By Bev Feldman
I am driving to a job this am... it's a big commercial. I'm listening to my car radio, KPCC/NPR to a call-in show, where a patient advocate (publicizing her book) is talking about whether or not one should question an MD's diagnosis. Well, hell, YEAH! I have strong opinions about parents advocating for their child and insisting upon a diagnosis that fits ALL of the symptoms, not just the ones they can make into individual diseases. It's a stand that can make you unpopular with doctors. I know. Well, too bad.
I get out my AT&T iPhone and call the station. I talk to the screening guy, who really loves the angle of a parent advocating on behalf of their child and so he moves me to the front of queue. I'm next!!! I am so excited!
Recently I had a job where our location was on Rodeo Drive. Like, on the sidewalk, in front of Chanel.
Rodeo Drive is a VERY rarefied atmosphere, and you better have a permit to shoot there or else. The producers had obtained a valid permit, we all dressed up in our best jeans, and we still had four visits from the Permit Enforcers. One grinning cop had just come from busting a hapless Japanese film crew. The fresh notch on his gun handle did not escape me.
Tired of paying $84 a month for DirecTV? Hate to tell ya, but there's no way to cancel it online, so forget it. You can spend money online with DirecTV a zillion different ways, but you can't cancel. You have to call them.
Next, by phone you'll be presented with a recorded voice and list of choices, none of which are "I want to cancel my account!" So you must interrupt the robot voice and scream, "AGENT!" The voice will say something like, "OK, but tell me what you need." And you scream, "I want to cancel!!!"
There's a war going on in my house, mainly in the kitchen. We are overrun by moths. They're everywhere! Open a kitchen cabinet, and generations of moth families fly out, so many of them that you can actually see moth evolution! We have blisters on our hands from clapping so much. Our next door neighbors think we do a weird kitchen martial art.
So tonight, after a too-busy day of one dead car, and a dead washing machine, plus a self-populating to-do list a mile long, I say to Tom, "I really need to lie down. Can I do that? Or is it illegal?" And he says, "No, no, its fine, go ahead, I'll text a new to-do list to you."
That should be funny!
In our house, it's not. Because it's... true.
Last week I was driving and on the radio came an ad for a non-profit that grants last wishes to dying children. I got a lump in my throat. I made a mental note to remember to make a donation. Then another commercial followed it, unbelievably, for CASKETS! Caskets TO GO! I’m NOT kidding-- you can't make this stuff up!
So after I got home, I called the Caskets-To-Go number, 1-800-EXPIRED.
"Participating in certain mental activities, like reading magazines or crafting in middle age or later in life, may delay or prevent memory loss," according to a study released today by the American Academy of Neurology."
Ok, the Academy of Neurology reports on certain activities that help your brain.... and then they mention that people who watch LESS than seven hours a day of TV are 50% less likely to develop memory problems, like Alzheimers. Wow.
There are people who watch SEVEN HOURS A DAY of TV????
The year was 1988. Up until then I didn't have any interest in having a baby. (I thought babies were highly overrated.) But at the age of 41 aliens invaded my brain... and I was thinking about it. Alas, this uterus was more than over the hill, it was ready for assisted living.
That's the downside of spending decades conducting auditions for the position of potential Daddy. I figured that raising a kid was best done by two parents, and it took me all that time to find the right guy! But Tom was worth the hassle: good man, good looking, and younger than me so statistically we should die about the same time. Added bonus: he's Jewish, I'm Catholic, two old religions that have the franchise on shame and guilt, the Mother Lode of delayed gratification.
You probably think this is the story of how Tom and I took a road trip in an RV full of beer and made a baby. Nope. We both hate beer and are frightened by the kinds of people who inhabit campgrounds who are not going home because they ARE home.
(Bev Feldman spent New Year's Eve, 2009, in a Hollywood, California, Emergency Room with her husband, Tom. She filed this report bedside from Tom's gurney, located in the ER's overflowing hallway, right near the automatic doors.)
While waiting for Tom's prescription for oxycodone to materialize, I've been reminiscing that I've been with Tom for about 27 years. (We differ as to the exact date that this lusty alliance began, though we can agree on the wedding date.) When two people get together in a romantic way, both of you want to make the best impression possible. So this means that there cannot be full disclosure up front because the naked truth would cause the romantic momentum to slam into a psychological abutment and be prematurely DOA. You know what your fatal flaws are but the Romantic Rules state that you should not leak them: let 'em find out on their own and see how they handle it.
So who knew that my husband was a kidney stone maquiladora? Not me.
Tom creates and delivers a quality stone every four years. His internal production line was not something I was aware of until the day that he went from a normal coherent vertical guy to completely and profoundly horizontal, moaning, drooling, and licking the lint off the carpet in a cold sweat-- all in under 30 seconds.