It’s been a little while since my last column. I’ve had a few minor setbacks above the neck lately, but after my semi-annual brain MRI and new Veralux (progressive) bifocals I’m happy to say –
1. My brain’s still allegedly intact
2. I can see the computer screen a lot better
Wow, so that’s what my screen looks like!
So, I no longer have any excuses for delaying a new column. Brace yourselves, as I have a whole bunch of little topics to discuss…
Do you find stupid things as irritating and fascinating as I do? Since my last column I have witnessed good ol' American stupidity at work, and this isn’t even counting BP CEO Tony Heyward or Lady Gaga. Last week I got my eyes checked for the first time since last summer. I’ve been having headaches and blurry vision since I was in Potsdam earlier this month, and lately the left side of my face hasn’t exactly felt or functioned like the right side of my face. Needing a magnifying glass to read small print when you already have bifocals is usually a good sign you need stronger lenses, and sure enough I needed MUCH stronger lenses for distance and near vision (hey, at least my lousy vision is balanced).
So, I went to LensCrafters last Monday to get my eyes checked and buy new lenses for my frames. Pretty straightforward, considering it takes 7-10 days for my prescription lenses to be made and they cost anywhere between $500 and $650, depending on the lens lab. Having to get new lenses every 10-12 months is getting to be a real bummer not to mention a strong hit to my wallet. Fortunately I was able to use my AAA membership and get a 15% discount on my eye exam and lenses. I could’ve used my health insurance, but I didn’t know I needed a referral from my INTERNIST (i.e., Primary Care Physician). I need a REFERRAL from my INTERNIST to see an optometrist? Yes, in the world of Oxford Health, an optometrist is a specialist and you need a referral to see any specialist.
Okay, I can understand needing a referral to see a neurosurgeon, but an optometrist? How am I supposed to discuss this with my internist? What’s he supposed to say? Gee, Dr. Pushkin, your blood pressure and cholesterol are perfect but I suspect you may be blind as a bat. It’s not often my middle-aged patients walk directly into the door of the exam room.
Maybe I’m being a tad silly, but I would think my neurologist would be a better judge of my vision, considering he actually examines my senses.
Anyway, so while my new bifocal lenses were on order, I tried toughing it out with my old glasses, but it was really getting ridiculous. I was scheduled to see my neurologist on Wednesday, so I told him what was going on. The first thing he did was have me to take off my glasses and try and follow the pen light he was shining. My first response was “what light? Oh, THAT light!” Next he tells me to put my glasses back on and try it again, and I said, “Mario! Good to see you! Where did you disappear to?” Obviously bemused, but NOT amused, he then did some prick testing on my face with a toothpick. Do you feel that any differently on this side? “Feel what?” Okay, let’s try this again. “Well, um, I can’t really tell.”
Okay, stick out your tongue and say ‘ah’. Hey, why does your mouth do that? “Do what?” One side opens wide and the other doesn’t. “Do I look like a neurologist? That’s why I come to you.”
Okay, put your arms out, hands open, palms up, close your eyes, and touch your nose with each index finger. First, that’s way too much information to give a guy who may have a scrambled brain. My left hand flunked. I almost poked my right eye out, but my right hand found my right nostril, so I was now batting .500. Okay, put your hands out and hold them there for me to prick them… where did your left arm go? Hmmm… how do you feel about another brain MRI?
Oh, I dunno… how do you feel about colonoscopies and prostate exams? Just fill in the blank with “brain MRI”.
The suspicion was a mini-stroke, perhaps something down in my cervical spinal cord as opposed to my actual brain. Okay, it seems like I’m getting one of these every six months, so you just suck it up and go for the test, which I had this past Friday. In the meantime, I’m still having headaches and blurry vision, and still several days away from having new bifocals. So, on Thursday, I decided to stop by Cohen’s Vision Center while en route to grocery shopping. Why? I had a coupon for two sets of cheap lenses in conjunction with my AAA membership. It only takes one hour. I had two older frames, one being for reading glasses, so I had Cohen’s make two new sets of cheap backup glasses – one for distance vision and one for reading. This way I could manage with separate glasses while I drive or read the newspaper, but obviously not both at the same time. Consider this a stopgap measure, and it helped to a degree. Why didn’t I have LensCrafters do it for me three days earlier? I could get a better discount from Cohen’s. I may be semi-blind, but I ain’t stupid.
On my way out of the mall, I was walking towards one of the handicapped exit doors. A lady was in front of me, pushed the door and held it open so I could pass through after her. Before I could even thank her, some guy in a suit with briefcase in hand, shoves me from behind and walks past me through the doorway. The lady was pissed. I was stunned, and this putz thanks us both for holding the door for him. We asked this bozo what his “deal” was, and he looked at me and said, "you were in my way and were too slow".
Too slow? Excuse me? I walk with a cane on a GOOD day. I’ve earned the right to walk slow. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, that’s my legal right under the Americans with Disabilities Act, especially since I was passing through a handicapped door and would’ve pushed the automated button if the lady (not disabled, by the way) hadn’t pushed the door on her own.
So, while the lady was telling this jerk what a jerk he was, and he was telling us he had better things to do and was late for an appointment, I leaned against a pillar with my left hand and casually dragged my cane tip in the dirt of the neighboring flower bed. Then with my right hand, I softly lifted my cane in an upswing to subtly hit his crotch with the cane tip. When he reacted with what the hell are you doing? I replied with a smirk, “Sorry. Involuntary cripple movement. Geez, you have a dirt smudge on your suit pants. Is that gonna be trouble for your next appointment?” Consider that the final word of the encounter as I wobbled to my car, satisfied and ready to go home.
By the way, if you met a needle-nosed putz with a dirt smudge on the front of his pants on Thursday, that was MY handiwork. You’re welcome.
Two great things about being neurologically impaired –
1) Memory lapses and occasional inappropriate behavior.
2) Memory lapses and occasional inappropriate behavior.
Did I mention I needed a brain MRI?
Oh yeah, I survived Friday’s brain MRI and was looking forward to a restful weekend. For some reason I decided to be adventurous with cooking Sunday’s dinner. I was in the mood for salmon and stir-fried veggies (yellow squash, zucchini, onions, baby portabella mushrooms), but I wanted to do something different than baking and broiling the salmon in my toaster oven. Hey, I thought, why not pan-sear the salmon like they do in restaurants? Yeah, sure, let’s try it… pan-blackened salmon with spices.
If you’ve ever cooked a fish like salmon, you know it’s a tad fatty (but a good fat, by the way, Omega-3). I pretty much had everything under control for most of this new cooking challenge, especially since my pan was covered. But when I got to the very end of searing, the spices got smoky and lo and behold, I set off my smoke detector. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Long story short, I covered back up the salmon, turned off the stove burner, and opened a window to let any smoke escape without sending it into my building’s hallway and creating a need for the East Rutherford Fire Department.
In the middle of all this, the desk clerk where I live calls my place because the smoke detector is wired to the front desk. Given my declining mobility and I was trying to finish cooking the fish without ruining it, I almost fell down and cracked my head trying to get to the phone, which was nowhere in or near my kitchen (isn't it rather odd I pay $950/month for rent on a place that has three phone jacks, but only one works?). But after 8-9 rings I finally grab the phone to listen to him ask if all was okay. I told him I overcooked my fish but had things under control.
This isn’t the rest of the story. After I ate my dinner (which was absolutely delicious, by the way) and cleaned up the kitchen, I walked down the hall (yes, my place is approximately 150 feet down the hall from the front desk) and stopped by the front desk to chat with the clerk after I put my trash in the trash room. I explained to the clerk, a young man in his early 20s, what happened with my cooking adventure, but advised him for any future incident he should walk down the hall and knock on my door to check if I’m okay as opposed to calling on the phone. His response was that he had to call my room because of protocol in order to check for my safety. I told him I understood that, but given my being disabled and my proximity to the front desk it would make more sense to physically walk down the hall and knock on the door. His response – hey, I did my job, you answered the phone, and everything’s okay. Never mind that it took 8-9 rings before I could answer the phone. Never mind that this was the first time my smoke detector ever went off, and never mind the fact that I’ve already fallen multiple times in the past 8 months living here. He picked up the phone, as the protocol requires, so he did his job, and that’s all he needed to do. And this was all for MY safety.
I told him if he was really worried about my safety he would’ve walked 150 feet down the hall rather than sit behind the desk reading a magazine and using the phone. I also told him he needs to think about which units are involved when a smoke detector goes off and who the resident is, considering my building has more than a few disabled residents. There’s doing your job and doing the job, and there’s a fundamental distinction, especially when safety and potential lawsuits are involved. Sometimes the help you think you’re providing potentially makes matters worse.
His response, to a disabled person more than twice his age? Don’t you f___king disrespect me again! I’m always nice to your ass so you don’t f___king disrespect me!
Well, I don’t know about you folks, but when some kid starts throwing F-Bombs at me while I’m trying to advise him how to be more helpful to people whose rent helps provide his paycheck, I tap into my Brooklyn roots and give it back to him as he dished it out. Then I placed a call to our manager and explained that this young man needs a mini-lecture on how to take advice and respond to it. End of story, the kid had to apologize and got a lesson from his bosses on how to think before he does something or says anything. I’m sure this is the kind of valuable teaching moment even someone like General Stanley McChrystal could use.
Is anyone surprised the general’s resignation was eagerly accepted by President Obama? Hey, if Truman could fire MacArthur during the Korean war, why should McChrystal be untouchable? Then again, if I were McChrystal I’d be wondering why Rolling Stone wants to interview me in the first place and whether shooting off my big mouth is necessarily the smartest idea. Come to think of it, if I was McChrystal I’d be wishing Sarah Palin was in the White House, given she only skims the print media.
But McChrystal and my weekend desk clerk really get to the heart of deeper issues plaguing our society. One issue is the inability to recognize there’s a time and place for everything, including when to say certain things and not to say certain things. You don’t think Helen Thomas is the only guilty offender do you? When you’re the lead general in our war efforts in Afghanistan, whether you agree with your orders or not, it’s really not wise to tell Rolling Stone dirt on the president, vice-president, and other members of the current administration… unless this is your master plan for an early discharge. Hey, for all we know, General McChrystal may’ve wanted to get his life back – oops that’s Tony Heyward. Sorry, only one life back per month. Take a number, General, and wait your turn.
The second issue, which really applies to my weekend desk clerk, is that people really don’t seem to give a damn about doing the best job they can while they have one. In a nation with essentially double-digit unemployment, it boggles my mind how many people simply go through the motions in their jobs – and expect to be rewarded for a job done with mediocrity. Remember those AVIS rental car commercials advertising We try harder? Boy, those commercials seem light-years ago, sort of like those Hertz commercials with O.J. running through airports instead of rolling along I-5 in that Ford Bronco.
It seems now the motto for so many should be Well, we tried something, or A half-assed job is better than nothing. Is it just me or are we finally starting to see the full manifestation of the Millennial Generation? You know, people born after 1980 who finally entered colleges and the workforce at the start of the 21st century? This is supposed to be the savvy generation, the technologically sophisticated generation, the Twitter and Facebook generation. And we’re seeing more and more softness, less mental toughness, and people who fall to pieces in the face of feedback without at least a participation ribbon (think back to Ben Stiller’s character in Meet the Parents and Meet the Fockers).
This is hardly the first or last time I’ll ponder this phenomenon. In fact, this past Friday I encountered similar half-hearted work ethic en route to my brain MRI. I stopped by my bank, Capital One, to make a transaction requiring me dealing in person with a teller. I walked into the branch and noticed three people ahead of me, and only one teller at the windows. So I stood. And stood. And stood some more. Approximately 10 minutes later, the person in front of me noticed me standing propped with my cane and said, “this is crazy… I bet standing here isn’t helping you". No, it certainly wasn’t.
Then the branch manager, who had been sitting at her desk since I walked in, got up and walked into a side room where you could see through the doorway that employees were sitting and having a pizza party. A couple of minutes later, one girl arrives at a teller window and asks for the next customer. Now you’d possibly think the person standing in front of me would offer me his turn given his concern for my lengthy time standing. Nope. He immediately smiled at me and said “Thank G-d” and made his beeline for the teller.
So I stood for another 10 minutes waiting for an available teller. Why didn’t I simply leave? I needed to complete this transaction before the weekend. Anyway, after 20-plus minutes of standing I finally got to the teller window to carry out my mission, which took approximately five minutes.
On my way from the teller window I decided to stop by the manager’s desk and introduce myself. I asked her if it ever occurred to her to come ask me if I needed any assistance, considering I’m disabled. Her response?
Oh, but I did take care of your situation. I went in back to get one of the spare girls to work the teller window.
But you didn’t notice I still stood in line for over 20 minutes?
Yeah, but I doubled the number of girls at the windows. You see, I usually only have three tellers on Friday, and two are out to lunch right now, so I got one of the spare girls to help out.
(Wait a minute… “spare girls”? Is this a bank branch or a brothel?)
I see. What’s wrong with you?
Excuse me?
You’re the manager, right?
Yeah.
Did it ever occur to you that YOU could’ve worked a window too so people don’t have to stand 20 minutes waiting for service?
Oh I can’t do that?
Why not?
I’m the manager. I don’t do windows.
You’re the manager, and you don’t do windows.
No sir.
Are doing windows beneath your position as manager?
The tellers do the windows, or we use spare girls.
So you’re the manager and not a spare girl anymore? I think I see where you’re coming from. So if I come back to your branch with a disability rights attorney you’ll feel comfortable providing him the same explanation?
I’m the manager, sir. Here’s my desk. I don’t do the windows.
Good luck to you. Have a nice day.
Maybe I’m making more of this than it’s worth, but I gradually got the impression I was talking to the Madam of a brothel who climbed the ranks to where she only schedules the hookers and counts the money. The logic defied logic.
Believe it or not, not all places of business are that backwards and clueless. Yesterday I stopped by STAPLES to buy a few office items, and upon coming to the checkout line I noticed only one cashier working while the other two registers were empty, and three employees were all shooting the breeze as the waiting line grew.
I was second in line, behind some young lady dressed like she was on her way to a beach party. One of the employees separated from the chit-chat and approached me…
Sir, it looks like your hands are full. Could I take those items off your hands? If it’s not much trouble, I’ll check you out over at the copy center.
Oh, thanks. I appreciate your making my life a little easier.
Beach party girl gets all in a huff and yells at the employee, “Isn’t the rule ladies first?! I was here ahead of him”.
I’m sorry miss. You can’t be serious.
But he’s a guy.
With a cane… oh look, the register up front is freeing up for you. Good luck.
I wish I could say that was the last blockhead I encountered since posting my last column, but I seem to be on a hot streak. After STAPLES I drove over to Shoprite to do my grocery shopping. For the most part it was uneventful until I reached the checkout register. Given I hold my cane for dear life in my right hand, I have to maintain balance while I unload groceries from wagon to register belt with my left (which, by the way, is my weaker hand… I guess G-d DOES have a sense of humor).
After unloading all of my stuff onto the belt and having my shopper’s card and coupons ready to hand to the cashier, a young lady, cracking bubble gum, who looked barely the same age as my Toyota Corolla, and starred me loading my stuff onto the belt as if she was a zombie. As I’m about to hand her my shopper’s card and coupons, she says something unintelligible and walks away for a few minutes. In fact, the only thing I think I heard her say was “wait.” So, when she returned, still cracking her gum, I handed her my shopper’s card and coupons, and said, “you know, the appropriate thing to say to a customer is ‘sir, could you please wait a couple of minutes while I tend to something?’”
But I did.
What?
I axed you “you gotta wait.” You don’t said no, so I go.
She axed me? Hey, I’ve been axed by tenure committees, deans, and even head coaches, but I’ve never been axed by a cashier before. And how could I say no to something I couldn’t understand in the first place?
Anyway, after shaking my head and thinking “whatever”, I started bagging my stuff as she rang up the prices (like I’m going to wait for this nitwit to ax me if I expect her to bag), and then the woman behind me say, “excuse me, but would you be a dear and reach into the bottom of my wagon to pull out some things I can’t reach?” Obviously this lady didn’t notice my cane or that I’m held upright by a back brace, so I turned around holding my cane with my right hand and smiled.
Oh, shoot. I’m sorry. I just figured you were a man, so…
Yeah, she just figured, so…
Now before you think all I do is single out women who are clueless about the disabled, I do have one more little tale to share. After getting my stuff paid for, bagging it, and loaded back into my wagon, I push my wagon out to the parking lot and my car in a close-by handicapped parking space. There I am, in 90-degree humid weather, holding onto my cane for dear life with my right hand while I load bags into the trunk of my car with my left. As I’m completing this excruciating task, up walks an old man, maybe in his eighties. Honest to goodness, the man was wearing a fishing hat, Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, sandals, white tube socks, and glasses so thick you thought it was Mr. Magoo.
Hi-ya buddy. How are you today?
I beg your pardon?
You having a good day?
Excuse me? Are you alright? What can I do for you?
Oh, I don’t want to make trouble… are you handicapped?
Am I HANDICAPPED?
Yeah.
Um, yes. Do you want to inspect my vehicle plackard?
No, no. I was just wondering.
Do you need my parking space?
No, no. I’m good. Have a good day.
As he’s starting to walk away, I was tempted to pull off my shirt and let him see the monstrous vertical scar down my back, but instead called out “you mean my cane didn’t give me away enough?”
Oh, you sure look like you’re in bad shape. You’re just kinda young.
Kinda young? Hmmm… and as I turned towards my car to get in, some old lady sitting in a humongous car is waiting for my space. When I say old, I mean OLD, like the old lady from the movie Throw Momma from the Train old. And short – the top of her steering wheel literally lined up with the bridge of her nose.
And just then, this old lady gives me the finger and yells out of her window “Get out of our spots, you young punk! You’re not one of us!”
Now I’ve seen and heard it all. No point waiting for renal failure to eventually kill me off – save time and take me now, Lord.
I wish I could say this was the last bizarre experience for me yesterday, but I needed to make one more stop into Whole Foods before I returned to LensCrafters to pick up my new bifocals. I figured this had to be the simplest stop of the day – pick up four bottles of supplements and pay for them with coupons I clipped from the Whole Foods circulars. But that’s just not the way my day was going…
I come to the cashier – his name was Jimmy – and I give him my supplement bottles and coupons. I make idle chit-chat while he rings up my order. First bottle, first coupon. No problem. Second bottle, second coupon. Problem.
Sir, the register won’t allow the coupon.
Why not?
The coupon says “Limit one per purchase.”
That’s fine. I’m buying four bottles with four coupons.
I think the register means one bottle per transaction.
Per transaction?
Yes sir.
Hmmm… let me see that coupon. Nuts, I’m not wearing my new bifocals yet. Jimmy, you’ll need to move that coupon back a few feet so I can ready the print.
Is this far enough?
No, a little more… back, back, back… perfect! Wow, that’s weird. I can’t see how the coupon would work that way.
Let me call over the manager. Hey, Joe.
Yeah?
I need you to look at something. This gentleman is trying to buy four bottles of supplements with four coupons, but the register won’t allow it. I think the register wants each bottle as a separate transaction.
Let’s do it. Let’s wipe out the second bottle on this order and ring up the transaction for just the first bottle. Sir, what’s your name?
Call me “Doc”.
Okay, Doc. Is this okay with you?
Sure, I love an adventure.
Okay, Jimmy. Let’s try a new transaction after he swipes his credit card.
Hey, Jimmy, Joe, good to see you guys again!
Hey, Doc, back for more supplements?
You bet. I love Whole Foods supplements, and the price can’t be beat.
You know this month we have $2.00 off coupons.
Yes, I do. This is why I’m back for more.
Jimmy rings up the second bottle and takes off the coupon value. I swipe my VISA. Rejected.
Hey, this doesn’t make sense.
Jimmy – Joe needs to put his key in to override the register. Let’s try it again.
Okay, now it works. Good.
Jimmy rings up the third bottle and takes off another coupon value. I swipe my VISA. Rejected.
Hey guys…
Joe – no problem. I have the key handy.
We successfully override the third transaction, and now we’re on to the fourth. Well, you know how it went, so why bother repeating the same dialogue. After four transactions to buy four bottles of supplements, I thank Jimmy and Joe for their service and leave the store. After I get into my car and get ready to drive away, I suddenly imagine the strange phone call I’ll get from VISA (which I never did):
Sir, VISA Fraud Control calling you about some repeat transactions on your card.
Yes, ma’am. I just made four transactions at my local Whole Foods.
Were they all identical?
Yes ma’am.
Was this intentional?
Yes ma’am.
I see. Dr. Pushkin have you fallen and hit your head again recently?
No. NO. Well, it’s a long story. You see, the register wouldn’t let me buy four bottles of supplements in the same transaction, even though I don’t agree with the wording on the coupon. Anyway, the only way for me to buy all four bottles and use one coupon per bottle was to make four separate transactions, one for each bottle.
You were trying to outsmart the register?
Yes ma’am.
A computer?
Yes ma’am.
And you haven’t had any recent head trauma?
No ma’am. In fact my brain MRI showed everything’s still intact.
Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaay……..
Well, lucky for me I didn’t have to have this conversation with VISA, and I drove to LensCrafters without trouble, picked up my new bifocals without trouble, and drove home with the clearest vision I’ve had in weeks, with a trunk loaded with groceries, back in a state of bliss, done with some wacky experiences.
No comments:
Post a Comment