The Weeklies #35

The Weekly Disease. Shingles.

The Weekly Observation. Shingles suck.

The Weekly Other Observation. I suck at doing nothing. Really. I try to take some time off to rest and relax and I go crazy. Perhaps this is part of the problem. A big part.

The Weekly Cookie. The peanut-butter cookies Beth and Mia made. They've got a chocolate kiss plopped on top. And, I think, a little rock of crack.

The Weekly Reads. I Love You, Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle is a fantastic read. It's hilarious and heartfelt. Go grab a copy. You won't be sorry.

The Weekly Schadenfreude. Amy Winehouse got arrested. For drugs. Again. Now, have you seen this chick lately? I don't mean to kick anyone when they're down but she is the very definition of fugly. And honestly (and I don't mean to imply that I'm hoping this because I'm not and that would be mean), how is she not dead yet?

The Weekly Hypothetical Question. Quick - the Sense Thief has arrived and given you approximately five seconds to decide which one of your five senses - taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing - you're most willing to part with. You have to give up one. Which one do you kiss goodbye? And which one is the most important to you?

Wrong Number (Confusion In Three Acts)

Act One
Me: Hello?
Her: Hi. When we spoke yesterday you told me you'd be at my house between the hours of 8 and 11. It's 1:45 and I haven't seen you yet. Are you invisible or just late? I need to run some errands including a very important visit to the county offices so I cannot sit around to wait for you to come install my cable. So I ask you, when are you going to be here?
Me: Uh.
Her: Is that your answer young man? "Uh?" I hardly think that's an answer to my question.
Me: Hold the phone. You are somewhere around the 14th irate and, honestly, strange person who's called me today. Apparently I am very late for my appointments. Apparently I'm a reasonably unreliable guy. Apparently I have either woken up in either a different body or alternate universe. Because, apparently, I'm a cable installer. But in this reality, I'm an IT security consultant who knows virtually nothing about cable installation or repair.
Her: Why would I be waiting around for an IT security consultant to install my cable?
Me: I don't think you're quite getting my point.
Her: Which is...?
Me: Your cable installer guy gave you and half the known universe my number, not his.
Her: So you're not going to come install my cable?
Me: I don't think you'd want me to do that. You'd end up with The Weather Channel on every channel. In Spanish.

Act Two
Dear Comcast Subscribers,

If I may be so bold, I can do a lot of things pretty well. I'm darn good at what I do for a living. I take a mean photograph and write an okay song. I play the guitar, bass, piano and drums. I draw, though admittedly I can only draw a few things well. I ride horses and bikes. I can fire a gun with pretty decent accuracy. I write. I can design a computer network. I can design a website. I'm a good husband and probably a better father. The one thing I cannot do is install or fix your cable. So stop calling me. Don't get me wrong - I feel for you. I've been the victim of those maintenance windows and I know how often they're actually accurate. But I'm not the guy who's going to make that right. Blame the guy who gave you my phone number instead of his.

Warm Regards,
Chris

Act Three
Dear Comcast Cable Installer Guy,

Hey, asshat! Stop giving out my phone number or I'll have to pull off my diseased left arm and beat you with it.

Yours in Christ,
Chris

Reach Out and Google Someone

I'm ready and willing to admit that I'm guilty of Googling people. I know it can be perceived as sneaky but I'm moderately obsessed with it. And here's proof.

Things I learned by Googling people from my past and present.

• The first girlfriend I had in high school once I moved to Virginia from Texas now teaches at my old high school. Which I now live behind. In her old neighborhood. Odd the way that works.
  
• Someone I work with led a hunger strike at a local university. It's strange because by my estimation she weights about 95 pounds. I wonder if she forgot to stop striking.
  
• A former employee of mine is/was related to a now-dead sitcom star and appears to be making successful video games out in California.
  
• One of my old neighbors ran for congress several years back. He lost. Big. Which is a good thing because he was a real asshole.
  
• A guy I met in a meeting late last week is apparently "One Sexy Thang!!!" according to his My Space profile.
  
• Another former girlfriend is now a child advocacy lawyer in South Carolina.
  
• One of my best friends from high school might be a porn star.
  
• His old high school girlfriend is now a professional mime.
  

What this shows is twofold. First - and this should come as no surprise to anyone - I run into some really interesting people. Second, everyone leaves virtual fingerprints everywhere they go. In fact - because I know people who know people who do some really interesting shit for a living - I've seen scary-ass versions of online applications that collect every single fragment of your lives and consolidate them into one handy, easy-to-read report. It's scary.

This leads me to two related questions:
- Is Googling people creepy, unethical or just kinda cool?
- Do you Google people? If so, who and what kind of good stuff have you learned?

On another note, I was staring at the horror that is my arm and I think I saw the image of baby Jesus in my rash. With all this rampant pain, I was thinking that while it probably won't fall off by itself, I might just lop the damn thing off. How much do you think I can get for my Weeping Baby Jesus Miracle Arm on Ebay?

My Arm, Revisited

Yesterday morning, armed with the memories of horrific Google searches and a searing pain in my left arm, I did the unthinkable. I made an appointment with my doctor. I know - like reading instruction manuals or asking for directions, this is something virtually unheard of but I was, after all, afraid of losing my arm. I was motivated. I scored an afternoon appointment and marched myself in there at the appointed time.

Then I whipped it out - my arm, that is - and became Ross Geller for a few minutes.

Remember that old episode of Friends where Ross has an odd thing on his ass he claims is a third nipple? Then the doctor gets about two dozen of his colleagues to come in and stare at it for a while? Yeah, that was so me yesterday except it was my arm, not my ass. The throng of medical personnel finally rendered a verdict. And contrary to many of your opinions and my original diagnosis it was not a bite of any kind, ringworm, the onset of lyme disease or lupus or even leprosy. It was, instead, shingles.

Fucking shingles.

If I may go Doogie Houser on your asses, basically the chickenpox virus is like a one night stand gone horribly wrong after a long night of drunk dialing. It just lingers and won't go away. Sometimes it just wears you down and leaves you achy while other times it causes excruciating pain. This is shingles.

I sucked it up, walked out of the doctor's office and headed to pick up the inevitable prescription. I picked it up and headed home. On my way, stopped at a light, I opened up the bag and started surfing through the medical advisories and side effects. It was then that I noticed something odd - a request from the manufacturer that I please wear a condom while having sex. Odd. My anti-depressants have never made that request. Antibiotics could care less about my sexual habits. The occasional decongestant never gave a rat's ass if I wrapped up 'Lil Cactus. But apparently my shingles medication is really concerned about the state of my wang.

That's because its Valtrex. Fucking herpes meds.

This should come as no great surprise, I guess, because all these immune system-related infections are pretty much the same thing. But still. I could have done without even a hint of The Herp. My wife, though, thinks it's hilarious. She's already taught Mia how to tell everyone that her dad has herpes.

I'm so hot. I have a nasty rash on my arm (and I'm still not ruling out the possibility that it will fall off by the end of the week), chronic pain, mild exhaustion and, if you listen to my daughter and read my prescription bottles, a rampant case of herpes. I can just call this a week and skip the rest, right? Surely my work here is done.

How Will I Type With One Arm?

There is a very real possibility that my left arm will fall off by the end of the week. Thank god I'm right-handed.

Last Thursday I noticed that my whole arm hurt. Hurt as in somewhat uncomfortable but I don't need to drink a fifth of vodka or bite down on an arrow to control the endless stream of pain. I decided to check it out. Turns out I've got one fairly dramatic bite on my forearm and one circular batch of bites on my left shoulder. The cluster of bites are the most concerning - or were - because they hurt like the aftermath of a flu shot. I grew curious. I turned to the internet.

Bad idea.

Now I'm fairly convinced that my shoulder has been chewed on by something dangerous and tropical with a 99.99% appendage mortality rate and it now seems completely reasonable that the forearm bite was the gift of a kind passing brown recluse spider. Like I said, I'm pretty sure my left arm will be gone - either forcibly removed or through rapid deterioration - by Friday.

While it could be argued (and I would agree) that the internet's primary purpose, as designed by Al Gore, is a that of a first-rate porn delivery mechanism, I'd argue that the second best use of the information superhighway is to freak yourself the fuck out. Judging by the hits I got on my searches I could have lyme disease, lupus, ringworm (which, interestingly doesn't involve a worm and isn't parasitic), athlete's foot (probably not it since my shoulder is not actually my foot), Paget's disease of the nipple (again, shoulder not nipple), the bite of powerful spiders (the pictures, oh, the pictures...must get them out of my head) and adult circumcision. I'm pretty sure I can rule out that last one too.

The lesson here is simple. While the internet is handy for blogging, meeting and trading ideas with nice people such as yourselves not to mention acquiring good quality porn, it is not a helpful diagnostic tool for medical conditions. Quite the opposite - using it for a diagnosis should be avoided at all costs. Of course I could be wrong. I'll get back to you by the end of the week. If my arm's fallen off, the joke's on me.

So what did you do this weekend? And, uh, you think my arm's gonna fall off?