this could possibly be correct, so I called, and you indicated the rate increase was due to the fact that I had had a claim in 2010 and it (the consequences of the accident) had finally caught up with me. (Or words to that effect...)
Now, the claim I had in early 2010 (almost two full years ago!) was for a small fender-bender in my parking lot at work, and, yes, it was entirely my fault. However, my recollection is that this is the first claim I have ever had as a Farmers customer where the fault was mine. Yes, I have had comprehensive-coverage claims for cracked windshields and vandalized tires. And, yes, I once had a car totaled out, back in the 1980s, in the middle of the night (while I was upstairs in my house, sleeping) by a hit-and-run driver. BUT: I have not had an accident that was my fault since I’ve been insured by Farmers … and
I started with you back in 1978.
Further, in all that time, I believe I have had only one moving violation: a speeding ticket in Lane County, Oregon, sometime in the late 1990s.
During our initial phone conversation about this rate increase, you offered to reduce my coverage limits so we could bring my premium payment into line with what it had been (up until now). At first, that seemed to be the way to go … but, really, I don’t WANT reduced coverage. I really desire some consideration as a long-standing Farmers customer, and to be assessed no penalty for having had one, yes one, accident in 34 years of continuous coverage (in Corvallis, Oregon; Bloomington, Indiana; Eugene, Oregon; Portland, Oregon; Roseburg, Oregon; and now, Larkspur, California).
But, after yet another consultation with you, Famers doesn’t seem to be able to offer me such consideration. I have now shopped around and AAA has written me a policy for the level of coverage I currently have with Farmers, for slightly less than I had paying with you. My new AAA policy is effective February 7 so you will not be receiving another premium payment from me for auto insurance. (My renter’s insurance will remain with Farmers, though I will be looking for other companies to ultimately fulfill that need as well.)
The question I leave you with is: am I not the kind of responsible person you WANT to be insuring?
Most respectfully yours,
TechnoMonk
Waking Up … Or Not
Well, as you learned from my last post, I finally decided to have the operation I’d been putting off for years. In the modern medical age it is quite easy to engage in such avoidance; drugs designed to alleviate the most problematic enlarged-prostate symptoms have enabled men to delay surgical intervention for a long time. In my case, I was on Flomax (I’m sure you’ve seen the ads on TV) for about a decade. The ultimate reason for my decision? — the number of trips to the bathroom per unit time was getting pretty damn ridiculous. And, really, I just didn’t feel well anymore.
I’m an academic; I work on a campus. So, given that this was an elective procedure, for a non-life-threatening condition, and in trying to be a most-responsible employee, I thought I should do the operation at the end of Fall semester. Things can be sort of frantic at the end of an academic term, but after that things slow way down and campus is totally closed between Christmas and New Year’s. So, in the middle of November, I scheduled this to happen during the first week of December.
Of course, being the perpetual worrier I am, as I entered the last few days prior to the big event, I became more and more anxious. I had never had a surgery before. And, wouldn’t you know? — I watch all the doctor shows on TV, always have (from Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare, to St. Elsewhere, ER, Chicago Hope, Grey’s Anatomy and House … I’ve always been fascinated). I had good reason to worry, I thought: Murphy’s Law seems to rule. If something can go wrong, it will. Right?
