Real problem: Exposed

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Sorry I haven’t talked with you for a while. I was abducted by aliens wanting to do research on human brains.  Guess it took ‘em longer than usual for yours truly.

Who’d have guessed?

Anyway,  as  I’m sure you’ve noticed, the political candidates, as usual, have completely focused on the wrong topics.  They wander along with their heads in the sand completely ignoring the travesty amongst our midst. 

Well it’s time to shine a light, and I’m the bulb.

That’s right, I’m bringing it right out into the open:  clothing label errors.

And I know exactly what you’re thinking:  errors  IS way too kind a word.  Sabotage fits so much better.  And, you’re welcome!  Someone had to have the insight and courage to address this insidious dilemma.

Exhibit A:  I’m in the store trying on blue jeans.  Of course, I wear 32 inch waist, but it turns out that a 36 just seems to feel better.  So as I’m attempting to slip on some “36’s”  there seems to be a problem. 

“Uh, hi!  36 what?”   I ask.  Centimeters?    Liters?   Cubits?  Krugerands?

Well excuse me, Comrade, but this is America! 
And we expect a 36 to fit size 36.

So while the talking heads continue to yammer about unemployment, nukes in Iran, Libya, etc…. – real people can’t fasten their pants!

No wonder people are moving to Canada or Hawaii.  They are as fed up with this country as I am. 

Well, I hope I didn’t ruin your day, Mrs. H, with all this negativity.  But someone has to really care about the middle class.

With deepest affection,

Mike

 

Dear Mike,

You’re a bulb alright.  I’m guessing you haven’t been a 32 waist since your high school marching band uniform. (and not everyone can play a bass drum with that much talent)

Why don’t you shine a little more light on salad, and a little less on deep dish pizza.

Just maybe your "label issue" will resolve.

Hawaii??

Mrs. H

Second Career

Dear Mrs Higgins,

Some guys just don’t know how to retire. I mean this Brett Favre: “retired” from the Packers, then “retired” from the Jets, then, again “retired” from the Vikings.

And now, of all places, he is in Congress representing New York. Oh, he changed his name to “Tony the Wiener” (which surprised no one), but he is definitely back in the game. Now it looks like one more retirement is in the works. (how many gold watches can one guy use?)

His new wife, Huma (probably also a stage name) who is now expecting their first child, works for: ... wait for it… Hillary Clinton.

I can only imagine the conversations between those girls. “Oh yeah, that’s nothing, listen to what my man….”

Anyway, its hard to say where Brett/Tony/Weiner will show up next.

You may want to stay off Twitter, Mrs. H.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Representative Anthony Wiener isn’t Brett Favre. He just pulled a play from old Brett’s playbook.

When you read the paper, Mike: stick to the comics. We’ll all be happier.

Mrs. H

A nation headed in a wrong direction

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

As you can tell by the political ads this election season, our nation is clearly headed in the wrong direction. I’m not talking about partisan politics, or unemployment, or health care or any of that really hard to understand stuff. I’m talking about something important.

The Chicago Bears cheerleaders, aka Honey Bears, are gone.

Yeah, you read that right. They’re gone.

Attending my first Bears game at Soldier Field in quite a while, I was taken by the revamped stadium. The architects may have come from a background of bed pan designers, but the place is shiny and impressive all the same.

Settling in to my seat, I of course, begin looking for my favorite “Monsters of the Midway,” and the Honey Bears - I think in that order.

“They’ve been gone for a while,” my date explains, followed by a fairly pointed: “Why?”

Why? I don’t want to bash your gender, Mrs. H, but frankly some girls just don’t get sports. They don’t understand the concept of a “football purist.”

With a remarkable lack of marketing prowess, the Honey Bears were replaced with guys in t-shirts and PE shorts waving big Bears flags.

Wow.

That’ll get the team motivated. “Hey Julius, did you see Frank waving that flag after the last field goal? I‘m fired up!”

No wonder the Bears offense is so anemic. You think a guy wants to risk injury catching a gravity defying touchdown pass to get Jerry and Carl to really start whipping those flags around?

I don’t think so.

So, one more part of our day to day lives that has been ruined by the Chinese. Where will it end.

Mike


Dear Purist,

Just watch the game. Your date should have spilled a beer on your lap.

The Chinese?

Mrs H

Health Care - Part III Game Day

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

So finally the awaited day arrives and I’m in for surgery.

Having fasted from 7pm the night before, I‘m a little cranky already.
(now I know what Gandi felt like getting the British out of India)

Anyway, I’m in the waiting room promptly at 7am waiting for the 9 o’clock procedure. After a couple hours, the volunteer running the OR waiting room sweetly mentions that I’m not scheduled until noon.

I, in turn, sweetly mention that I own a #$%^ telephone, and it seems to be working properly with the minor exception that I haven‘t received a *&^%$ call from the ^%$# person in charge of my *&^% surgery schedule.
(that seems a bit strong until you consider my emaciated condition)

Of course, it wasn’t her fault. And you can’t fight city hall. Or a surgeons schedule. Apparently, there was some kind of emergency that had to be taken care of ahead of me. Some people are so inconsiderate with their medical emergencies.

Finally, I meet my surgical prep nurse. She happens to be someone I know. I’ll call her Betty. Her real name is Trish, and she lived across the street from me when I was in high school and is a couple years younger.

I’m guessing there are a couple hundred nurses in Champaign/Urbana. I know one of them and she is going to get me ready for game day. Unlike high school football, this does not involve taping ankles. Not even close.

So Betty/Trish and I are having a nice chat about her husband and kids, and her new house, and my kids, you know small talk. I must have been my normal witty self because there was a lot of giggling during our “chat.”

That pleasantry completed, along comes second nurse to describe how the rest of game day, and the days after are going to play out.

This, Mrs. Higgins is so contrived. They get you naked except for the breeze gown, shorn like a losing poodle in a dog show, a needle and tube in your arm, and then give you the news, weather, and sports - including “significant swelling and discomfort.”

I seriously thought about making a break for it, when nurse 2 begins wrapping me in heated blankets. Wow! These are awesome, and I’m thinking: “how bad can it be?”

Feeling a bit like a dinner roll in a basket at a fancy restaurant, I meet my anesthesiologist. And I know this guy too - from the 7 11. Only I’m not positive its him, maybe a brother or cousin. Maybe the guy moonlights.

Finally after being rolled to several waiting locations, I get to the OR and I'm really, really glad my contacts and glasses are not available. This room looks serious, and I don’t want to see the details of what tools are available to the good doctor.

A couple more nurses move me from the warmth of the biscuit basket onto a metal table recently pulled from the fridge. I’m guessing they were out of adult sized tables because, well, lets just say there was more Mike than table.

Next, 7 11 guy shows up, and I'm thinking about a 32 ounce slurpy, when he tells me he is going to give me something to relax.

I'm thinking: finally a break. They have Old Style here - probably keep it next to the operating tables....

My next thought was a nurse handing me a cup of ice chips. Only these are not your normal ice chips. These taste like a 16 ounce prime rib with a loaded baker. They are incredible. Ice never tasted so good. Some guy next to me is complaining about pain, and all I can think is: "Dude! eat your ice!"

Of course I’m finished. And, as expected, this was the easy part. I really don’t know, Mrs H. exactly what happened in the OR, but I have a theory.

Dr. Jones makes a little incision right below my waist line and inserts some kind of mesh to hold the parts of me that should stay in, in.

This is the whole idea. So years from now I won’t have the embarrassing conversation: “excuse me sir, but I believe you are standing on my intestine.” Keep it in your pants takes on a whole new meaning.

Then, I’m pretty sure, they put my heels in stirrups and bring in every person who I ever offended for one free kick. (starting with the OR waiting room volunteer - who probably got 2)

Unfortunately, this is a long list.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Emaciated? Gandi?

Wish I would have known, I have some steel toed shoes somewhere around here.

Mrs. Higgins

Health Care - Part 2

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Ok, to follow up on my new hobby, which is getting medical treatment, I thought I’d relay my recent experiences.

My first doctor apparently has a friend who is putting an addition on his house, or maybe saving for a European vacation, and is looking for a revenue bump.

Enter me: the bump.

Well actually, I have a bump that needs repaired, and Doc 1 gets on the horn with Doc 2, and the next thing I know, another man, a complete stranger is touching my “Mommy said no no” places.

This guy happens to be African American. And since he is going to be cutting on me while Doc 3 has me knocked out, I’m humming Stevie Wonder music, quoting Maya Angelou, with a few vague references to "hope" and "change" tossed in. You know, kind of a “we are the world” moment.

Then today, in kind of a pregame warmup, I go in for a chest xray and blood sample. The girl in charge of the xray, who appears to be about 17, cheerfully introduces herself as a junior college student.

Uh, sorry, what?

Hopefully not a business major, but who knows? And couldn’t I get a graduate? Or at least somebody going to a 4 year school?

But alas, I’m in the system now with the ever drafty little gown, padding around in my socks going where I’m told and doing what I’m told.

Finally the surgical nurse runs me through the game day scenario. By now, I’m picturing myself lying on a table with a bunch of small engine repair students standing over me.

“Hey, anybody ever knock a guy out?”

This all kind of makes me miss the height and weight chart.

I wonder how many ski trips I could go on for what this will cost.

Mike


Dear Mike,

Keep your chin up little guy. This too will pass.
There's a time to ski, and a time to get fixed up.

Mrs Higgins.

Health Care

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Well, with all the talk about health care, I thought I’d share my experience with you regarding my recent physical exam.

Ok, it had been a while.

Last time I went in, Doc poured whisky on a splinter, handed me a bullet to bite down on, and Miss Kitty and Festus held me in position.

Lets just say: things have changed.

First, there is the height and weight measurement.

And apparently, there is a chart. This chart was obviously conjured up by a hateful group of people who have never met a deep dish pizza.

I didn’t mind my numbers being documented, but was a little startled when the nurse called the entire floor over to “Hey, check out the stats on pudgy.”

Actually, it turns out my weight was fine.

But somehow my height is short by roughly a foot and an half. (like I can control THAT)

So, next is getting into the “gown” (can we say breezy), and measuring blood pressure.

And Mrs. H, it is so cool how some of the nurses aren’t afraid to share their spiritual beliefs on the job.

I was expecting to hear a couple of boring numbers, but instead it was: “Holy Mother of God.”

Now that’s comforting!

Finally, I meet the doctor who runs me through a series of tests - some more usual than others.

Note: if someone tells you to “turn your head and cough,” prepare for an unusual one.

Then the guy puts a rubber glove on one hand. And, of course, because I’m pretty savvy about modern medicine, I’m thinking his hand is cold.

Then, it’s like HEY! HEY! HEY! - that is no way to warm up a hand. (Next time I’m gonna bring in an extra pair of mittens. You can just have ‘em. Really. They’re yours. Just take ‘em.)

Anyway Mrs. Higgins, it was a day to be remembered. I really did like the doctor, and during chit chat time (which could be likened to a description of a condemned warehouse) I wanted to ask if he was from India or Pakistan.

Remembering that sometimes those two groups of people don’t get along, I didn’t venture a guess.

He did have a whole box of rubber gloves within reach.

Mike

Dear Mike,

Good that you finally got over your pride and cowardice and got checked out. Maybe some people around you would like you to be around for awhile.

Embrace the chart, my “savvy” friend. Hint: you’re unlikely to get taller.

Mrs H.


Helpful historical note:
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away: Gunsmoke was a wildly popular TV western with Sheriff Matt Dillon, his deputy Festus, and Doc (a medical doctor). Miss Kitty ran the hotel/bar and was kind of a girl friend to the sheriff, but this is back when cowboys only kissed their horse.

Recognition way overdue

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Can’t tell you how excited I was to hear that President Obama won academy awards for best director and best cinematography in a foreign film.

And this on the heals of the Pulitzer prize for best short story - along with Country Music Awards best new single.

Its about time we give credit where credit is due!

Those Olympians don’t know bleep!

When Obama AND Oprah AND Mayor Daley don’t get their way. Well lets just say that some folks need to start falling in line. (&^%# foreigners!) We probably should have sent Blago over
to seal the deal.

All in all, not a bad week for our commander in chief!

And about time!

Mike

Dear Mike,

Do you read the paper or just look at the rubber band.

Yeah, Blago is a real "deal sealer". I am sure he would have enjoyed the furlough.

Try to sit up straighter,

Mrs Higgins.