Just Shut Up, Already!

It hasn't stopped snowing, it seems, since the Bush Administration. There are no more fire hydrants. There are no more curbs. There are no more trees. Everything is covered in gargantuan mountains of black and gray and white New York snow. There is civil unrest brewing; you can feel it. People are beginning to snarl at each other. Paths between the aforementioned mountains are narrow and erratic. Sometimes you have to yield your right-of-way. Sometimes you don't want to. Rumor has it that there's a movement afoot to assassinate all the local meteorologists, including Sam Champion, for goodness sake. Craig Allen I could maybe understand, but Sam Champion? By the way, do you think Sam Champion is his real name? And if so, shouldn't he have gotten himself a mask and a cape and some tights and gone on to a career as a superhero? Most folks understand that the weather guys are not actually in charge of the weather, but there is always the fringe element that's perfectly happy to shoot the messenger. The reason I bring all this up is to illustrate that it's become exceedingly rare to have a civil conversation with a stranger anywhere in Brooklyn. People are just fed up with all the snow and many have become downright ornery. So when I met Harvey the other day, he was a pleasant surprise. I had asked two of my landlord's sons to try and dig my car out for me. I hate to admit it, but I have become totally physically incapable of such arduous tasks. But I said that I'd only allow them to do it if they'd accept money from me. They adamantly refused. I now interrupt this post for a word about my landlord and family: I really lucked out this time. He's a really nice guy, his wife sends me warm potato kugel almost every Friday and his kids (seven boys and one girl, some married) are great. So the two boys, ages about seventeen and ten, are cleaning off my car when Harvey shows up. He's parked right across the street, and his car is even worse than mine; it's pretty much just one big mound of snow. Now the kids are splitting their time between my car and Harvey's. I really didn't mind; I had nowhere important to go. I just wanted the option to drive if there was an emergency, like if I suddenly needed to go to the movies. So now there was nothing left for me to do but crawl back into my apartment, which didn't feel right, or shmooze with Harvey. So I shmoozed with Harvey. Or, more accurately, he shmoozed with me. When I approached him, I noticed that there was something physically wrong with him, but I couldn't quite figure out what. He was just standing there in a slightly awkward, unnatural position. He told me he was sixty-six (obviously way older than I) and how very happy he was to meet me and how very happy he was to still be around. Ooookay. What have I gotten myself into, I thought. Then he launched into his story. Harvey had been in a horrific car accident some years ago and had almost died. That's when I let the conversation turn into a "can you top this?" Oh yeah, I thought, you think you've got problems? I proceeded to pull out my trusty "in-a-coma-and-almost-dead-at-Columbia Presbyterian" picture from my wallet, where I keep it handy for just such an occasion. Didn't even slow him down. He was about to give me all the gory details about the accident when I played my trump card: I showed him my trach scar. No good. He had the unmitigated gall to show me his. Uh-oh, I thought; I might actually have met my "please feel sorry for me" match. So I finally just shut up and let Harvey talk. The firemen had cut him out of the car with the "jaws of life", he said. The cops had mistakenly told his wife that he was dead, he said. And, just for good measure, he told me that as a result of the accident, he could no longer lift his arms, so his hands, although not paralyzed, were pretty much useless (I'm still trying to figure out how he drove his car). There was no doubt about it: Harvey was in worse shape than I. What a chutzpah! But seriously, I did learn a valuable lesson from our conversation: telling someone about your problems gets old really quickly. About halfway through Harvey's tale of woe, in spite of the fact that I was really, really trying to be a good person and listen, I started zoning out. When the subject was not my traumatic experience, I simply lost interest and lost it fast. So that left me with two heavy questions to ponder: 1. What does that say about me?, and 2. Am I guilty of the same offense, boring people to tears with my own problems? I'm still working on figuring out the answer to the first one. The second one is kind of rhetorical.

Happy Anniversary



Beth Israel: almost a hospital.



Hatzaloh: the Jewish cavalry.

I just got home. As usual, I was at Chayie's house for Shabbos. This time, the Lench family was there, too. That's seven people. Also in attendance were Babby, Avi, Shanna and Chana, Mendy, Rivky, and Blimi and Dovid for Lunch. Oh yeah...Dave was there, too. Feige and Ester walked over after lunch. As you can imagine, the place was on wheels. It was noisy, messy and occasionally stinky. In other words, it was great. Everybody (with the possible exception of poor Chana, who didn't feel well) had a good time. When a Lakewoodian contingent such as the Lenches comes for the weekend, they take over the basement, my usual stomping ground. Since the Bienenstocks next door were away, I stayed in their basement instead. In the past, however, I have usually become upwardly mobile under these circimstances: I have either kicked Rivky out of her room on the second floor or gone all the way up to the attic. THE ATTIC! Omigosh! It all came storming back to me. The last time (I think ) the Lenches and I were at the Fisch House for Shabbos together was exactly one year ago. The last Saturday in January in 2010 fell on the 30th, and this year it's on the 29th...close enough. Well, a year ago today is when my journey began. That was the Shabbos when I was so short of breath, I landed in Beth Israel that Saturday night (see "The Calm Before the Storm", post of August 1st). I was walking up and down the stairs all weekend and becoming sicker as the day went on. I had brought my baby lovebird, Pumpkin, with me because I was still hand feeding him, and Blimi and Dovid's lovebird Blueberry (the one I called Sunshine) was there too, for reasons that escape me. Saturday night we let the birds out and they were merrily flying around. One of them landed on top of the drapes and wouldn't come down, so I climbed up to get him. When I sat back down on the couch with the bird perched happily on my finger, I kissed him. Right on the beak. Babby was appalled. So was Chayie. So were the Lench kids, who all said "uchhhhhh" in unison. I was just being my usual contrary, head-in-the-sand self. So what if I couldn't breathe? Is that any reason not to show some affection to a teensy little birdy who never did nothing to no one? Well, is it?? I know that Chayie thought that I should call Hatzolah, but she didn't say anything and I didn't want to. It wasn't till much later, after I had gone home to my dirty, mousey, roach-y apartment that I finally gave in and called. The guys took one look at me and then at my SATs and had me strapped to the gurney; I was too weak to argue, and to tell the truth, I knew it was the right thing to do. Maybe I was just scared. Maybe I somehow knew unconsciously that this would be the beginning of a truly hellish experience, and I wanted to put it off as long as possible. But the bottom line is, I apparently wasn't stubborn enough or self destructive enough to stay home that night. I guess when the chips (and the SATs) are down, the will to live really does kick in. En route in the ambulance, I told the guys that I since my pulmonologist was associated there, I wanted to go to Beth Israel on Kings Highway. After they finished looking at me like I had two heads, that's exactly where they took me. Verrrry reluctantly. It probably would have made sense for me to listen to two volunteers with absolutely no axe to grind, whose only reason for being in a speeding ambulance at 2:00 in the morning when they could just as well have been home with their respective families, was to save my life. Maybe I wasn't thinking clearly or maybe I was just being me. In retrospect, I wasn't doing myself a favor by being me. I should have tried being someone else for a change.  Anyway, as usual, I've gotten way off the main point I wanted to make, which was that it's hard to believe a whole year has gone by since that fateful night.  Obviously, much has changed.  The main thing I've learned is never to take anything for granted: at 59, I figured I was good for another 30 years.  At 60, I wonder if I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow. 

The Dilemma



Ron Howard,
who has lots of money.



Ron Zweig,
who has no money,
but is much better looking.
(obviously)

First, a disclaimer: this post has absolutely nothing to do with Ron Howard's new movie, "The Dilemma".  That's about a guy who sees his best friend's wife doing something naughty and doesn't know whether to snitch or not.  It's supposed to be a comedy, but I've seen the trailer and it looked pretty serious to me.  For those of you who are too young to remember, Ron Howard (then known as Ronnie) played Opie Taylor on "The Andy Griffith Show" (1960-1968), and then Richie Cunningham on "Happy Days" (1974-1984).  He was an adorable little boy.  He's not an adorable adult.  I've been told that I look like him, which I consider an insult.  Not that I have anything against Ron Howard, but I was an adorable little boy who did become an adorable adult.  And I wonder how many people would show up if he threw a seudas hoda'ah!  Harumph!  Anyway, I have a dilemma, and it has nothing to do with my best friend's wife.  In fact I don't even have a best friend, and if I did, he undoubtedly would not have a wife.  My dilemma is about mold.  I have mold on the ceiling in my bathroom, above the tub.  There was a little when I moved in in October, but it has gotten progressively worse.  As you surely know, mold is a health hazard even for healthy people.  For someone whose lungs wheeze like a broken accordion, mold can be quite dangerous.  So I went to Amazon.com and looked for mold removal products.  The one that was supposedly the most effective was called "Mold Armor".  Just about all the customer reviews gave it glowing reports, but virtually all of them also commented on its toxicity.  Its smell and fumes are overpowering, they said.  It burns your eyes, they said.  So I figured I'd buy it, use it, and then get out of Dodge.  Well, it got rid of about 95% of the mold with one application...the stuff is amazing.  I don't have a window in my bathroom, but I do have a ceiling exhaust fan.  I turned on the fan and left the apartment for a few hours.  When I came back, the fumes were pretty much gone but the smell was still there.  Well, guess what?  It is now two days later and the smell is still there.  So here's the dilemma: what do I do about the 5% of the mold that is still there?  I think the reason It's still there is because I missed the spot, not because it's any tougher than any of the other mold was.  So do I just leave it there so I don't have to deal with the fumes all over again, which I'm sure can't be very good for my lungs, or do I go in and spray again?  Anybody have an opinion?



Icky mold.



Icky mold remover.







Hip, Hip Hooray!



Hip.

 Did you know you can do a word
search on this blog? For instance,

More Hip.

if you put the word "bird" in the search box, all the posts in which I used that word will come up.
Isn't that fascinating? Well, if you put the word "hip" in the box, you'll see that I've already discussed my hip woes on January 16th, my birthday, in the aptly titled post, "Happy Birthday To Me". That's the one where I start kretchzing about various and sundry aches and pains which have suddenly begun to pop up. There were my shoulder and my legs and my elbow and my neck. Well, the one that seems to have stuck is my left hip. That's the same side as the drop foot. Coincidence? I think not. What I think is happening is that I'm over-compensating somehow for my slightly dragging foot and thereby putting more pressure on my hip. Does that make sense? I'm not in excruciating pain, mind you, but it hurts just enough to let me know it's there. So I made an appointment with an orthopedist. I'm happy about that because it's my first doctor who's not an "ologist". I don't trust very many doctors in Brooklyn anymore, so I decided to get a Manhattan doctor. I called Echo, one of the Jewish medical referral organizations, and they gave me the name of a Doctor Harwin. I called and spoke to a very nice lady who lives in Brooklyn named Denise. I asked her if she was related to DeNephew. I'm very clever, you know. They're on Park Avenue between 79th and 80th, about ten blocks south of Dr. DePalo. So I figured maybe the guy is affiliated with Mt. Sinai, too. Uh-uh. Beth Israel. Yikes! Their Brooklyn counterpart tried to kill me, remember? But since this guy came highly recommended, and since this (hopefully) will not entail a hospital admission, I guess I'm probably safe. I know, I know: famous last words. Walking is somewhat overrated anyway, don't you think?

Hipwoes.





The White Stuff

I don't know how much more of this I can take.  On December 26th, we got 20" of snow.  That was the one where our esteemed mayor had his head up his patoot until like the third day and nary a snow plow was to be found.  We've had five, count 'em, five storms since then.  So last night Chayie and I go to a vort* and when we set out (Chayie was driving; she doesn't trust anyone else behind the wheel) there was a light snowfall, but nothing major.  When we left the place, the precipitation was coming down with a vengance.  I say "precipitation" because I'm not exactly sure what it was.  There was snow and sleet

(I guess; I'm not sure what that is, but it sounds good) and freezing rain. 

It was, in short, a mess. I woke up this morning not expecting more than a small, mushy accumulation.  Riiight.  Ah nechtiger tug**!  We got another foot of the white stuff.  And this being New York, it soon becomes the black stuff.  There is actually a condition known as "Seasonal Affective Disorder", or S.A.D., which is a very convenient acronym.  Basically, it's just a fancy name for the winter blues.  Folks miss the sun's warmth and brightness.  This time of year, the earth's orbit around the sun is in its apogee.  Impressed?  You should be.  If you don't know what it means, look it up.  If you're reading this blog, you obviously have a lot of time on your hands.  Anyway, I think I'm getting S.A.D., too.  it's just very disheartening when you start the day bright-eyed and bushy tailed, with a list of things you want to accomplish, and then you go outside and your car looks like Mt. Washington.  That's bad enough if you're a regular 60 year old.  It's worse if you're a pulmonarily challenged 60 year old (it was either "pulmonarily" or "respiratorily", which I think sounds worse, and considering that I made them both up, I figured I should go with the one that sounds better).  I got short of breath just kicking down the snow that was blocking my outside door.  So I'm starting to get depressed.  My apartment is small and therefore precludes me from entertaining myself with many of my favorite pastimes, like bowling.  So I'm limited to writing this gibberish, going to Amazon and wasting money, watching Judge Judy or, my old standby of course, going through Shas ba'al peh***.  So in order to maintain some semblance of sanity, at around 4:00 I put on my Timberlands and ventured out.  First I went to the bodega around the corner and bought the Post and the News, then I walked to Sunflower Cafe on Kings Highway.  That's one short block and two long ones.  If I walk slowly, I can actually breathe.  I guess I shouldn't complain; remember when I thought I'd never be able to do everyday, mundane things like walk to the corner?  Seeing as how I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, I had a French Onion soup and a lox-and-cheese panini sandwich and a Diet Coke.  They call it a mozarella-and-salmon panini sandwich, which I guess sounds classier.  Whatever you call it, it was delicious.  The place was pretty much empty, so I just relaxed and read the paper while I ate, almost losing my appetite every time I passed a picture of the rectal orifice who currently occupies the White House.   On my way home, I got a call telling me that a 30-something year old female cousin just got engaged.  That's like 80 in gentile years.  So tell me: they waited 30-some-odd years...couldn't they have waited till New York no longer looked like Anchorage?  So guess what?  The vort is tonight.  Chayie's picking me up yet again and we're gonna go.  I suppose I'll have to wait till tomorrow to stick my head in the oven.

* Vort = sort of like an engagement party.

** Ah nechtiger tug = There's really no translation for this yiddish idiomatic expression.  It most closely resembles the Beatles' "Hard day's night", but it really means, "in your dreams"!

*** Shas ba'al peh = The entire Talmud by heart.             

The Write Stuff

 

So I'm reading the HaModia magazine at Chayie's kitchen table at 2:00 in the Morning on Shabbos and I come across this article.  First let's address why I was there at that time reading.  I've developed this habit of getting up in the wee, small hours of the morning (thank you, Frank Sinatra) when I'm at the Fisch residence for Shabbos and reading and rummaging.  The reading is usually focused on the "Noted and Quoted" section of the Yated Ne'eman or the equivalent section in the HaModia, the name of which escapes me.  These are rather entertaining features wherein the respective newspapers quote various politicians or pundits or comedians.  The quotes are usually quite amusing, and since Orthodox Jewish newspapers tend to lean to the right, there's usually a lot of negative stuff about Obama, our Moron-in-Chief.  Also stuff about the Rubashkin case, which is usually interesting.  The rummaging is for food.  Chayie's kitchen is a wonderland.  One of my favorite foods in the world is Stella D'oro Swiss Fudge Cookies.  To die for.  How I eat them depends on what time it is: if it's early I eat them with tea, because I like to dunk 'em and I can't use milk because I'm still fleishig*.  If it's later, like 2:00, I use milk, because it's obvioulsy better to dunk in milk than in tea.  But there are always other delicasies lying around, like rugelach, twizzlers, sour balls and ice cream.  I have to be careful with the ice cream, though; Dave tends to get very posessive about it.  So anyway, there was this article in the HaModia magazine.  The feature title was "Holding on tight: Straphangers."  No, it wasn't about the subway.  Apparently it is going to be a permanent feature in the magazine, which, according to their accompanying blurb, "[will open] a window to the hearts of ordinary people whose lives were suddenly catapulted into extraordinary challenges of health and survival."  Ummm...hello?  Is there anyone better qualified to submit an article than Yours Truly?  Did someone say "Pulitzer"?  Heck, I could have even written a better blurb than they did!  I mean, I know they were trying really hard to sound...what?  Profound?  But come on, now..."whose lives were suddenly catapulted"??  What does that even mean?  So without even asking them if they were looking for freelance pieces, I wrote one.  It's four pages long, using a 12 pt. font.  I don't know if that's too long or not.  It pretty much captures the essence of my recovery without going into the tiniest of details.  For example, I discuss Oscar but I leave out all the other birds.  I mention setbacks, but I don't go into the gory details of each and every one.  Honestly, I think it's pretty good.  The first time I submitted an article to them, they published it.  That was way back before I got sick.  They ran an ad soliciting articles from people who had lost their jobs and found the experience to have been a blessing in disguise.  The feature ran under the title, "Dark Clouds, Silver Linings".  I wrote that after I lost my job, I started performing at nursing homes, thereby fulfilling the lifelong dream of making my living singing.  Unbeknownst to me, I was about to become gravely ill.  So I guess I owe them a follow-up piece.  I called and they said they absolutely were accepting freelance stuff, so I emailed it to them, along with some juicy pictures.  I'm about 90% sure they'll accept it.  But don't worry; I'll still speak to all you little people.  You might just have to make an appointment.

*fleishig = having eaten meat, one must wait before eating dairy. 
How long varies; there are different traditions, depending on where
one's ancestors originated.  Most Orthodox Jews wait six hours,
some wait three hours, and there are even those who wait one hour. 

It's My Party And I'll Speak If I Want To



Me, going to the bathroom.
The hard way.

Me speaking.

Duvy speaking.

It's been a week since the Seudas Hoda'ah. I waited to post about it till I got the pictures. I have a whole bunch of shots that I'd love to use. Unfortunately, whoever at Google wrote the program for entering photographs on a blog did a really lousy job. There have been times that I've literally spent hours trying to get photos or graphics where I want them. First I thought maybe it's just me, but I checked and there are dozens of other frustrated bloggers complaining about the same thing. So I usually only use two pictures per post, three tops, and I almost always wind up positioning them in the same places (the upper right and left corners) because that's where the program gives me the least amount of aggita. I'm gonna try to use four, count 'em, four photos in this post! We'll see how it goes. Well, the Seudah was a smashing success. For a while beforehand I regretted the venue I had chosen; KD is not exactly the classiest establishment around. But my fears were unfounded; they did a great job. The food was good and it was fresh and the service was fine, too. As the saying goes, a good time was had by all. I should have waited till I got home to take my Lasix. I was sitting at the dais and was blocked in on both sides so I wound up crawling under the table to go to the Little Boys' Room. Paul the Fireman, our photographer for the night, insisted on capturing it for posterity (see above). I had three speakers scheduled: Leibie, Duvy and me.  And I?  Whatever. Leibie called me Sunday morning and told me he wasn't speaking. I didn't mind. Sometimes, especially when it comes to speeches, less is more. Duvy was his usual reliable self. He was funny, he was charming, he was brief. I wish he would realize how good he is. Then it was my turn. I think I surprised everyone by being serious for the most part. Yes, I threw in some humor, but mostly I talked about my journey and how it has affected me and how grateful I am, to G-d but also to all those who worried about me and prayed for me. Another thing I wanted to mention is the Thing On My Head. Yes, I know I've become somewhat paranoid about my health lately, and, I believe understandably so. There is, however, this Thing On My Head that has been bothering me for some time. Well, when I looked over the pictures, I saw the Thing On My Head quite clearly. I circled it in the picture below, but I think it's too small to see, so I guess you'll just have to trust me, like the guy in the Geico radio ad talking about a rolling stone gathering no moss. Think I should see a Dermatologist?  That's about the only "ologist" I haven't seen this year.  Also while perusing the photos, I noticed that my teeth are as bad as I thought and I'm fatter than I realized. I'm also not too happy with my lack of hair, but I'm kind of used to that. Maybe when we sell the house, I'll buy myself some hair and some cosmetically enhanced teeth. I'll bet that would set me back a pretty penny. But then again, now that I'm officially an Old Fart, what would be the point? To be a younger looking, more handsome version of myself for the Chevra Kadisha*?

* Chevra Kadisha = Jewish organization in charge of preparing the body for burial.



The Thing On My Head.

(circled)







Alone Again, Naturally*

This will be a departure from my usual posts. I usually kvetch about physical ailments. This time I'm going to wear my heart on my sleeve and talk about an issue I've been grappling with for years. Wait, maybe I should ask Dr. Plawes first if it's a good idea for me to wear my heart on my sleeve. All the Plavix might leak out. Not to mention blood and stuff. Sheesh. I thought I could keep this one serious.  Okay, disregard that (allegedly) funny stuff.  Here goes: I got home from Silver Lake on May 4th. and moved out of Chayie and Dave's house on October 3rd.  Five months in the proverbial bosom of my family.  It was actually pretty cool.  There was someone to cook for me and do my laundry and usually there was someone to talk to.  Those are all nice things, to be sure.  Family has always been of paramount importance to me.  And yet, here I am by myself.  Again.  This is not an aberration.  This is how I always wind up.  And please don't misunderstand: I'm not complaining.  Most of the time I like being by myself, and that's the whole point of this rather public soul searching...why do I like being by myself?  Is being a people-person and also being something of a social hermit a contradiction in terms?  I have had friends over the years make overtures, trying to be closer, wanting to hang out.  I kept saying no, and eventually they stopped asking.  I pushed them away.  And then there's the Three Wives Situation.  Granted, not one of them was completely right for me (and vice versa), but the fact remains that I couldn't make it work with any of them.  That need to be alone and not to have to answer to anyone was apparently too strong.  Again, this is not about my occasional bouts with loneliness and/or depression.  When you choose to live alone, it comes with the territory.  What I've never been able to figure out (even with all the years of therapy) is this: what is it about me that makes me want to be alone?  Now that I'm no longer working, I can spend days on end without any substantial interaction with another human being, unless you count checkout girls at Duane Reade or the occasional doctor appointment.  There are days when my phone literally does not ring.  Today I must have spoken to Chayie and Feige at least a dozen times.  And I spoke to Babby.  And oh yes, I called Verizon Customer Service.  I think that's it.  In therapy they talk about "secondary gains".  Obviously I'm getting some kind of satisfaction from this lifestyle in which I'm constantly finding myself.  Now that I've put two shrinks' kids through college without ever coming close to figuring this out, I welcome any theories from you, my faithful readers: why am I such a loner?  Anyone?

* For you young folks, "Alone Again, Naturally" was a smash hit back in 1972.  It was a song by a one-hit wonder named Gilbert O'sullivan (which I think must have been a stage name based on the operetta writers), and it has to be one of the most depressing songs of all time.  Here's a sample of the lyrics:
                                                   
                                                                              In a little while from now
                                                                         If I’m not feeling any less sour
                                                                       I promise myself to treat myself
                                                                            And visit a nearby tower
                                                            And climbing to the top will throw myself off
                                                                   In an effort to make it clear to who
                                                            Ever what it’s like when you’re shattered
                                                              Left standing in the lurch at a church
                                                        Where people saying: "My G-d, that’s tough
                                                                            She's stood him up"
                                                                      No point in us remaining
                                                                      We may as well go home
                                                                         As I did on my own
                                                                      Alone again, naturally

And Gilbert, by the way, was just getting warmed up; later he talks about his father's untimely demise and how it drove his mother to an early grave as well...charming, isn't it?



The Whole Is Equal To...

I have a friend that reads this blog, and she's not related to me.  It's true.  I'll bet all you nieces and sisters and stuff think that you're the only ones out there in cyber-world that are privy to these incredibly erudite, profound words of wisdom.  Well, you're wrong.  There are probably at least five or six hundred other followers that have not officially signed up and consequently can't comment even if they wanted to.  Okay, maybe not five or six hundred.  Maybe just one or two.  People, not hundreds.  But the fact remains that I do have loyal fans out there.  It's the quality of the readership that counts, not the quantity.  I think.   So she emails me and comments that there are very few of my body parts that I have yet to kvetch about somewhere in the blog. And so, dear readers, I shall endeavor to explain to you the state of my toes.  Yes, my friends, my toes.  After all it's been a long time since I really grossed you out; I think it was way back in October ("Snot Easy").  Before we begin, I must say that I never understood why people find toes so icky.  After all, you never see anyone call for the ol' barf bag when they glance at someone's fingers, do you?  And what are toes, after all, but feet fingers.  In fact, that's exactly what they're called in both Hebrew and Yiddish.  I have an erstwhile friend who's a podiatrist.  Boy, does he get a lot of ribbing about his occupation.  It's almost as if he's gonna be the next installment on that cable show, "dirty jobs".  You know, the one where the host goes around and joins folks with truly disgusting jobs, like sewer cleaners and hog sloppers.  You can't make this stuff up.  In 2011, this is considered entertainment, kiddies.  So podiatrists get a bad rap.  Truth be told, I wouldn't want to sit around all day trimming someone else's toenails, either.  But you know what?  I don't really know why.  I think we've all been brainwashed to think that other people's toes are nasty, but ours are just lovely.  Maybe it started with cavemen who didn't wash and got all fungal down there and had several decades worth of toe-jam build-up and this toe revulsion has been hardwired into our DNA.  But, as usual, I digress.  In fact, if I didn't go off on these tangential flights-of-fancy, my posts would all be like twenty words long.  For example, this post is about my hammertoes.  If I didn't digress, it would probably be something like,

"Since I got sick, I've developed a few hammer toes.  I never had them before".

That's only fifteen words.  And not particularly interesting words, either.

Y'know what?  I think that's enough about my hammertoes.  If you want more information, you can google it or comment and I'll respond or email me at AniDaati@aol.com.  Tune in next time when I discuss my halitosis...you won't wanna miss it! 

The Jury's Still Out

It's been over two months since I had snurgery to fix my singing voice.  Yes, I know that the word is not snurgery.  It's just one of those words that I've changed for my own amusement, like Shnabbos and Shnirts.  Also all the "pin" words which have already been discussed in a previous post.  So the snurgery was on November 8th and I don't think it helped.  The truth is Dr. Woo told me before the procedure that there was only a 50-50 chance that it would help, so I guess I can't complain.  I had that post a while back where I complained about all the sputum I was dealing with  ("I Art Phlegming, Novemeber 24th), but that problem has cleared up to some extent.  And not a moment to soon, I might add; I was beginning to feel like my father.  I remember very vividly the handkerchief he wore around his neck on Shabbos (so he wouldn't be carrying) and used to hack loogies into.  Then, when I came into shul, all dirty and sweaty from a game of slap-ball in the yard (we used a few ABC vending cups inside each other and squished together to make something resembling an orb), he would take that very, loogie-laden handkerchief, moisten it with some daddy spit, and clean my face with it.  Hell, at least when mommy cats do that, they use their tongue, so there's no transfer of cat phlegm going on.  I remember going back outside with the smell of my father's saliva on my face.  How gross is that?  Today he'd probably be arrested for child abuse.  Somehow I grew up reasonably sane.  Right?  And who invented the handkerchief, anyway?  Somehow the whole concept of blowing your nose into a little piece of cloth and then carrying your boogers around with you in your pocket for the rest of the day doesn't seem very appetizing.  Or sanitary, for that matter. Thank G-d for Kleenex!  So my phlegming has gotten better, but I still don't know about my pipes.  Chayie says (my sister always has an opinion.  About everything.) that it serves me right, since I never should have subjected myself to elective snurgery for the frivolous reason of getting my singing voice back.  I understand her position, but she's not me...she can't possibly know how I feel, knowing that there's a real possibility that I won't ever be able to sing again, at least not to my own satisfaction.  I have a friend (who shall remain nameless here) who is going through pretty much the same thing.  He has some sort of nerve paralysis in his vocal cords, and consequently can speak, but not sing.  He too has been to see Dr. Woo, to no avail.  Personally, I never thought he was much of a singer anyway, but, like my sister's aforementioned opinion, mine doesn't count for a hill of beans here.  If he fancies himself as the world's next Pavorotti, who am I to tell him that he needs a reality check?  But the real point here is the sadness on his face when he told me about it; it was like he had just lost his best friend, or run over his new puppy, or...well...you get the idea.  If you haven't been there, you can't possibly identify with the feeling.  I have an appointment with the illustrious Dr. Woo later today.  we'll see what he says about my prognosis.  So I guess this will be continued.  

The Letter

Lutino Lovebird

My Seudas Hoda'ah was last night.  I'll post about it next time.  First I have to tell you about the letter.  Some time ago I asked Dr. DePalo (AKA His Majesty) to write me a letter stating that in his professional opinion, it was okay for me to get a bird.  Now, I know that DePalo is a lot of things, but he's not irresponsible.  He would never jeopardize my health; not because he cares so much about me...it's because he cares so much about him.  Me dying would reflect poorly on his medical genius, and he'll have none of that.  Point being, if he didn't think it was okay for me to once again have a little feathered companion, there's no way he would give it his stamp of approval.  Anyway, a few days ago, just in time for last night's shindig, the letter came by snail mail.  I wish I still had it so I could quote it verbatim, but I don't.  You see, I made it a point to bring it last night to show it to my kids.  As you already know if you've been following this blog, they're all dead set against another bird, and have articulated their feelings quite clearly.  Feige and Blimie have said that they won't speak to me.  Frankly, I don't think Kalman is quite as adamant about it.  So, while I was sitting on the dais (I sat on the dais!) I sent the letter down to them with a friend.  I never got it back.  I remember it pretty well, so I'll try to quote it here, and it will be pretty close to verbatim:

"Ronald Zweig is doing well medically.  His lung disease is not typical of hypersensitivity pneumonitis or psittacosis, diseases typical of exposure to birds.  He want to get a small, domestic bird.  It should be safe, assuming he takes the proper precautions and purchases it from a reputable dealer."
So, there you have it.  A note from my doctor.  That's all you needed if you were absent from school a few days, right?  It would even trump a note from your parents.  But my kids were unimpressed.  So was my sister.  Chayie said, "I don't care what DePalo says; he wasn't there with you.  He didn't go through hell with you.  He didn't cry for you."  That last one kind of got to me; Chayie doesn't really cry much, or if she does, she doesn't talk about it.  She got that from Babby.  Zeidie, on the other hand, was the emotional one.  Like me.  I happened to meet Blimie on the way back from a trip to the mens' room last night, and asked her if the letter was enough for her to give me her blessing.  I could tell that her position was softening, but she still had to save face.  "I still won't be able to talk to you," she began, "...for a while".  "How long?", I wanted to know, "Like a week?"  "No, more than a week".  I felt pretty good about that; she won't be able to last much longer than that, considering all the scintillating conversations we have.  So tonight I was in Radio Shack on Kings Highway and there's a Petland right next door.  I never, ever buy anything from Petland except fish or pet supplies.  The reason is I don't think their animals are healthy.  Even their fish die too quickly.  But a pair of guppies is not a major investment.  I didn't go in to the store with the intention to buy; I was just browsing.  They had some gorgeous lovebirds.  They had one absolutely magnificent Lutino lovebird, with bright yellow plumage and a striking face, dark peach bordering on vivid red.  The price was $120.00, which is pretty much what Parrots of the World gets for their common peachfaces.  Petland's peachfaces were around 80 bucks, so their prices are definitely better than Marc Morrone's the obnoxious owner of the aforementioned Parrots of the World.  The problem was that Petland's birds, as a rule, are not tame.  I went near all the cages, and each and every bird retreated to the back wall of his cage.  But the truth is, I'm glad they did.  I was tempted to break my "No birds from Petland" rule for that Lutino.  When he reacted to me like I was a leper, my enthusiasm was dampened significantly.  So I came home birdless.  But hopefully, I won't be for long!  

Happy Birthday To Me



You want me to blow out WHAT?

Oy. Everything hurts me. I'm beginning to have pain in my hip. I've never had pain in my hip. I wasn't even aware I had a hip, except when Dr. Youngblood went digging around in there (remember Dr. Youngblood? Boy, I've been blogging a long time). I think it may just be sympathy pain because Malkie (wife #3) just had a hip replacement, and I love Malkie dearly. Okay, don't start. And other pains that I've had for a while that have been lying dormant have recently begun to rear their ugly heads. I have bursitis and/or a pinched nerve in my shoulder, according to that quack of a doctor I went to a while back. I was never really too aware of my shoulder, either. Both my legs hurt. My left elbow hurts. My neck hurts. The third toe on my right foot, however, is perfect. Would you like to hazard a guess as to why all these things are aching. Never mind, I'll tell you: it's because they're all sixty years old! So my question for G-d is, if You're allowing folks to live longer these days (life expectancy in the United States a scant hundred years ago was forty-seven), why aren't You making more durable parts to go along with the longer period of time that they're gonna be in use? Wouldn't that make sense? So if any of you happens to see G-d hanging around, maybe waiting for a bus or something, would you please ask Him for me? Thanks. So, as I assume you can gather, today the Big Day finally arrived. I spent the bulk of the day sitting around my apartment, feeling sorry for myself. Hey, I'm entitled once in a while, right? I think it was more a self-fulfilling prophesy than anything else: anyone I know who's hit this birthday has told me that it was a real kick in the head for them. Then at about 5:00 I realized that I better start pulling myself together for the Seudas Hoda'ah*. I had invited about 65 people and 48 were actually showing up, so I figured I better show up too, preferably without bandages on my wrists. I couldn't really skip the affair, seeing as how I was the host and all, and also because most of the guys who were coming were really ticked off that I had scheduled the party during the Jets-Patriots game. So I washed my face, practiced smiling in the mirror, called my nephew Mendy to help me with some of the heavy lifting (booze and stuff) and headed on out to Kosher Delight.

* Seudas Hoda'ah = A special meal or party to thank G-d after recovering from a serious illness. 

There But For The Grace Of G-d, Part Two

Debbie Friedman (1951-2011)



Debbie Friedman died on Sunday.  For those of you who are not familiar with Debbie,  she was an extremely popular singer/songwriter who performed all over the world.  She was primarily associated with the Reform and Reconstructionist branches of Judaism.  Her music was sometimes liturgical, sometimes whimsical, always spiritual.  She was an exceptionally gifted, self-taught musician.  Her charisma and buoyant personality drew scores of young people to Judaism, albeit not Orthodox Judaism.  But hey...who am I to Judge?  Who knows how many Jewish souls she saved?  She has even been compared to the great Shlomo Carlebach, whom she held in great esteem, and emulated in many ways.  Extremely prolific, Debbie released over twenty albums of her work during her career.  Based on the few songs of hers that I was familiar with, I was an admirer of her work.  I'm sorry to say I never followed her music very closely.  So what's Debbie Friedman doing in my blog, you ask?  Well, Debbie was born February 23, 1951.  That would make her 38 days younger than I.  She died at age 59.  Know what she died of?  Debbie died of pneumonia.  She was on tour in Europe, didn't feel well, came back to the states and was hospitalized immediately in Los Angeles.  She was quickly put on a respirator, but her particular strain of pneumonia did not respond to antibiotics, and she passed away shortly thereafter.  While reading all the details of her untimely demise, I was struck by all the similarities between us.  Two singers of the same age, struck down by almost identical illnesses at the same time in their respective lives.  One survives and one doesn't.  Arbitrary?  Hardly.  But we don't presume to understand His grand scheme.  I'm very happy/lucky/grateful to be alive.  And yet somehow, even though I did not know her, I grieve for Debbie Friedman.     

PS  Here's a link to a very nice tribute to Debbie...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dA0nAec3y7U&feature=related



The Big Sleep

As I said in the last two posts, I went for the Sleep Study on November 29th. Had I posted about it on November 30th, I would have remembered the names of the two people who were there watching me all night, but I don't remember them now. So let's name them, okay? One was a nice black girl and the other was a short guy who I think was Jewish. Hmmm. Okay, let's call the black girl Shirley and the Jewish guy Thor. Shirley was sitting at the reception desk when I came in. She brought me to the teensy little room where I would be spending the night. The best way to describe it is...spartan. It consisted of a bed, a nightstand and a closet which ostensibly should have functioned as a place for you to hang your clothes, but instead was full of wires and supplies and stuff. No cheap prints of seascapes. No mint on the pillow. Heck, there wasn't even a window. There was, however, a camera pointing right at the bed. I found that somewhat unnerving. What if I picked my nose in my sleep? What if I farted? What if I drooled? I found the whole concept of someone watching me sleep kind of creepy and voyeuristic. I started worring about whether or not I'd be able to fall asleep. Usually when that happens, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: I don't fall asleep. There was an adjoining bathroom with a shower. Very basic, very Motel 6. Shirley told me to change and come back out so she and Thor could wire me up and get started. I put on my dashing new Botany 500 pajamas from Wiesner's of New Utrecht Avenue (as opposed to Saks of Fifth Avenue) and went to find Shirley. She and Thor were sitting in a room full of computers and monitors and wires. There was an empty chair in middle of the room where they did their evil work of getting poor, unsuspecting shlubs like me ready to be their guinea pig for the evening. Once I was in the chair, they started putting leads all over me. See that guy up there on the right? That's a very accurate picture of what I looked like when they got finished with me, except for the nasal cannula. I wasn't getting one of those; I was getting a C-PAP mask...there was no way I was gonna sleep! They let me try on a few different versions, and one was less comfortable than the next. They were all truly horrible. I started flashing back to when I wore one in Beth Israel, and that certainly didn't help anything. I almost pulled another "get me my pants!" tantrum (see post of August 12th) but instead I sang "whenever I feel afraid" from "The King and I" to myself and that made me feel better. After I picked out which mask made me feel the least like Hannibal Lecter, Thor brought me back to the room. Thor thtarted to thay what all the wires were for, but I thtopped him. He hooked everything up and left me lying there. Thoon...I mean soon...I heard his voice. "Can you hear me, Ron," it said. I said yeth. Yes. He told me to make a snoring sound. Honest. Then a coughing sound. Then he had me do them both again. He came back into the room, said goodnight and shut the light. I told him to leave the door open a crack. I thought I saw him smirk as he walked out. About half an hour later I was actually nodding off. Just as Mr. Sandman was tippy toe-ing out, Thor came back in and nudged me out of my very tenuous slumber. There was a problem, he said. They were having some technical difficulties with the room I was in and I had to move to another one. I asked if I was at least gonna get the Presidential Suite this time. No reaction. No sense of humor. Frankly, I was quite ticked off: I was somewhere I didn't want to be in the first place, and now they were bugging me in the middle of the night. Predictably, the new room was no improvement. Thor reconnected all my Frankenstein stuff, apologized for the umpteenth time, shut the light, left the door open a crack, smirked and left. Against all odds, I fell asleep around 1:30. At 6:45, there was good ol' Thor, shaking me awake. He then left the room and I once again heard him asking me to snore and cough. Someday I wish someone would explain that to me. I would have asked him, but I got the impression that he was dumb as a bag of rocks, so I figured I'd better pass. I showered, got dressed and left the room. On my way out I asked saw Shirley poring over some data on her computer. I asked her what my results were, and she said it takes a few weeks to analyze everything. A few weeks? I only slept for five hours! Betcha they get paid by the hour, those two. They told me DePalo would be getting the results. I went home, burned my pajamas, climbed into my obscenely comfortable bed with the pillow-top matress, and fell blissfully back to sleep.

...AND DON'T CALL ME SHIRLEY!!!

Primates and PJs



Monkey

My appointment for a sleep study was on November 29th. I showed up on time at 10:00 PM. It's a very odd feeling, knowing that you'll be sleeping in a strange little room with strange little people watching you on closed-circuit camera. Sleep is a very private thing. Everyone has his own sleep mishugas*. For example, I only sleep on my side, usually with one arm under my pillow, which means that sometimes I wake up with my arm hanging at my side, totally useless until I get the blood coursing back through its empty veins. Also (and this stays between us, okay?), I've taken to sleeping with Monkey lately. I got Monkey from Chaye Kohl when she visited me in the hospital. Monkey's not the only stuffed critter I got while I was sick. I also got a stuffed "Count from Sesame Street" from Dov and Juby Charnowitz, and I think maybe one or two more that I don't remember. So I guess it's acceptable for a man in his fifties (shut up) to play with stuffed things. Unless they're olives or grape leaves or something like that, in which case he'd just be downright weird. But I really have grown quite attached to Monkey. I even...nah, never mind. You're just gonna laugh. Promise you won't laugh? Swear? Okay, fine. I even talk to Monkey sometimes. You know, when I've been in the other room watching some Judge Judys I've recorded and I come in to sleep at like 2:00 in the morning and Monkey is sitting on his shelf, looking miffed. In those situations I think he's entitled to an explanation, don't you? But please don't think I'm completely crazy; I almost never talk to him unless he's the one who starts the conversation. Anyway, needless to say, Monkey wanted to come along for the sleep study. Personally I didn't see anything wrong with it, but I thought the serious scientists who make their living sitting around all night watching people snore and drool and scratch themselves might look askance at someone showing up with an inanimate sleep partner (which would also exclude any of my ex-wives). So I explained to Monkey as lovingly as I could that he'd have to stay home. I promised him a stuffed banana when I got home, and he finally went to bed; I didn't even have to tell him his favorite "Curious George" story. Incidentally, they went to school together. Monkey says that George was always a troublemaker, even way back when. He was even expelled for smoking in the Boys' Room several times! And this is who we hold up as a role model for our young, impressionable children! Another problem I had with the sleep study is that I didn't own a pair of pajamas. I couldn't very well sleep there in the state in which I sleep at home, which, by the way, I will (thankfully) leave to your prurient imagination. Chayie told me about a place in Boro Park where they sold pj's for fifteen dollars. I checked online and apparently they were indeed a bargain, even cheaper than K-mart and Walmart and Sears, oh my! So I went to the place and bought a pair that the man pulled out of the back room somewhere and dusted off and handed to me. They were made by Botany 500. Don't they make suits? I'm sure these were sitting back there since the Eisenhower Administration. They were truly among the least attractive things I'd ever seen, including that girl (and I use that term rather loosely) I went out with that Tuesday night in June of 2001. But I figured for fifteen bucks I could just wear them the one night and then burn them somewhere when no one was looking. 

*Mishugas = Literally, "craziness", but in this context, "idiosyncrasies".

Let's Make a Deal, Revisited

Would you buy a used C-PAP machine from this man?

Please Note: On November 29th, I finally went for the sleep study that Dr. DePalo had been bugging me about. That's what this post was supposed to be about. Somehow I got sidetracked and started writing about our dealmaking instead. Before I knew it I was deep into our dialogue (most of which I made up) and was giggling like a teenage girl on nitrous oxide. Then I realized that I had already posted about our compromise way back on November 18th.
But I liked this post anyway, so here it is (the next post will follow):

I had an appointment with the illustrious Dr. DePalo back in November that turned into a barter session. He had been bugging me for some time to go for a sleep study. He had already established that I had Sleep Apnea and wanted to know how much pressure I would be needing in my C-PAP machine. Only problem was, there was no way I was going to agree to use a C-PAP machine. I had had one in Beth Israel and it was so uncomfortable I insisted that the guys at Columbia Presbyterian take it off the minute I got there. That's when they put me on the respirator. But DePalo kept noodging and kvetching until I realized that this insistence of his might actually work to my advantage. I figured If he wanted something and I wanted something, maybe we could make a deal. So here's pretty much how the conversation went:

Isn't he gorgeous?

DePalo: I want you to go for a sleep study.

Me: No.

D.: I need you to go.
M.: Why?
D.: Because I need to know how much
      pressure you need in your
      C-PAP machine.
M.: But I don't have a C-PAP machine.
D.: We'll get you one.
M.: But I don't want one.
D.: Why not?
M.: 'cause I'm not gonna use it.
D.: Why not?
M.: 'cause I don't wanna.
D.: What are you, twelve?? Okay, look...
      we'll fight about the damn machine later.
M.: Why?
D.: You know, if you ever put this in that stupid blog of yours,
      you're gonna look like a stubborn moron.
M.: Why?
D.: Never mind. Please go for the study. You need it.
M.: Why?
D.: Because the Apnea puts you at a higher risk for a heart attack or stroke.
M.: My heart would never attack me.
D.: Why not?
M.: My heart loves me.
D.: You know, of course, that you're seriously disturbed.
M.: That's because I can't afford my shrink anymore since I started coming here.
      Okay, maybe I'll go...what's in it for me?
D.: A longer, healthier life.
M.: Big deal. What else?
D.: You know...you're a pain in the ass.
M.: But you love me anyway.
D.: What the hell do you want?
M.: A bird.
D.: Oh, jeez; not the damn bird again!
M.: Well?
D.: Will you buy it from a reputable dealer?
M.: Always do.
D.: Take him to a vet and have him checked out?
M.: Done.
D.: Okay.
M.: Okay?
D.: Yes, you lunatic; go get yourself a freakin' bird.
M.: Will you tell my kids that you said it's okay?
D.: Get out of my office, nut-job.
M.: I want it in writing, notarized and in triplicate.
D.: I'm gonna call the cops.
M.: Can I kiss you?
D.: SECURITY!
M.: Bye, Doctor D. You're my favorite doctor in the whole wide world.
D.: That's nice. Before you go, I'm writing you a new prescription.
M.: For what?
D.: A lobotomy.