Passing

Today was a little sad. One of our patients died after being on one of our beds for years. She was a little tiny German woman who had been renting from my company for longer than I've been working there.

I deliver a lot of mattresses to hospice patients, and they die all the time - often within a week of the delivery date. (Sometimes before we can even arrive with the mattress.) And over all it doesn't bother me. My friend Kristin maintains that I'm dead inside. In my opinion death is a fact of life, and the fact that I delivered a bed to a person doesn't usually give me enough contact with them to form much of a relationship. Very often the patient in question will be unconscious the whole time I'm in the room.

This was not the case with the lady whose mattress I picked up today. She was a home care patient, which means she was reasonably healthy but couldn't move around much and needed a prescription mattress to keep her skin healthy. Unfortunately she'd grown accustomed to the sole product line we have which is more than 10 years old. And as a result her equipment would break down a lot.

On one such occasion she called us up to say that her mattress was trying to push her out of bed to the left. I was steadfast in my belief that our mattresses don't run around trying to roll little old ladies out of bed and I tried to blame the crooked bed frame. Well, the bed frame company came and fixed their frame, and the mattress persisted in slowly rolling her to the left. After a week or so of back and forth it turned out she was right. She happened to have some oddball one-off prototype mattress which was designed such that if it got a hole it would slope to the left.

I came by her house fairly regularly for a number of reasons: A noisy pump, a sloping mattress, a "boinging" noise, and our monthly status checkup. Each time I stopped by the process was the same:

1) Call to make an appointment. One of her various caregivers would invariably answer the phone and conduct the appointment making process in some indeterminate version of English.

2) I would show up for the appointment. If it was something which involved changing the mattress she'd always still be in bed. She was always hopeful that I could somehow fix a leak or switch out the mattress without her having to get up. As this isn't ever possible, she was often disappointed. She was always apologetic for having a problem in the first place, and also for making me come back later. I'd make a second appointment.

3) On my way out the door she always offered me a piece of hard candy from a solid and sticky mass in a crystal candy dish in the kitchen. I politely took some the first couple times, but it eventually became so hard to pry a piece loose that the caregiver and I would share a knowing glance and I could thank her without actually taking some. This clever rouse only worked because she couldn't see into the kitchen.

As near as I could tell she spent 95% of her time in bed in a little room in the back of her enormous, beautiful house in San Francisco. And while it's sad to see her go, it's nice to think she's finally made it out of that little room. According to her grandson she died the day before her birthday. I'm sure not anyone else thinks so, but to me it's kind of satisfying to die without a decimal point on your age. I didn't know her that well, but I can say that she lived her years to the fullest, at least chronologically speaking.

Dear Yahoo! Mail

Damn you, Yahoo! mail. Your upbeat, confident help service makes it seem as if you'll be springing into action to help me read my email, but in reality I've been without access for more than 12 hours. I've heard of people dieing in as little as 6.

And now your ad revenue will suffer because of your negligence. I've forwarded my Yahoo! mail to my Gmail account, which has yet to let me down. My emails have begun to arrive in Gmail land, so now you are only hurting yourself!

When you resolve these problems for people in the future, I highly recommend not sending them an email telling them the problem has been fixed when it hasn't. Especially if you send said email to the account in question, THE ONE TO WHICH I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS. Jerks.

I'd also like to point out that I pay for your email service. In fact, I have two accounts. One costs me money, and one is free. Guess which one broke.

Yahoo!, Google is kicking your ass for a reason.

Love,

Mike

My email access is dead
And it's filling my insides with dread
I'm not sure I can live
Without any missives
I may just go straight off to bed

Peep

I'm making some hard boiled eggs. When I covered the eggs with water and put them on the stove, some air started to escape from the shells. As the bubbles popped they made little peeping noises. There's nothing like the feeling that you might be boiling tiny chicks alive to make breakfast more appetizing.

Limericks

Pool of Seats
There were some people at school
Who like to throw chairs in the pool
On the last day of class
They thought of their ass
And asked me to lend them a stool

To Which I replied
I knew some people who came
To ask me for something in shame
They asked "Would you care,
"If we borrowed a chair?"
And I said "hey no way you're too lame."

I don't believe you
A girl with last name Fredoth
Only liked me for my small pet sloth
When I asked if she'd mind
If I grabbed her behind
She said it had just fallen off

Pickle
There once was a pickle from mars,
Who put ugly people in jars.
He'd wait till they'd die,
Then the dead he would fry,
And sell them as snacks in the bars.

Job Market 2002
Nomadic employment ensues
From lame jobs that give me the blues
So I mourn the trees
That died to make these
My huge stack of W2s

Today

I was worried about today. It started out with our weekly corporate compliance course conference call, which isn't terrible, but I can't say I look forward to it.

After the call I tried to make delivery arrangements. Of the 3 deliveries I got in the morning, 1 had the wrong phone number, 1 had no phone number, and one was missing an area code. A little research cleared those problems right up.

So off I went to delivery number 1, ignoring the phone omens and hoping for the best. However, when I arrived I discovered the patient didn't have a bed frame. I'm not allowed to install stuff on the floor. Oh well, I'll come back later.

Time for delivery #2. I dialed the number:

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Them: Bueno.
Crap.
Me: [I have a mattress blah blah blah.]
Them: Um.... [Then in perfect, accent-free English,] Sorry, I do not speak any English.
Me: Ok. Well ... Ok.
I called two other numbers for the patient's family and waded through two Spanish language voice mail menus until I got what I hope was the leave a message beep. I left an English message.

Off to delivery #3. When I arrived the patient was out of bed already. Amazing. I took off their old mattress, put mine on, and got my paperwork signed. 'Hot Damn,' I thought. 'This day is looking up.' Then I knelt down to pick up my quick pump and put my knee in a puddle of cat pee.

During lunch my sandwich place had been replaced by a Panda Express, so I went to a Burger King with the dual distinctions of being the slowest location on earth, and one of the few with pay toilets. You gotta love paying 25c to pee someplace where your eyes water from the smell. I guess the quarter helps keep the riffraff out.

To bring my day full circle I went back to delivery #1 at 4 o'clock just as the bed frame guy arrived. I went to the woman's room and set up my mattress while I waited for the frame guy to unload. As I blew up my mattress I heard a running water noise coming through the open door to the bathroom. I was just about to wonder what it was when I heard an accompanying, satisfied "Oh? ... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." After he was finished and put away he wandered out and asked a nurse when breakfast would be ready.

But I did get home early, and in a little while I'm having pie. Today hasn't beaten me yet.

Figuring Things Out

Two things, in fact.

The first thing, or things in this case, were two separate gas wall heaters. One wasn't working on Saturday, so I did a little trouble shooting, and found a loose connection. The second, on Sunday, needed its pilot light lit, so I figured out how to do that and got it running. How can I fix a gas wall heater? I don't know anything about gas heaters. I think I may be using somebody else's knowledge without their permission. Tomorrow I may uninstall a gps tracking unit from a company van. I don't know how to do that either.

I also don't know how to cut hair. Really. But after looking at my head in the mirror for 15 minutes tonight, I know how to not cut hair.

During my last haircut, before which I specifically asked that she not cut the sides too short, she cut the sides too short. The reason I got a haircut was that I was going to go out on a date, and on New Years Eve no less. And just before said date a friend told me it looked like I was wearing a wig. I decided I needed to make a hair change.

I asked for the top to be left a little long so it might cover my rather spacious forehead. A #3 on the sides and a long top can work, I think, if you know what you're doing. But this lady's blending technique involved making all my hair stick out sideways, then cutting a straight line from my ear on up. This would be fine if my hair stuck out sideways all day, but it doesn't. The top lays down and the sides, which are too short, stick out. The result, I'm happy to report, looks like I'm wearing a toupee*. At least I'm decreasing area of my hair that looks fake.



*Because of my spelling deficiencies I had to Google toupee to find out how it's spelled. If you Google toupee, the second site on the list is www.babytoupee.com, which is awesome.

Insert Foot A into Mouth B

Most of the time I deliver our hospital beds to old people. They have arthritis, or replacement hips which are going out again, or maybe they've just recently broken a hip, or ankle, or toe. Any way you slice it these people have trouble getting in and out of a regular bed. But depending on the health issue, they may not need it forever.

I delivered one such bed on Friday to Berkeley. The family let me in and showed me where to install the bed. The patient would be arriving later.

As I was putting the bed together the following conversation took place:

Wife: How long will he get the bed?
Me: As long as he needs it.
Mother: So we're buying it?
Me: No, it works like this: If he likes it and continues to need it for 13 months Medicare has paid for it and it becomes his forever. If he gets up and dances around before the 13 months is up, and he'd like to go back to his regular bed, we'll come pick this one up.
Mother: Oh, he ain't never going to get up and dance around.

As I finished building the bed in came the patient - He's a 40ish paraplegic in an electric wheelchair.

In the future I may use the phrase "if his mobility improves" in place of "if he gets up and dances around."

Eep

For most of the day I view the world as if I'm spectator. I'm watching through movie screen eyes and riding around in my body as it does stuff. This goes for all activities, from writing a post to driving down the freeway.

Once in a while I pop into the foreground. I did so on the way home today while driving along in my gargantuan work van. It occurred to me that I was in charge of piloting 2.5 tones of crap down the road at 60 mph while my customers tootle around in the lanes surrounding me. These are the same people who ask me to come look at a bed because it's unplugged. The people who unscrew the knobs on the side rails that blatantly say pull. When something says "pull," do not unscrew it. Pull it.

Why don't more people die in fiery crashes? I may have to stay indoors tomorrow.

Multi Cultural Spam

Wow. I got an email that said "仕事場で作る笑顔の裏側には…人には話せないような欲望が眠っているんです."

I think it might be spam.

Some Day

I'm going to come up with something to write about. But until that happens, here's another mostly pasted post.

I recently got a Flat Stanley in the mail from my friend Jeremy. He got it from our friend Tim's wife, who teaches the 3rd grade in Texas.

For those of you who don't click on the Flat Stanley link and you don't know what a Flat Stanley is, here's a brief primer: A class cuts out a line drawing of Stanley, pastes it to a picture somebody has drawn, sticks it in an envelope with a location log, and send the who business off to somebody reliable enough to keep the process going. After each person receives Stanley in the mail they are supposed to sign the travel log, mail it on to somebody else, and then send the class a postcard to let them know how Stanley has been getting along. Hence the 3rd grades learn about geography for a while, then about how people are flaky and/or distrustful of chain letters.

I happen to be one of those people who are distrustful of chain letters, but I recognized the name of the teacher, so I mailed it on and set out to send back a postcard. Except I didn't have a postcard, I had a box of thank you cards. Had I had a postcard, I would have just written an update, but I thought it would seem strange to receive a thank you card without the words "thank you" included.

And without further ado, here's what the inside of the card said:

January 6, 2007


Dear Ruttan Clan,

Thanks for sending Flat Stanley out to see the country. We’ve had a great time the past few days in San Francisco.

While he was out here Stanley has seen the Golden Gate Bridge, the beginnings of the new Bay Bridge, the Transamerica Building, San Francisco’s China Town, and we even went to a New Years party hosted by somebody who works for Google.* Stanley would love to buy a house out here, but if you don’t work for Google it’s too expensive. Also, he’s not sure how he feels about earthquakes.

On Monday Stanley will head South and East to Albuquerque. He’s hoping that if he goes there to see the sites he’ll come away with a better understanding of how to spell Albuquerque.** I wish him the best of luck.


Sincerely,

Mike




* This sentence is a blatant lie. Stanley saw the inside of an inlaw apartment in the significantly less appealing than it sounds Ocean View neighborhood, then sat on my desk while I saw all those places. Eventually Stanley got off my desk and climbed back in an envelope to go visit Albuquerque, thereby never actually being outdoors in San Francisco.

**Thank god for spell check.

Blast from the Past Two

Because I continue to not have anything I can write about, here's a poem I wrote to the Circuit Court in hopes they would reduce my speeding ticket. I'd love to be able to tell you whether or not it worked, but I can't remember.

August 6, 2000

Circuit Court
807 Main Street, Room 104
Oregon City, OR 97045



Your Honor,

I was going way too fast,
When the officer I passed.
Flashing lights, I had to stop,
For the speed enforcing cop.

Now the money that I owe,
I send to you so I can show
Up at work and earn some more,
To spend at school (the learning store).

This starving student sure could use
Money for books, tuition, and shoes.
I know the fault’s completely mine,
And so enclosed is One-Oh-Nine.

But if in your heart perchance you see,
A snippet there of leniency,
To reduce the fine I pay,
Would make this one a happy day.

I am sorry for my speed,
Excessive, yes, I see the need,
To keep streets safe from speeds like mine,
Repentant me, pays you the fine.

Sincerely,


Michael Kadel
Summons #37281

No Typing

To break the long hard winter of my lack of posting, I'm posting my Teriyaki Girl short story. It's true, in case you were wondering. Sad, but true.

Teriyaki Girl
by Michael Kadel

It has never been said that I am good at dating. Every time I’ve had a relationship it’s happened after I had been expressly told that the girl wanted to date me. Starting these things without knowing the other person’s thoughts on the subject has never worked out.

Even so, I find myself in the teriyaki place next to work yet again. I’ve had an engineering internship in the building across the street for more than two months now, and ever since about the first week I’ve been eating here almost every day. The girl who works behind the counter is just so cute. Sandy blond, curly hair and blue eyes. Conventional beauty, but striking all the same. I would love to ask her out, and that’s been my goal since first setting foot in the restaurant. I have yet to execute.

Here’s the scenario: I walk in and wait in line to get the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink. As the line creeps forward, I try to figure out if I’ve placed myself right to go to her register. Any little bit of contact helps. It’s not like I ever strike up much of a conversation, but perhaps I can build up a relationship of repetitiveness, recognized by my frequent visits and consistent order.

Today was no different. I have my little bowl of rice and chicken, and my small drink, which I will refill a time or two while I read my book and try to smile her way. It drives me nuts that I can’t scrounge up the courage to even mention the weather, or ask her for her name, but such is my life. I’m cursed by mental paralysis brought on by the attractive and unfamiliar. However, I only have two more weeks before I’m going back to California for school, so if I want to avoid kicking myself all next year for not even trying, I suppose I need to get a move on and say something to her.

* * *

Today I’ve brought my lunch -- an egg salad sandwich, some chips, a few cookies in a baggie, and a can of Coke. Not being a huge fan of coffee, my Coke has filled the role of my morning pick-me-up. I’m going to need something to drink with my lunch.

As I walk across the street and through the parking lot, I steel myself to my upcoming task. I need to have enough time to actually go on a couple dates if this is going to work at all, which means the time is nigh. I need to ask her for her number today, before the weekend.

Inside the store, I take my place in line, much like the line that winds out from heaven’s pearly gates, I’m sure. I’m either going to get her number, let in to experience heavenly bliss, have all my fears put to rest, God loves me, or I shall be denied, cast into the fire and brimstone of rejected suitors everywhere. It may seem melodramatic to you, but I’m not really one to approach anyone for anything.

The few times I’ve asked a girl for her number, it has been the regular guy’s equivalent of asking an entire auditorium full of beautiful women for their numbers while wearing only tightie-whities on a very cold day. Mortifying to say the least.

And now it’s my turn, and it’s her turn to take the next order. Fate smiles. It was meant to be. I approach the register. I arrive and it’s time to speak. “Hi. I’d like a small Coke and your phone number. I’m Mike by the way.” My mouth has engaged before my brain! I’m not smooth. What was I thinking? What will she say?

Then comes her reply, “I’m Christy, and I have a boyfriend.” Simple and to the point. A rejection whose reasons lie outside my realm of control. No consolation to my current state of mortified, incoherent thought, but later I’m sure it will seem better than some alternative rejections.

”Oh, just a small drink then,” comes my retort. And the unaided mouth comes through in the clutch! I pay for my Coke, and leave.

For want of a little sanctuary, I sit outside, and eat my lunch, and drink my small drink, and wait for the blood to drain from my ears, face and neck. It’s over. I did my best, even if my best was a little socially retarded, devoid of the niceties of introductions first, questions later. I guess doing things in order is not my cup of tea.

Never again will I be able to eat teriyaki. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment of the whole experience, or the simple fact that I had the same thing for lunch almost every day for 2-1/2 months. The fact remains, I can only eat a couple of bites before I lose my appetite.

Even so, I do take a little happiness from the thought that I flustered her too, if not as much as she flustered me, still enough to throw her off kilter.

On the way back to work I counted my change from the ten dollar bill I used to buy the small drink. Five fifty was my change -- the same change I would have received had I ordered a the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink.