Category: General

I can’t make a doctor’s appointment without feeling like a hypochondriac.

Seriously, unless I’m actually bleeding or something (which almost never happens), it takes a lot to convince me to pick up the phone and call the the appointment nurse.

And sometimes, I’ll make an appointment, then when it’s time to go in (usually at least several days later), I’ll cancel or just not show up at all.

Which means, the next time I need to make an appointment, in addition to my normal resistance to accept as real any symptoms I think I have, I have to deal with the guilt of having stood up my doctor from the time before.

I like my doctor. I’ll call him Dr. Carl. For one thing, he just looks like a doctor, a classic TV doctor. Handsome, mature, late middle age, tall, not overweight. Blond hair, blue eyes. Tasteful wire-frame glasses. Friendly but not overly so; doesn’t flirt with the nurses or female patients; professional but approachable.

My work insurance is not an HMO. It allows me to choose my own doctor, and years ago, I chose Dr. Carl. His office is in my neighborhood so I can walk, or, if I’m ill (hardly ever) I can take the bus and it will drop me off right in front of the door, even though it’s just 10 blocks away.

But… still, I wonder when I make an appointment. Is this serious enough to take up Dr. Carl’s time? Is this something silly, something frivolous? Does he roll his eyes when he sees that I have an appointment, think to himself (or, worse, chuckle and mention to his staff) “Oh, it’s that guy, Brian. Wonder what he thinks is wrong with him this time?”

I guess what I’m saying is that I feel like I don’t deserve Dr. Carl. That’s what I’m saying, isn’t it? I’ve got an inferiority complex.

It’s my health, though. I’m the one making the decisions. If something is bothering me, no one else is going to see to it that I get it taken care of.

Part of it is that I live alone. Ever have those lonely nights when you can’t sleep and you wonder “If something were to happen to me right now, how could I get help?”

I suppose, especially so since I don’t really endear myself to my neighbors. Neighbor, I mean. Specifically Old Barfy. Ugh. The thought of having to rely on that old drunkard makes me even more anxious. But I accept the consequence of my actions; I don’t rely on O.B. because I don’t think he’s reliable.

That just circles around back to the idea that I have to take care of myself. Which means, if I think something is wrong, I need to pick up the phone and call Dr. Carl, or his nurse, technically, and make sure I go in and explain what’s going on.

I learned a rule from a friend, who told me once, “My doctor and my lawyer get the full truth, no exceptions, all the details. They can’t do their jobs unless I speak up. Everyone else, though…”

Even when I might be embarrassed, I force myself to tell the complete story to Dr. Carl. Even when I’m having problems in an embarrassing part of my body, like, say, my brain.

Luckily, I’ve only had to do that with a lawyer once.

I’m getting ready to head over to the Bagdad Theater, to drink beer and eat some dinner with friends. Oh, and to catch the first of the last Battlestar Galactica episodes.

I’m hoping that the build-up for the final hours of the show does service to the awesome three and a half seasons of drama and metaphor and character that have preceded it.

And if not, at least I will have my friends and beer and food.

I consider this a “warts and all” blog about myself. I will (and have) post about things that may not put me in a very good light. I’m not ashamed to say that I am human; I have flaws; I make mistakes.

This week is an example. I’m hoping that people will feel free to comment, pro, con, or indifferent, on this. G’head, I’m an adult and responsible for my own actions.

I’ve written about Old Barfy before, the guy that mooches off my neighbor and sits on her front porch, a 40 in his hand, smoking like a chimney.

A couple of nights ago, as I was walking up to my front door, he approached me. “Hey, Brian,” he said. I ignored him. “Brian, hey, Brian,” he kept repeating. I ignored him until he was almost next to me. Finally I looked over my shoulder at him. I stood on my front porch, facing the door, key in hand and, basically, my back to him.

“Do you have fluorescent lights in your kitchen?”

“Why?” I said. Not “yes” or “no” but “why?” Can you tell I don’t like him?

“W-well,” he stammered, paused, and continued, “We’ve got a bulb out, and I bought a replacement tube, but it don’t work.” His words were a bit slurred around his lack of teeth and his apparent blood-alcohol level. “I was thinkin’ I could try it in your fixture, if you’ve got the same kind as we do…”

“Ask Chris,” I said, flatly. Chris is the landlord. He’s actually very helpful, I thought. Why wouldn’t you ask the landlord for help like that?

“Oh, well, I didn’t wanna bug him. I just thought…”

“Or take it back to the store.”

“I, I mean, I don’t… I don’t have eight dollars to blow on a light bulb, y’know!”

I said nothing further. Still wasn’t my problem.

“Oh, well… nevermind.” He hunched over and went back to the stoop of the apartment he shared with my next door neighbor.

I went inside, fuming. Why does he continue to talk to me? I resent his attention. I just want him to leave me alone. Is that so hard to understand?

I did not want him in my apartment, not at all. I’ve seen him digging in other people’s garbage. He’s shown a level of interest in me and my things that makes me feel creeped out. He keeps a shopping cart in the narrow strip of yard behind my building, and fills it with bottles that he cashes in regularly. One Saturday morning I woke up, opened the curtains to see the sun – and there was Old Barfy, messing around with his scrounged cans. He immediately ducked down to avoid being seen.

Yes, he’s shown some compassion for my problems in the past – particularly with regard to Smacky, my cat, who went missing last year. Yes, O.B.’s son died in Iraq, and I think one of the worst tragedies in human existence is a parent who outlives their children.

But when he talks to me, I feel a skin-crawling need to get away. I can’t avoid him enough. And the fact that his contribution to the neighborhood is to sit for hours on end, drinking, or collecting cans for the nickle deposit, or that he was apparently evicted a year or two ago but managed to talk a lonely old lady into sympathizing with him enough to take him in, like a stray… He can do what he wants, and other people can respond to him as they want.

Me, I just want him to leave me alone.

Today is payday.

Thanks, job, for giving me a regular paycheck, and benefits, and a nice warm place that is not my apartment to spend 9 hours in five days out of the week.

What? I’m just sticking to the basics.

Didja ever notice that there’s a lot of candy bars named for financial concepts? Payday. $10,000 Bar (or more recently, the 10 Grand). Mounds.

Snickers is actually a slang term for loose change in Zimbabastan. True story.

I may have found the perfect place to celebrate our newest president. I’m pretty sure there were no parties in Portland for President Bush that featured dancing girls. I could be wrong, though.

I definitely remember dancing girls when President Clinton was elected, though. Of course, that’s around the time I started hanging out in strip clubs, so there may not have been any actual connection to the inauguration; it just might’ve been my normal Tuesday night.

This year, though – both dancing girls and a celebration of our new Democratic President!

Apparently the very same bar in which I watched Obama’s acceptance speech on election night, The Slammer, is having an inauguration party next week that will feature dancing girls on the roof.

There’s a bus driver in my neighborhood who has a groupie.

The bus he drives goes through my neighborhood, anyway. And he only drives this route on the weekends, as far as I know.

And every single time I get on his bus, there’s a lady in the front passenger seat, talking to him. She’s an older lady, about the same age as the driver. Sometimes, she has a little girl, about 10 or so, with her. Sometimes she’s alone.

I could ride the bus from one end of the line to the next, and the lady never gets out at a stop. And I’ve never seen her board, either. She’s just… always… there.

From the little bit of conversation I’ve heard between the driver and the lady, it doesn’t seem that she’s his wife. I never look for a wedding ring so I may be wrong, but I don’t recall any particular topic that would make me think they share a house at all. Maybe a girlfriend?

But it’s been going on for years now.

Sometimes, when other passengers get on and ask the driver questions, the lady will answer instead. I’m sure she knows this particular route as well as the driver, and likely the rest of TriMet’s system, too. She’ll talk about transfers to other routes, or where different businesses are along the route, or fare structures or where to buy monthly passes.

I’ve seen her in that seat on rainy, stormy days. I’ve seen her in that seat on sunny, warm days (and as a side note, man, I miss those sunny warm days right now). I’ve never seen her with a book or a music player or a magazine or newspaper. I’ve never seen her with groceries or shopping bags. I’ve never seen her engage other regular riders, like me for just one example, in the same way or with the same intensity that she talks to the driver.

I don’t really know what else to call her, but a bus groupie.

Feel free to follow along with me.

I’ve got a first-generation, 2G iPhone. 8GB of storage. It’s still in pretty good shape; a little dent on the back, but the screen is pristine, since it’s been covered with a protector for all but about 2 minutes of the 14 months I’ve owned it.

Since I’m getting a small refund from the Feds on my taxes this year, I started thinking about upgrading to the 3G iPhone, which is $199 for the same storage space I have now, or $299 for double the storage space. Also, they come in sexy, sexy black.

But what could I get for selling my old iPhone? My usual way to determine such things is to hit eBay, do a search for completed listings for stuff in the same general condition as the thing I’m selling. That gives me an idea what people will pay.

Color me surprised to find sold iPhones, just like mine, still selling for up to $400+!

Tossing out the broken ones, and the ones that sold for $1000 or more (I smell a scam there), the mid-range is still $250-$300. That’s… that’s just nuts.

Is it because 2G iPhones can be jailbroken and unlocked to work with other carriers? That’s the main reason I can see for the used selling price for the first generation to remain so high.

Which means I might be able to upgrade to the newer iPhone and gain money.

Of course, since the monthly data plan for iPhone 3G is higher ($30/month for 3G vs. $20/month for EDGE; and texting isn’t included, so that’s another $20/month – I text a lot and need unlimited), that money would go towards paying the extra monthly fees.

Even so… daaaaamn. So tempting.

I dreamt that I was wandering around a house, some kind of vacation home. It was dark inside but light and sunny outside.

I’ve read somewhere that when one dreams about a house, the house represents the person. I don’t know if that’s true for everyone, at all times, but since reading that and internalizing it, it has become true for me, after the fact. So now, when I wake up and analyze a dream of mine, if there’s a house, the automatic assumption is that the house represents myself.

Sounds nice and logical and easy-to-understand, in a metaphorical way, right? Well hang on.

In this house, I’m looking for the bedroom. I’ve been traveling and I want to rest. I’m warm and wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

And then the bees find me.

Clumps of bees land on and around my joints; a group in the pit of each elbow, a mob in each armpit, some in my groin and some around each knee. They don’t attack at first, just land and stay there, while I walk around and wave my arms trying to dislodge them without angering them.

So, what do bees mean? In the context of the house-is-me metaphor?

Eventually the bees do, indeed, begin to bite me. Or sting me. One or the other. The pain is low-key but definitely there. In dream logic, I just walk around with the bees clumped around my various joints. I don’t swipe at them or brush them off because, well, they’d bite me. More. Or… something.

And I walk into the bedroom, finally. A small mattress, big enough for one person, and some blankets lies on the floor of an otherwise empty room. And on the bed are several kittens. Small, fluffy, orange kittens.

They see me and the bees, and the kittens yowl. They jump and cling to my arms and legs and crotch. And they begin to attack the bees.

In their excitement, they are not very accurate.

So now I have kittens biting me and the bees, and the bees are agitated and biting me, too.

That’s when I wake up.

I have no idea what it means.

Feel free to share your bizarre dreams in the comments…

Got a text from my youngest nephew letting me know that there will be a dinner celebrating my dad’s birthday and that I was invited.

After reserving the closest Zipcar to me (4 miles away), missing a bus that turned the wrong way and missed my stop, then having to walk a half-mile to catch another bus and having to walk another half mile to actually get to the car, then having to put gas in the car (curse you, whoever had the car before me!), well, I was late.

But I was there in time for cake! Dad got chocolate chocolate cake with chocolate chips in the frosting, yum.

Got to hear more stories of my sister and my birthday. Mostly my sister’s – apparently mom and dad were living on N. Vancouver when my sister was born in November ’63, and the taxi driver who took them to the hospital (St. Vincent’s, which was off of West Burnside) was very very nervous the entire ride. Dad was working in a camera store at the time, and they did not have a car. Luckily dad’s friend lent him a dark blue 1963 Corvette Stingray to bring mom and baby Lisa home. I believe that was a split-window coupe that year. Damn. No, my sister did not have a child-safety seat; she just rode home behind the passenger seat. Ah, those were the days…

Dad did not tell any stories about his own birthday, unfortunately.

Happy birthday, dad!

Barack Obama is already saving me money!

On my first pass through on my 2008 taxes, I owed the state of Oregon $55. Then I remembered my contributions to Obama’s campaign!

BAM! That dropped my payment to just $5!

Thanks, President-elect Obama!

Yes, I know it’s early for doing taxes, but since I’m expecting a $680 refund from the Feds I like to get that money in my hands as soon as possible.

I’d love to be able to make it all come out even, but this is the best I’ve done in recent years. I prefer to have as much of my money in my hands throughout the year.

Here’s hoping your taxes turn out for the better, too!