Urpso goes a little OCD

I rearranged my office furniture last weekend after I gave it a sound cleaning. I was tired of the cleaning staff not doing it properly. The window sills and curtains were covered with dust.  Alas, the lunker of a desk doesn’t allow for much variation. What I need is a smaller desk and/or a more capacious office. In the main office, lying against the wall, waiting for Godot to hang it, is a bulletin board made of cork. I think it has been in that position on the floor for over a year. I can’t get either the house manager or the boss-man to hang it. After I finished cleaning and rearranging my office I hung the damn thing. Four days later I don’t think anyone has noticed it is off the floor and on the wall. At least no one has asked how on earth did it get there.

Speaking of tidy up, I am currently on a pogrom against plastic. While in San Diego I visited a colleague, whose home was drop dead gorgeous. Whenever I am in an awesome abode I am struck there are no plastic objects in sight. I am beginning to equivocate plastic with being cheap and/or tacky.  I want to replace all the plastic things with metal, glass, or wood.

The other day I hosed down the back porch for I could not tolerate the dust any longer. Never mind it was late at night. I was not going to rest until the grime was scoured away.

Perhaps I am developing OCD tendencies. The difference between myself and OCD is OCD means a) if you don’t do something you get anxious and b) you are seldom satisfied when it is completed viz. you start doing it again and again.  When I clean it is out of rage. At times I don’t see things as merely dirty but as symbols of squalor. When I clean I imagine behind me are generations of women who spent their lives fighting filth and decay, who battled against the lead-butt slow leak attitude of loungers and loafers who were all too ready to accept crud as a way of life.

Perhaps I should take the Prozac after all.

Spo-Reflections on “Voyage and Return”

I have always been fond of the following story theme:

A hero or heroine resides in “A”, which is dull, stifling, or even hazardous. Our hero* travels to “B”, a land or place quite different than “A”. The journey is unexpected, usually chaotic, and often frightening. Although it seems a random occurrence, there is a sense of fate to the journey. The hero often bewildered how he got to “B”. Although he wasn’t happy in “A”, he isn’t at ease in “B. He usually spends his time in “B” trying to get back to “A”. Upon his return, he is a different person.

Some examples:

Dorothy is swept up by the cyclone and dropped into Oz.

Alice falls down the rabbit hole.

Kevin, kidnapped by the Time bandits, pushes the wall of his bedroom, opens a time hole and off he goes……

Joe Gillis is chased through Hollywood into the world of Norma Desmond.

Lucy hides in the wardrobe and goes to Narnia.

Milo drives his toy car into The Lands Beyond.

Or for that matter, Mark falls into Lidsville via a magic hat.

 

It is a classic variation on one of the ‘Seven tales of man”: ‘Voyage and Return”.  What I like about this variation is the hero didn’t consciously set out but was thrust into it; choice-less he is given a marvelous adventure.

As a boy I longed to have one of these transformative journeys, away from the prosaic world of my youth and into someplace fabulous. The closest I ever got was through reading. Through imagination I traveled with Alice, Milo, and Lucy into their wonder-lands. Once, I made a whole world of my own.

I miss these types of journeys. I suppose I am too old now for them. All I have are spiritual mid-life psychological Journeys, quite apt for someone my age.

All the same, I would like another book please, with a small child in it, who is whisked away through time and space to somewhere marvelous – and takes me with them.

* I will now limit the name to “Hero” but this entails heros of both genders.

Curious Things around the house #30

I haven’t done a “Curious Things around the house” in a very long time. More’s the pity, for there are many curious things around the house indeed. They are always good for  a ‘I can’t think of what to blog about today’ entry.

This is not a black pylon from Mr. Kubrick’s “2001”.  It is a roller; it is made of hard foam rubber. TPT (the personal trainer) would have me use it every day prior to exercise. I put it down on the ground, lay on top of it, and roll back and forth. Roll roll roll.  They come in various sizes, colours, and hardness.

Mine is quite hard, and often covered with hair.

The point: to break up the muscle knots and loosen up fascia. Fascia is the fibrous wrapping that surrounds muscle, like plastic wrap.  Fascia gets tight, and needs breaking down to allow better blood flow in and out of the muscles.

This maneuver is not a easy at is sounds. It can be rather painful. I fall off frequently. In my youth, rolling on the floor (or down grass hills) used to be easy. Nowadays my bony habitus feels every bump; ouch!  But it feels oh so good to have the lower back muscles squeezed and hear the thoracic bones pop and crackle.  I have the tightest IT bands and these are proving obstinate to loosen up. Rolling sidewise to address them is proving more difficult than a Cirque de Soleil act.

But it is a ‘good hurt’. Afterwards I vow to roll everyday.  I have made this resolution a thousand times.

Spo-Reflections on proper hand washing.

Where ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’ begins and ends is a subjective matter.  For example, I see people who have obsessive-compulsive disorder, who are compelled  to wash their hands over and over out of fears of contamination. On the other hand, we were taught in med school to wash their hands before and after every patient contact.

“Wash your hands” remains the best preventative for contracting bugs.

Every time we go to a restaurant, after I order  I get up and go wash my hands prior to eating. I do this out of habit. I also know just before I sat down I touched the restaurant door handle, which was grasped by everybody who entered the restaurant.  Not to disparage my fellow man, but I suspect some of them have dirty hands.

Thanks to my infectious disease rotation, I use ‘proper technique’ when washing my hands. This often gets me odd looks in the men’s room.  After washing thorgouhly  I use my elbow or the back of hand to extract paper from the towel dispensers, to turn off the faucets, or to touch anything else as my hands are now clean. This prevents re-contamination. Leaving the john is sometimes a challenge: I have just washed my hands but now I have to use the knob everyone else touches after taking a leak.   Spo-fans of the female variety will be shocked, shocked, SHOCKED, to learn many men do not wash their hands after using the bathroom. To open the door I have to use a paper towel or a scrap of toilet paper.  If there is none available (damn air blowers!)  I will either wait for the door to open (if there is regular traffic) or grasp the handle/knob through some clothing.

It is just not humanly possible to avoid germs. Ironically, too much handwashing and/or using antimicrobial soap strips us of our ‘good germs’ which prevent bad germs from taking over. All the same, proper hand washing technique has helped me keep vmy share of colds and flu etc. to a minimum.

And for Spo-fans of a male persuasion, please please wash your hands after taking a leak wont’ you! ?

A closet case

I’ve been feeling rather cheerful this week for reasons uncertain to me. The explanation maybe a prosaic combination of having had a nice weekend, a relatively quiet week, and some minor life accomplishments, such as tidying up the closet.

While rummaging through my half of the closet I realized the inside of my wardrobe resembles the inside of my pumpkin. It consists of outdated articles, forgotten objects, and a chockablock of items I have no recollection of putting there – nor imagine ever using. Some of them I can’t believe I ever used. There is a parralell between my dozen sweaters in the closet and several geometry axioms in my cortex.

I could get rid of the unnecessary items but admittedly they are not taking up needed space and what else would I put in the vacant shelves? I don’t ‘need’ more clothes, although the khaki pants could be replaced. The cuffs are getting dog-eared. One can not have too many Spo-shirts, I suppose, but their rack is full up. I either have to spoil the compartmentalization and put some with the sports coats, or put a few in the guest closet. The T-shirt and undergarment drawers are a bit stuffed, but I can’t imagine them out in public sitting on a shelf.

Nothing in my closet is of great fashion or value, again much like my memory bank. Sometimes I fancy purchasing a “Mrs.Harris goes to Paris” clothing item. But no one I know would notice (or care). I am content with Spo-shirts and last season’ Pradas.  If this is a reflection of my noodle, then I am not doing too badly.

Things for which I pay no attention

Truthspew, Spo-fan and dear man that he is, allowed me to burrow his entry idea: Things to which I pay no attention. Someone would say when it comes to my attention this list includes almost everything.   But I am not talking about attention span, but what never catches my interest.

Professional Sports have never caught my attention. I am not certain I could name the teams of Phoenix even after living here for eight years. One has the name Suns; another Rattlesnakes or something.  Back in Michigan I could at least recognize the Tigers from the Pistons, but I never knew what they were doing “Oh! Are they in the playoffs?”

Media Trials. I would be a good jury pick for I never follow any of these celebrity circuses.  Right now there is some sort of trial involving a man who name resembles a fish. I am probably one of the few people clueless what is their matter.

Celebrities who are famous for being famous is another category for which I pay no attention.  Although I have heard of Honeybooboo, The Kardashians, and Donald Trump, none of them hold my interest.*

Political Scandals. I suppose I should be more on top of them but they come and go so quickly it seems almost futile to try. Besides,as soon as I get a grasp on a matter, the media moves on, distracted by the latest shiny object.

Pharmaceutical Representative luncheon talks – I feel obliged to hear their sales pitches, for they are feeding me. But what they say goes in one ear and out the other.  I have to be watchful though lest they stop to ask me if I agree or not.

Oh the list goes on and on: this year’s fashions, the whereabouts of Justin Bieber, and all advertisments on Facebook – just don’t tell Mr. Zuckerberg or Zuckerman, another celebrity not in my attention span.

*Mr. Trump is an awful exception as he is continually attempting to barge into my life via the media. He’s like a bad haired jack in the box whose lid won’t stay closed.

Spo-Reflections upon Airport Security

Having recently traveled, it is time to bring up the painful subject of airport security.  The entire process fills me with trepidation, most of it founded on bad experience. Something always goes wrong. It’s as if some gremlin swoops down to make mischief.

Going through ‘customs’ (as I call security) evokes the fear I will miss my flight and then what will happen to me? I don’t recall this ever happening to me, so this isn’t a PTSD flashback. Perhaps it is a reincarnation memory. In some previous life I must have missed a desperate departure, equivalent to the Fall of Saigon. I tend to get to airports long before necessary to avoid this neurosis.

Invariably as I enter the point of no return I get behind someone who is either slow, confused, bedecked with metallic jewelry, or carrying a 5 litre bottle which they aren’t willing to surrender*. As an experiment, I usually send Someone through a different line to prove my point: he always finishes ahead of me.

The multitask jobs of disrobing and disassembling combined with my hummingbird mind creates chaos and lost objects. By the time I get to the other side, I am surprised I still have anything left or a stitch on.

There is something sinister about the scanner. I’ve heard tell the TSA is abandoning these dastardly things but they are still there. I read one can request a ‘thorough pat down” alternative, but I would want to choose who does it “That, one, the pretty one, the one with the arms!” I sense this would draw out the ordeal even more, like ordering a special type of burger at McDonald’s.  Also I worry I will be seen as a perv or worse a clown with goodness knows what sort of aftermath.  So I go through the demonic device with the other sheep.  The TSA staff can be as jovial as they please; they are not going to elicit a smile.

But, as Someone points out, I get through it without drama or too much delay. Thanks to several OCD-like rechecks, I haven’t left anything behind. Nor have my pants fallen down when I remove my belt.

And I’ve learned not to say “Mercifully, there was no shooting”, when it’s concluded.

 

*I find it fascinating people get sullen with the TSA staff, particularly over things for which they should know better “What do you mean I have to take off my shoes?”  I view this as playing with fire. Perhaps I am merely too Midwestern in my ways.

“What I did on my (medical conference) vacation.”

This is one of those “What I did on my vacation” entries. I am always a bit dubious to write this sort of entry for I remember as a boy having to sit through tedious reports read out loud by classmates in grade school. I could not care less what they have done last summer. Even then I was a bit of a Cynic; I figured most of them were embellishing if not down right lying through their teeth. I recall a girl named Susan who would blink her eyes whenever she lied, and not just a fib, but a whopper. Spo-fans may want to drop down the the philosophical summary paragraph.

I am waiting for my return flight from San Diego where I had a splendid time powwowing with my fellow wizards. It was a good conference. I learned a lot of new things. As is the wont, we stayed at a very swanky hotel resort. It would have been 5-star but they charged 15$ for internet service!?  This burns my bacon. They do this because they know people will buy it. But I was stubborn and would not do so. Hence the hiatus since my last entry!

On Friday night I had a delightful dinner with Shawn D. and his partner/spouse Ken. They took me to the Hillcrest area. After lectures on Saturday, I had a work out consultation with TPT (The Personal Trainer), whom I haven’t seen in ages. He corrected my poor form and not-so-proper workout techniques. I treated Mr. and Mrs.TPT to supper.

Spo-fans may recall I was in hog heaven Saturday night, for I went to The Aero Bar, which has 600 whiskies. I spent all last week whittling my Sophie’s Choice list down to 4-5 sample shots. It was a disappointment: I imagined suave gentlemen and knowledgable staff, in a tranquil setting. It was a neighborhood bar, crowded with 20-30 year olds. So it was basically a rowdy bar that happened to have 600 whiskies. The two whiskies I had:
Amrut (from India)

Glenfidditch 18 years old        

Both lovely.  Where were YOU when this scotch was made, 1995?

On Sunday after the conclusion of the conference I met up with my friend and colleague James (#3 on the “James list”) at his friend’s house (another doctor).

There is always a bit of a letdown whenever I return home from a holiday. I get a mild melancholia over what is to happen which feels mundane and without worth.  I recognize this emotion as transitory: I will feel good once I get home.

After all, there is no place like it.

I heard that once in a lullaby.

Three James and a Shawn

Hohoho

I am packed for tomorrow’s flight to San Diego, to powwow with my fellow wizards. I will attend a two day medical conference. But the weekend won’t be all lectures and shrink-wrap . I will meet up with friends – most of them named James.

James H. This is The Other Doctor at work. I told him he should attend as it is nearby, a good topic, 12 credits of CME but mostly because his family lives in San Diego. He can visit his daughter AND make tax deductible. He is a good man and sports a handlebar mustache the size I have never seen. He is well over four feet.

James C. Also known as The Personal Trainer. He and his wife moved to San Diego a year ago. He sends me work out assignments each week. I am meeting him for a few workouts where he can hold an inspection of my industry.  Afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. TPT and I will go to dinner and then (happy joy!) whisky sampling at the Aero Bar. He is well over four feet.

James R. A friend/colleague who just happens to be in town at the same time, although he is not attending the conference (he’s retired, lucky man). I hope to meet up with him on Sunday for a cup of tea or something. He is also well over four week.

And then there is Shawn. I am just as excited to meet him. The dear man is picking me up from the airport. We will have supper and/or see his place. I get to meet his partner, probably well over four week and just as nice as Shawn and probably named James.

1,716

1716

The past fortnight has been relatively quiet at work.  I’ve had a lot of ‘no shows’. A “no show’ is a patient who does not appear for their scheduled appointment. Being on salary, a ‘no show’ doesn’t evoke sadness but joy and relief fot I have 15 minutes to get less behind or do some paperwork or go to the john. But a lot of no shows elicits worry: what am I doing wrong?  There may be many explanations for this, but my neurotic conclusion is word’s out I’m a quack.

I meet with the bosses this Friday. Understandably “no shows” are an economic concern to themas I am getting paid for ‘doing nothing’*.  No show’s appointments goefrom blue or green to fiery red.  My roster looks like a serial killer took a buzz saw to it.

So I had the opportunity today to poke around the computer programme.  I discovered how to print out my patient roster. It turns out I have 1,176 patients.  So where the heck are they these days? Ironically many are doing so well they only pop in every 4-6 months out of obligation for me to continue renewing their medication.

My attempts today to drum up business was thwarted at every turn. The patients who came in had overall improved. Some announced they are moving to other states.  Alas, this is not the means to keep my dance card filled.  I suppose I could f*ck with people’s minds (or with their pills)  to get them more likely to return to clinic as soon as possible, but this is not ethical, nor is it nice.

I checked with The Other Doctor, who told me he is as busy as ever.  His roster has over 2,000 patients.

When I  meet with the bosses I will  hear with  wonder if they will complain. Will they analyze the many components to see if there is something(s) contributing to ‘no shows’, or will they just blame me and promptly give me the sack?

Meanwhile, I have alleged 1,716 patients. Perhaps I can all up the more truant ones and haul them in. Imagine them all deciding at once to come in to see me. I just hope there is enough room for them all at Betty Ford’s. Or at least a room for me.

*Of course I am doing something, but it isn’t ‘billed’. Bosses are funny this way.