By Request, My October 2009 Fundraising Letter Rejected by the Kids' School

Like many of you, I was looking forward to my kid’s first day of kindergarten for one big reason: no more pre-school tuition. Two boys and a combined seven years of payments to St. Mark’s Day School had kept me from spending my money as I see fit. Good-bye tuition, hello Hair Club for Men. (I also want one of those Slap Chop                                                                                      contraptions from the                                                                                      infomercial. My birthday is                                                                                       August 11.)

After dropping off my son, I was making my get-away when I noticed two tables of donuts, coffee cake, and other yummies in the auditorium. There was some kind of meeting going on. I grabbed an apple fritter and a cup of generic PTA coffee and tried to blend in. All was going well until some lady at the podium said something about fundraising, and I flipped out.

Maybe it was the caffeine and sugar talking when I blurted out, “Hey, what’s the big idea?!” Bits of coffee-drenched pastry sprayed out of my mouth as a hush fell over the assembled parents and toddlers. “Donations! You want donations? This is a public school. What the heck am I paying taxes for?” One of the moms accused me of being boorish. I said, “The joke’s on you, lady, ‘cause I don’t even know what ‘boorish’ means.”

Then the boss of the school (I believe her name is either Dr. Livingston or Livingstone) approached, wiping a hunk of glazed apple from her face. She patiently explained to me that my taxes pay for “not just schools, but also roads, parks, cool fighter jets, and huge agribusiness subsidies.” She then described the great things PAC has bought for the school—dozens of shiny new computers and peripherals, two gigantic play structures with a safe bouncy rubber-like surface beneath them, library books, and evil copy machines. (Contrary to rumors, the diamond-encrusted humidor in the principal’s office was not paid for by PAC; rather, it was funded by the re-sale of lost-and-found spiritwear and lunch boxes.)

“Who do you think paid for the apple fritter you spit on my face?” she added. “Not the taxpayers!” Clearly agitated, the principal was not being my best pal at the moment, and I backed off. I finished my fritter at the lunch benches and thought things over. I had to admit that Dr. Livingston / Livingstone made a little bit of sense. Indeed, maybe we were both right.

Consider this:

1. Thanks to Fremont, we don’t need to send our kids to private school. Our good fortune will continue when (or if) our kids reach middle school and high school.

2. PAC makes the lives of Fremont teachers easier. And just as great cheese comes from happy cows and happy birthdays come from great pointy party hats, great students come from happy teachers.

3. Computers are, like, everywhere now. Kids should know how to use them.

4. My boys have oversized heads and fall down a lot. The bouncy ground under the play structures gives me peace of mind.

5. I had a 5th point, but in the time since I started typing this list, I forgot what it is. If you know, send me an e-mail.

Now TV has taught me just about everything I know, such as that it’s easier to get people to donate money by breaking down the total amount into daily portions. You may have seen those commercials telling you that you can make a difference in the life of a kid in some far-off land for only 14 cents a day. This works for us the same way, but instead of helping some kid you don’t even know, you can help PAC buy more cool stuff for Fremont…for only 14 cents a day (you do the math).

It pays off. My kids, now in 2nd and 3rd grade, are already clearly better writers than me, and better at math and science, too. I’m sure they’re also more boorish, whatever that is. Because I caved in and donated some money to PAC three years ago (and ever since), my kids also still have better hair. If I can live with a cheap hairpiece, you can do without the foot massager, back-scratching robot, or Slap Chop contraption (remember, August 11!) that you’ve always wanted.

Jim Schmit

Those who know Jim realize he’s just kidding. Or is he? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. In any case, please join Jim and Tinky Schmit and over 100 other families who have given to this year’s Annual Campaign. So far we’ve raised $10,000, 40% of our $25,000 goal. Jim also encourages you to give to UNICEF or to some other worthy organization working to improve the lives of poor children throughout the world.

Letter to President Obama Regarding Fiscal Crisis

One of my two or three devoted blog readers wants to know why I don’t post more often. She’s probably just asking to be nice, but I’ll answer anyway. First of all, I roll around in bed ten hours a night trying to sleep, then another three or four hours during the day trying to nap. That doesn’t leave much time for writing. Second, I never learned to type. Instead of a typing speed of, say, eighty words per minute, mine is calculated backwards—eighty minutes per word.

Now that I’m a professional blogger, I can afford a professional typist. Her name is Tinky, and I will dictate this blog post to her. From this point on, she will type. Rigggghhht NOW. OK now it’s her typing and me talking so blame any typos or stupid comments on her. Yes that is fair, Tinky.

This is my introduction so start a new paragraph, OK? Thanks. This summer, our city school district (you know who you are) fired a whole bunch of teachers, and then, at the last second, and after many of them had made other plans, hired them back again. I’m one of those parents with both a lot of time on my hands and also a pathological determination to right my parent’s wrongs. Yes, I’m in the PTA. The last second changes at my school were inconvenient to me, so I demanded an explanation from the new school principal. Here it is: the school district—indeed, the entire government—has a money problem.

I don’t pay taxes myself, except for the sales tax on my ruinously expensive JC Penney shirts, but my wife does. I wasn’t gonna tell them how much money you make, just how much taxes you paid. Then don’t type it. When you married me you should have known I might write a blog some day. Wait, what are you typing? Fine, we’ll just say you paid $5000 in taxes last year—they’ll believe that. My wife paid $5000 in taxes last year. By my calculations, if every family in the USA paid $5000 in taxes, and if there are a 100 million families, the government would get $5000 times 100 million in money each year. That should be more than enough to run the government. Thanks, that was a good point.

It’s a shame our leaders weren’t raised by my Dad. Whenever I asked for something extravagant as a child, like a football or a book, he would point to the back yard and yell, “Do you see a money tree in the back yard?” Every time he asked I would dutifully peer through the blinds and look, and every time I would sheepishly have to answer, “No.” I kept hoping, though. What do you need a break for? We just started, and I’m on a roll! Our leaders see trees—taxes and bonds—but they overestimate the size of the forest. I don’t overestimate it, so it’s up to me to alert the President and my local representatives (either Shift or Dryer, according to some political lady I talked to at the Farmer’s Market), who can, in turn, alert all the other important decision-makers whose names I don’t know. There’s probably dozens of them. Tinky, you’ve been married to me long enough to know how great my ideas are. They’ll want to read my letter. Why? Because our government needs to bring in more money and I have the solution.

Dear President Obama, who I’ve heard of, and Representatives Shift or Dryer, whichever one of you who represents Sparr Heights, just south of Montrose, zip code 91208,

Our government needs to bring in more money and I have the solution. It’s not delusional if I can back it up—just keep typing. Recently venerable electronics retailer Radio Shack announced plans to re-brand itself, to change its name to “The Shack.” The YMCA followed suit, and now it is simply, “The Y.” I heard a rumor that GM and GE are suing each other over who gets to be “G” and that our neighboring town La Canada-Flintridge will finally decide between La Canada or Flintridge, and make everyone’s lives a lot easier.

Some business article I might have read reported that Radio Shack will spend millions of dollars to make this change. There must be big money in it for them and big money in it for whomever they’re paying to help them make this change. That got me to thinking, which is what I do best. That, and getting every little bit of peanut butter out of the peanut butter jar. It is worth it, it will probably save us $100 over the next 40 years. You’re interrupting my flow. If a single electronics retailer can change its name and bring about millions of dollars of economic activity, what would happen if all 50 states did the same? If we re-brand our states, tax revenues would soar, billions of dollars would be spent repainting U-Haul trucks and so on, and people all over our great nation would be happy again. You could also sell a whole new set of collectible quarters with each of the 50 states on the back. Remember those? That must have been a big money maker for the government.

Let’s start at the right tippy-top of the country, Maine. Is there a more boring state name ever? It’s just the word Main with an “e” at the end. I’m gonna change Maine to Lobstertaile, letting them keep the “e” at the end. Moving left we come to New Hampshire, which for the longest time I thought was New Hamster, until a college professor rudely corrected me in front of the whole class, bringing much mirth and merriment to all the snobby teacher’s pets. Of course that’s not true, but people reading this blog will believe it, ‘cause they think I’m stupid. To get back at my professor, you should change New Hampshire to New Hamster. Hamsters are cool little animals, but they have a life expectancy of about a week. Then they eat each other, get sick, and die a stinky death. How about Dead Hamster instead? Yeah, Dead Hamster it is. They can still have the first primary. I think you did well there, Mr. President, but I don’t know for sure ‘cause I don’t follow politics.

Next to Dead Hamster is Vermont. I don’t know anything about Vermont, so how about Pietown as its new moniker? I like pie, and so do lots of other folks. That’s good for tourism. I think Germans like pies, or maybe it’s the Danes. In any case, more Euros are on the way, Pietowners. I went to college in Massachusetts, and the name is just too damned hard to spell. People there deserve spelling relief, so Massachusetts is now “The.” Yes, Tinky, “The.” ‘Cause it’s one of the first words kids learn to spell—if you don’t like it, you can write your own letter. I’m from Chicago, and I had 30 unique visitors to my blog last week, so there’s a better chance Obama will read my letter.

Connecticut will change to “And” and Rhode Island will just drop the Island part of its name, because it doesn’t look like an island on my map. If I’m wrong about that, we can add back the “Island” later. New York is easy. Being raised in Chicago, I was always jealous of New York City being New York, New York. Man how I wished I could live in Chicago, Chicago, or even Illinois, Illinois. What could be cooler? I’ll tell you what—New York, New York, New York. We’ll add an extra New York to the state name.

So far we’ve got:

Maine = Lobstertaile
New Hampshire = Dead Hamster
Vermont = Pietown
Massa…whatever = The
Connecti… = And
Rhode Island = Rhode
New York = New York, New York

Good start. Maybe we should take a pie break. Can’t you go get one at Vons? Cherry or rhubarb. Isn’t it weird how good rhubard pie tastes and how bad actual rhubarb is? Yuck. Can you please go get it while I take a nap? I’ll wash the dishes later. Why are you still typing?

New Jersey doesn’t make sense, since as far as I know there’s no Old Jersey. I know there’s a York because of that song, “The Grand Old Duke of York,” so that’s OK. Well even if there is a Jersey in England, what’s it to us? Most people use the word Uniform instead of Jersey nowadays anyway, and if we call it New Uniform, what happens when the state uniform gets old? Uniform it is.

Pennsylvania is an interesting case. I recall from high school history class that it was named after some long-forgotten guy named Penn (not Sean Penn or the guy who’s with Teller—they’re not forgotten yet). I’m assuming this Penn guy is dead, so he won’t mind if we change the name to something I like. I’m thinking Cabbage. I like cabbage when it has that sauce on it. What’s it called? Really? That’s a weird name. The kids like it too. Yeah they do—I’ll ask them. HEY GUYS, DO YOU LIKE THAT SAUCE MOM PUTS ON CABBAGE? How could they not hear that? Now I like how Pennsylvania borrowed the “Vania” from Transylvania, probably to scare people, and to attract vampire fans, so they can keep that, and we end up with “Cabbagevania.”

Delaware’s a tough one. What’s it known for? I don’t know. How about Smellaware? It’s a funny-sounding name that will get people talking. Maryland was apparently named after someone named Mary, but why? There have been millions of them. How do we know which one? Might as well call it Jimland.

The name Virginia makes me blush for some reason, so it’s gotta go. My sister lives there and she reads my blog so I’ll name the state after her, Carolyn. I’ve always wondered how come the people in West Virginia didn’t come up with a more creative name when they broke off from Virginia. I considered giving them a really creative name like LoopyDoopyZow, but I’m sorry, they just don’t deserve it. Blame your state’s founders. We’ll go with West Carolyn for now, but we’ll revisit the matter later if West Carolynians show me some pizzazz. Maybe you can leverage the issue to get some votes there, Mr. President.

The great state of Ohio can keep its name, which I’ve always admired. No, Tinky, not really. I never liked Ohio. Our family went on a vacation there when I was about 10, and guess what? The pool at our Holiday Inn was shut down. Right after check-in, I rushed outside in my swimming trunks and it was empty. This was in summer! Yeah, maybe it’s been fixed, but I don’t feel like spending brainpower coming up with a new name for the state. You’re typing this? No, just the stuff I want Obama and those other guys to read. It’s common sense. What if someone from Ohio reads this?

Michigan is in desperate need for money, so its naming rights will be auctioned off to the highest corporate bidder. Google would be a cool name. Or Pampers. But please no tobacco or fungus medicine companies.

New Jersey = Uniform
Pennsylvania = Cabbagevania
Delaware = Smellaware
Maryland = Jimland
Virginia = Carolyn
West Virginia = West Carolyn (for now)
Ohio = Ohio
Michigan = To be auctioned

Damn, there’s a lot of states. We could be here all night. You promised you would type the whole thing. Thanks. Next time I’ll type it myself. I think the name Indiana is considered offensive, so it will now be Native Americana. Illinois will change to Chicago. I promised someone from Wisconsin I wouldn’t change its name, but I think we could have done something with the “sin” at the end of “Wisconsin.” Oh well.

If you just typed what you’re supposed to type, we’d probably be done by now. OK, OK, I’ll hurry up. Kansas changes to Cabbage. Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado, Nebraska, and Iowa change to East Cabbage, South Cabbage, West Cabbage, North Cabbage, and Northwest Cabbage, respectively. That was easy. There’s a state with the 2-letter code AR on the map, but I can’t remember what it is. We’ll skip it.

Indiana = Native Americana
Illinois = Chicago
Wisconsin = Wisconsin
Kansas = Cabbage
Missouri = East Cabbage
Oklahoma = South Cabbage
Colorado = West Cabbage
Nebraska = North Cabbage
Iowa = Northwest Cabbage
AR = AR

Kentucky? I don’t know. Keep it the same. Also Mississippi. I like S’s. I’m not lazy—you’re rushing me. This isn’t easy. It took 183 years to come up with the existing names of all 50 states. I’m trying to do it in an hour. Fine, I’ll ask him. Mr. President, can you please get some White House interns to think of the rest? I’ve done about half. Maybe that Monica girl can do it.

Just a couple suggestions for you before I go. I understand that South Dakota has to change its name, but NORTH DAKOTA STAYS NORTH DAKOTA! One civil war was enough. Also, please keep California as California. It would be a real hassle for me to get new address return stickers. I’m sure other Californians agree with me. I don’t bother to vote myself, but we have lots of what they call electoral votes. Maybe if the CA abbreviation stayed the same it would be OK. Maybe Cacalifornia, or cucumberfornia … no that would be CU. California’s fine.

For the rest of the states, knock yourself out. Go crazy. You could even change the country’s name. Maybe to United States of Bamerica. Just adding the B should bring in all kinds of revenue, and because Bamerica rhymes with America, all our patriotic songs would still work. An added benefit is that when Canadians and South Americans whine, “we’re Americans too, you know,” we can respond, “yes, but you’re not Bamericans.” I anticipate a surge of patriotism. People will fly little flags on their cars again. You’ll be known as the best President since that guy with the hat.

OK read back to me what we’ve got.

Wow, that’s longer than I thought it would be. Let’s finish.

Mr. President, I’ll keep this letter a secret if you want to take credit for my ideas. But just so that I know you like them, please wink at me next time you’re on TV. Thanks.

No, not sincerely—sincerely is boring. Sign it your honorable subject James Albert Schmit. No—‘in humblest gratitude’.

In Humblest Gratitude,
James Albert Schmit

Marketing Dynamics

[Part 1 of 1 probably]

In my prior blog posts I whined about such trivial matters as poor urine flow, a hair dye calamity, and a doctor not sticking her finger in my rectum. Important members of the community have let me know in somewhat uncertain terms that the real purpose of blogs is to spread propaganda about vital community issues. I should be pissed off about something, and convince you to be pissed off too.

The title of this post, Marketing Dynamics, should show you how serious I am. I don’t know what “Marketing Dynamics” means, and I don’t think it has much to do with this blog post, but if my title made you read this far, it did its job. I started with just the single word, “marketing,” but then I added the word “dynamics” to sound esoteric. I added the word “esoteric” in the prior sentence to sound intelligent. For the same reason, I promise not to talk about people sticking things in sensitive parts of my body unless it’s truly necessary.

Something’s been bugging me since I was a towheaded, bell-bottom-wearing toddler in the Roaring 80s, watching a young Oprah from my crib as my Mom smoked a cigarette on a nearby sofa. One day, I think it was a Tuesday, Oprah signed off, my Mom fell asleep, and the Channel 2 News came on. Hearing about mob killings and corruption scandals didn’t faze me. That’s just Chicago. No, something much worse was reported—the Coca Cola corporation announced that it would start selling Coca Cola branded clothing from specialty Coca Cola apparel stores. I recall shaking my rattle with indignation and spitting up a few cigarette butts.

Now it’s 25 years later, and I wonder, is this something I just imagined? Like when I accuse my wife Tinky of poisoning my food? Or like when I tell the cops that Orville Redenbacher is alive and living in my crawlspace? So I did some actual research worthy of a blog … according to the book For God, Country, and Coca-Cola by Mark Pendergrast, the Coca Cola clothing scam really happened. He quotes a company trademark lawyer as bragging, “Suddenly people are like walking billboards for the product.” And that’s what pisses me off. In one of the nerviest corporate schemes ever, Coca Cola was hoping to con people into paying Coca Cola to advertise Coca Cola’s soft drinks, or “pop” as I called it back then.

I haven’t seen anyone wearing a Coca Cola t-shirt in years, so I think that crisis has passed. But whenever one crisis fades away, another crisis has an opportunity to emerge. The new crisis was and is named Tommy Hilfiger.

About ten or fifteen years ago I first noticed “cool” people wearing shirts with this guy’s name on it. I thought to myself, and this is an exact quote, “This Tommy feller thinks highly of himself, but at least he’s helping the poor teenagers of the Western world.” I assumed, as probably most of you do, that Mr. Hilfiger is a German industrial tycoon hoping for a Nobel peace prize, or at least the key to the city of Hamburg, by giving out free crappy t-shirts. WRONG.

A couple weeks ago I went with my wife Tinky to the beloved Glendale Galleria to get new shirts. Big deal, you say. Well it is a big deal because I haven’t bought any new shirts in maybe 7 years. I hate shopping, and I especially hate shopping for shirts. My shirtophobia centers on two evils, and I think this explains why so many men are content to continue wearing t-shirts long after holes and stains start appearing:

(1) There are too many tags and stickers on new shirts. I get laughed at way too much already for my funny looks—walking around with a price tag hanging off my collar is adding insult to embarrassment. Damn you, van Heusen, whoever you are, for putting two stickers and a price tag on one shirt. And damn you also for exploiting van Halen’s good name.

(2) I can’t tell the difference between men’s and women’s shirts. Funny looks, a price tag, and a woman’s shirt is fine for Halloween in Nashville (a Minnie Pearl costume), but not appropriate for work, otherwise known as dropping off my kids at school. I have to ask my wife twice if she’s certain a particular shirt is for men, and still I’m not convinced. Since I don’t trust my wife (she sometimes tries to poison me), I ask the salesperson, too, and still I have doubts. Wouldn’t it be easier if all shirts were either pink or blue? Yeah, but that would be boring. How about each shirt is clearly labeled “For a Man” or “For a Woman?” Shirt sales would skyrocket. Teasing of Jim Schmit for wearing girl’s clothes would cease.

Back to the Glendale Galleria, where I’m leaving JC Penney’s with a shopping bag full of shirts that may or may not be gender appropriate, a teenage girl walks by holding up a Tommy Hilfiger shirt with a price tag attached (I didn’t see any stickers). Actually the shirt just had the one name “Hilfiger” printed on it, but I’m guessing it’s the same guy. He probably figures that by now he’s so famous, he can go by just one name, like Cher, Elmo, Jim, and Bozo.

My first thought is that some creep is taking free shirts from this German industrial magnate and re-selling them to America’s middle class. I decide as the proprietor of a newly serious blog to investigate. I notice that the teenager had pulled the shirt from a Macy’s bag, and being a pretty sharp guy, I conclude that she had bought the shirt at Macy’s. We head to Macy’s.

[On the way, we pass by a Sweet Factory that is adjacent to Haagen-Dazs. No, actually it’s next to Wetzel’s Pretzels. Wait…no, I’m pretty sure it’s by Haagen-Dazs. Anyway, two police officers and three security guards are questioning a woman with an infant in her arms and a baby in her stroller at the entrance to the Sweet Factory. They’re all pointing to one of the candy bins, and I’m thinking, “Where’s the Cops on TV camera crew when you need them?” This would have made for a riveting episode: the police dispatcher gets a call … “Hurry to the Sweet Factory, a 2-year-old Caucasian female, about 30 inches tall, has stolen some Gummi Bears… Security needs back-up…” I don’t mean to demean the mall cop profession, but this seems like overkill. (To be fair, I recently saw a documentary about this mall security guard named Paul Blart, and the job is way more dangerous than you would imagine).]

At Macy’s I confirm that this department store conglomerate is in fact selling the t-shirts, as well as other Hilfiger-wear, and lots of it. Not only that, they’re paying Tommy Hilfiger for his merchandise. Turns out he’s some kind of fashion designer, and people pay him for the privilege of wearing his name. What I don’t get is why. His clothing doesn’t look any different from anyone else’s clothes, and his name is OK, but nothing spectacular. If his name were Topper Foxwillingnoodle, he’d be worthy of a shirt. If his name were Orville Redenbacher, he’d be worthy of a popcorn company. But the name Tommy Hilfiger is only worthy of maybe some kind of cement bag, and even then you’d have to change Tommy to Tom. What’s especially puzzling is that companies have tried to pay car owners big money to paint their cars with a company or brand logo, and the car owners refuse. But when a company or designer demands money from these same people for the privilege of wearing advertising logos across their chest, that’s fine.

It’s not fine by me. JC Penney has a much better name than “Hilfiger,” and apparently also thinks highly of himself—his name is on all the stores—but he doesn’t put his name on all the shirts he sells. That’s why I leave the Galleria with 8 shirts from JC Penney, at prices ranging from $9.99 to $14.99, and zero shirts from Mr. Hilfiger. With shirt prices that high these days, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna help shirt-makers advertise their goods. (Full disclosure: I could have had 15% off at JC Penney had I remembered my coupon, and the shirts did have collars on them).

You’re probably thinking, “Why pick on this Tommy guy? He’s not the only one who does this.” And you’re right to think that. It’s a much bigger problem, with many other megalomaniacal designers and shameless corporations playing this game too. The reason I pick on Mr. Hilfiger is because four or five years ago I bought my wallet at some harmless, generic department store thinking it was some harmless, generic wallet. It wasn’t. A rectangular piece of plastic stamped with the name “Tommy Hilfiger” is glued to it. I’m tempted to throw out my wallet and get a new one, but then I’d lose my driver’s license, my credit cards, and at least three dollars in cash. I’ll just have to live with Tommy for a while and vent my anger via the Internet.

Coming next week in the “My Thoughts are So Important, I Write Them Down” blog: How to Be Cool (hint…by wearing one of my new line of “Jim” shirts, unless your name is also Jim, since then it would look like your shirt is a nametag).

Hair Care Emergency

For years Tinky has been urging me to dye my hair. Can you blame her? Whenever she introduces me to new friends I hear variations of "You must be Tinky's father," or, "Hey old man, did you escape from the retirement home?" or, "How 'bout some war stories, pops?"

I finally gave in today, and she dyed my hair with Clairol Natural Instincts for Men Dark Brown M13, highly rated by Consumer Reports. My first reaction was, "uh, this is way too dark." Tinky assured me that I would look fine after I rinsed, just like the guy on the package, only ugly. Not true. After rinsing, I still looked like a jackass, like one of those TV preachers with the pale skin and black wavy hair standing next to their heavily-made-up wives. At least my kids are having a good time laughing at me.

I begged Tinky to reverse the damage, and she turned to the Internet to search for a solution. First we tried dog shampoo, washing it out quickly as step 1 and leaving it in for 10 minutes as step 2. No luck, but the clean dog smell is a big improvement over my normal odor. Now I've got Dawn dish detergent in my hair, but this remedy doesn't seem to be working either.

Help! Any suggestions?

UPDATE: Prell didn't work. Next I tried a Jheri Redding Color Fix kit, which cost $20, and this at least lightened my hair. Maybe that's good enough until my old hair grows back. Unless the hair dye seeped into my brain, and the new hair is the same color as the hair dye.

Health Care Reform Part 2

Surgery is getting closer, and, frankly, I’m a little scared. I hear these horror stories about doctors and nurses going to the bathroom and not washing their hands, or having sex on beds next to sedated patients, and then working on people’s bodies, giving out nasty infections that kill the people they’re trying to fix. This is my second time with this surgeon, and I’m still alive, so I tell myself not to worry. Of course, the nurses will be different this time, and who knows where they’ve been? One point added to health care reform for the icky hands crisis. [Health Care Reform People 24-Other Status Quo Group 22]

Op

My wife drops me off at the hospital at 7:30 AM with no ID, no credit cards, no nothing, except my loose-fitting clothes. If I were to somehow conk my head and get knocked out, would anyone know who I am? What if I forgot who I am? They’d put me on the news —“Can Anyone Identify This Man?” — and everyone watching would think that I normally wear loose-fitting clothes. There’s always a worry in my head, and this takes the place of icky hands germs for now. It’s better this way.

I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since 11 PM, so I tell the nurse that I don’t need to pee as she gets ready to put the IV needle in my arm. Immediately after the tubes go in, I start to re-think my decision not to try to pee. If I only had to wait half an hour or so, I would have been OK, but for some reason they’ve asked me to get there by 8:00 for a 10:00 operation. If I had known that surgery was over two hours away, I would have tried to pee. But now I’ve got to get the thought out of my head. The more I try not to think about peeing, the more I do. I finally give in at 9:30. The nurse helps me off the gurney and I take care of my business. As I find out later, this would be a near tragic mistake. [HCRPP 25 – OTHER 22]

My memories of a previous hernia surgery, 4 years ago, are overwhelmingly unpleasant with one triumphant exception—getting shaved. Two friendly nurses did the honors in the actual operating room. I had never had surgery before so it came as a pleasant surprise. Maybe my memory is a little rosier than the reality, but I recall them shaving me completely, both sides and smooth. The morphine kicked in as they finished, and I had sweet dreams until I woke up with awful pain and some mean nurse telling me I had fifteen minutes to leave the hospital. When the nurse finished sticking the IV tubes in me this time I knew what was coming, or so I thought. She left, and another nurse came over. Here it comes, right? Wrong. All she did was tell me, “The orderly will come over soon to shave you.” Huh? The nurses don’t look busy, so why can’t they do it? Is it because of some new union rule? Are any orderlies female? The only orderly I’m aware of is Jerry Lewis in “The Disorderly Orderly.” Mine turns out to be a guy with a runny nose who looks half-asleep. He bears a slight resemblance to a Dean Martin-era Jerry Lewis, but even if Jerry Lewis himself did the shaving it would be a big letdown. I didn’t spend all that time shampooing, dying, and brushing my hair to have some orderly shave it off. Adding insult to my injury, he does a poor job shaving, leaving me prickly and only half-shaved, looking like a sideways bearded guy with hair implants. Five points for HCRPP [30-22].

As I’m wheeled to the operating room, my gurney bumps into another one carrying a guy who looks to be in much worse shape. Maybe even dead. My nurse cuts off this guy, then mumbles something to me about how she should have let that guy go first. Now I feel a little guilt. [31-22] In the operating room, they ask me to move from the gurney I’m on to another one that looks the same. Five seconds later, I’m out.

When I wake up I’m in a morphine dreamworld. My recollections of the next half hour are a little hazy, but eventually I end up in the recovery room. Last time I went through this, I was given half an hour from regaining my consciousness to leave the hospital. I remember climbing off a gurney in the worse pain I’ve ever felt, with the morphine already wearing off (this is where mothers say, “it’s nothing compared to childbirth,” and I say, “childbirth is nothing compared to getting kicked in the balls,” knowing that they can’t possibly prove me wrong). This time I’m not as rushed, maybe because the hospital, Glendale Adventist, recently expanded. They have room to care for people now, a change for the better without reform. [31-25] I’m also more prepared this time around: when the nurse comes by and asks if I need anything, I speak up: “more morphine.” I get more morphine with a simple twist of some IV valve. Marianne Faithful and the Rolling Stones sing, “Here I lie in my hospital bed, Tell me, Sister Morphine, when are you coming around again.” Mick Jagger must have had hernia surgery. I’m sure he was shaven by a nurse. [31-28] [In a Facebook post that day, while still flying high, I had mistakenly credited Willy Wonka with inventing morphine. In fact, thanks go to Friedrich Sertürner, who made the discovery in 1804 in Paderborn, Germany. Way to go, Friedrich. If I’m ever in Paderborn, I’ll buy you a beer and a sausage.]

Since when is it a requirement that a person has to pee before being discharged from the hospital? What about my surgery would have cut off my urine flow? I find out later that work was done in my testicle area, two inches below my incision, for some reason (maybe the doctor took a long look at me and decided I should not procreate). Still, the doctor would have to screw up pretty badly to damage my urinary system. Technically, the first request, coming about a half hour after my arrival in the recovery room, is to “go to the bathroom.” Because I’m genetically incapable of defecation (an evolutionary mutation, like in x-men, meaning all my waste is expelled through sweat and urine), I have only one choice. [When people say, “Hey Jim, why are you so fat?” I tell them it’s because I don’t have as many ways to rid myself of bodily wastes. I once offered my extraordinary story to the major talk shows, but they all declined. Your loss, Oprah.] [32-28, because of the pee rule, not my mutation]

The second request for pee comes an hour into recovery, and it’s more of a demand. I tell the nurse that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in 14 hours, that I peed right before surgery, that I’m dry. I’m beginning to feel that I’d rather be home, and I ask the nurse to call my wife. She says she won’t call until I pee.

I give in at the next pee request, about 15 minutes later. Huge mistake. I climb out of bed with surprisingly little pain (thanks again, Friedrich), but a sudden wave of nausea and lightheadedness comes over me. I never throw up (remember, I can only expel waste in two ways) so the nausea stays with me as I drag the IV tower, and about ten feet of IV tube slack, to the bathroom. The nurse takes me as far as the toilet, then leaves. I know I’m dry, but I strain anyway, hoping that a mere drop of pee will save me. The next minute or so of my life is lost to me.

When I come to, 5 or 6 nurses are hovering above me. It takes me several seconds to get my bearings: namely, that I'm sprawled out on a cold recovery room bathroom floor with my head lodged beneath a toilet paper dispenser. A nurse slaps my face trying to revive me. Another mentions getting smelling salts. I don’t want smelling salts, so I desperately try to will myself to communicate my awareness. With awareness comes a sudden realization: I'm on display! A nurse opposite me is looking beneath my gown. And it's cold on this bathroom floor! Nurses get lessons in shrinkage, don’t they? At least I’m half-shaved—that helps my cause. Fortunately, to my knowledge, no photos of my privates have surfaced on the Internet—yet. [On Facebook I listed three women who could vouch for my manhood: my wife, Tinky, Betty White, and Julia Gillard, the new Prime Minister of Australia. Someone ratted me out, or maybe Tinky actually reads my posts. Now when I ask for something, like a foot rub, she says, “Why don’t you ask Julia Gillard for a foot rub?”]

Score five points for HCRPP for the collapse. The nurse said later that she assumed I would sit down to pee, but you should never assume a man in my condition would defy his instincts. I don’t think peeing like a girl would have prevented my black-out anyway, but maybe my head wouldn’t have cracked against the tile wall. Then again, the mighty crash that the nurses reported they heard, which alerted them to my fall, would not have been as mighty, and I could still be lying there. Score five points also for the OTHER group. At least one of the nurses, and probably all of them before I revived, peeked under my gown. That’s exciting, at least in retrospect. I get a tiny thrill; the nurses get to joke about me in the cafeteria later. It’s win-win, and a wash for the scoreboard. [37-33]

Still awkwardly splayed across a thankfully shiny clean floor [37-35], I keep reminding myself who I am and where I am, afraid I’ll lose consciousness again. The nurses look me over for bleeding and breaks, but find none. An orderly is called—the same Jerry Lewis imposter who half-shaved me earlier—and I’m lifted in a wheelchair and brought back to my bed. Please call my wife, I beg my nurse, but she stalls again: “We have to talk to your surgeon about your fall first.” How come my wife can’t wait with me? Are they afraid Tinky will sneak me out of the hospital? The surgeon has left the hospital for the day, but they reach him at home, and he tells them I’m free to leave—once I pee.

It’s getting late and all the other recovery room patients have left. The nurses seem anxious to leave. I convince them to give me some apple juice by promising not to throw up (I don’t bother telling them about my mutation). I also convince them that the presence of my wife will help me pee, and they finally call her. Tinky’s arrival pays immediate dividends. “No Vicodin,” she demands. It didn’t work last time, and I’m in no condition to remember that. Instead she asks for Darvocet, and over the next several days my pain is about 80% less severe than after my prior hernia surgery. There’s at least enough flexibility in the health care system to get me proper pain relief, so we now have a tie ballgame: 37 for HCRPP and 37 for OTHER.

Tinky’s arrival and the economics of two recovery nurses for one patient add to the urgency of the situation at hand. As the sun sets outside, my nurse pulls open the curtain to my room and announces, “Plan B for pee-pee. Let’s get this party started!” She holds a plastic urinal and plops down on the bed next to me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and put my thing in the “urinal.” The nurse holds on to my shoulders in case I get lightheaded again. The pressure is on, and I feel more than a little weird, with my wife sitting across from me, and a nurse looking at my you-know-what, watching for even a tiny drop of urine so that we can all call it a day. No luck. The nurse states the obvious: “You probably feel a lot of pressure.” Yes in fact I do. She tries looking away, but I still can’t produce. She calls on the other nurse to run water in a nearby sink. No luck. “Performance anxiety,” I tell the nurses. My nurse leaves: “I’ll give you another half hour, then we’ll try Plan C — C for catheter.” Damn.

Would they really keep me overnight if I can’t urinate? What if my genetic inability to expel bodily waste has spread to my urethra? Could I be trapped at this hospital forever? I’ll bust out if I have to. The nurses make plans to transfer me out of the recovery room. I’ve been there for about six hours and they’re about to close. I don’t have high hopes for a catheter. I place my trust instead on apple juice—lots of it. It looks like pee and smells like apples, the best of both worlds. My trust is rewarded, and with only a couple lights left on in the recovery center, and only a few minutes to spare, I perform at last. A few drops is all it takes and a wheelchair is called. Jerry Lewis, Jr. has gone home, so my nurse wheels me to a parking lot. I am triumphant. I’ll give the OTHER group two points for a speedy post-pee release. [37-39]

Post-Op

Pain has a purpose. With Darvocet I’m moving around the house as if I had the surgery weeks ago, instead of a few hours. With Vicodin I couldn’t move for two days. The downside of Darvocet is that I pay for the mobility with more pain the next day. The easy solution is more Darvocet. I can see why people get hooked. The trauma of the surgery is visible from an inch above the incision to three inches to the side, and all the way down to the testicles. I won’t gross you out with the particulars. I’m also bruised on my back, my side, and my right foot from my bathroom collapse. Strangely enough, my head, which bore the brunt of the fall, is fine. I think I have foam padding inside my skull. Probably another evolutionary mutation. (My knees also don’t pop up when whacked by a doctor). (Also I have to pee a lot at night, but I think that’s normal for guys my age).

By the time I see the surgeon for a follow-up a week later, the loose blood in my system is starting to get absorbed and expelled by my body, and the soreness is confined to the surgical area (except for my foot). I’m able to walk more than ten feet in an hour without the help of pain killers. The surgeon says I’m progressing normally. What’s better is that I take a chance and get to his office half an hour early—and he sees me within ten minutes. Even with an HMO, it appears I’m able to get decent care. The surgeon says that I can even come back, for free, if I have any questions or complications. [37-41] I now wish I had asked why he operated in my scrotum, but I assumed there was a good reason. I’m normally a very skeptical person, but not with doctors.

A week later a complication does emerge—right under my belly skin. I haven’t been able to lie down on my front, which is useful for a certain activity, since the surgery. After climbing in bed, and tossing and turning as usual, I turn from one side to the other and feel a jolt of pain in my side. My fingers feel a string of some sort stretching from the incision area straight up my body into the belly area for about 3 ½ inches (I just measured it). I immediately jump to conclusions…maybe a nurse’s friendship bracelet fell inside my body during surgery…maybe the surgeon inserted a caterpillar in my urethra as a prank…maybe I have a blood infection, maybe tetanus. I decide the latter is the most likely. When I was about ten years old, my parents stupidly allowed me, my brother, and my friends to build a 3-story treehouse in a backyard tree. I stepped on a rusty nail and didn’t bother telling anyone until a line of infection had spread across my foot and upwards toward my ankle.

Tinky feels the string, too, and makes a mark on my skin. We check it the next day to see if it’s longer. It isn’t, but it’s become thicker and harder. I figure this is something the surgeon should know about, and I make an appointment. This time the wait is long, at least an hour in real time and two hours in what-it-feels-like time, and I’m the last patient to be seen for the day. I don’t feel very welcome. When the surgeon finally sees me, he brings with him a different young female doctor. I wish I were a doctor. That’s the life man. He asks me to show him the problem, and I have a difficult decision to make—do I show the whole area, so that the female doctor will see my naughty bits? Would that be too obvious? I’m a wimp in these situations so I only show the minimum. Another regret. The surgeon feels the string but claims that it is not related to the surgery. I say, “But it wasn’t there before, and it stretches out from the incision scar.” He seems offended. I should have added, “And what were you doing to my testicles, dammit!” He admits that the “string” may in fact be related to the surgery, but concludes the exam with these scary words: “I don’t know what it is. Let’s hope it goes away.” He then tells me that I’m welcome to come back, free of charge, if I have any more questions or concerns. Thanks, but what’s the point?

Many doctors seem to think their competency is being challenged when a patient asks a question. Maybe they can’t remember back to pre-doctor days, when they were trusting, concerned patients. I’m not blaming the surgeon for whatever is wrong; I just want an explanation, or at least a promise that he will follow through and look for an explanation. A week later the string is still there and I call my primary doctor. He tells me that the string is probably a result of the surgery and that the surgeon is really the expert on this matter. Yes, of course, but I had to ask. Overall, post-surgery follow-up is a big disappointment, mostly because something unusual has gone wrong. [41-41] My hernia ordeal would have ended in a tie if not for one final indignity. As I was leaving the surgeon’s office after the “I don’t know” diagnosis, I passed by the check-in counter. There, next to the sign-in sheet, was a copy of Highlights. Seriously. And I’ve only ever seen adults in the waiting room. Final tally: Health Care Reform People 42 and Status Quo “Other” Group 41.

Conclusion

Before I was mistakenly identified as PPO people at my surgeon’s office, I never considered the possibility that my family was treated with less respect because we’re in an HMO. I understood that we had to fill out extra forms and see certain doctors, but I could live with that. Now that I know better, my wife’s employer is in the process of removing the PPO option. Maybe it’s less painful to give up something that I wasn’t using in the first place.

Health care reform is a big, ugly, messy, boring issue. My guess is that if Congress fixes something, another problem will pop up. If Highlights gets banned, maybe kids won’t hate going to the doctor’s office so much, and take less care of themselves. Let’s hope on balance things get better. For all I know they may have passed a health care law already. They never mention things like that on Family Guy, and I haven’t overheard anyone talking about it at In-N-Out. None of the PTA Moms has brought it up lately. For a while they were talking about some oil spill. Now they’re back to talking about the economy. Next I’m thinking they’ll be talking about Big Foot sightings in the neighborhood. But that’s just a guess.

Soon after the surgery, lying in the recovery room and enjoying the morphine high, I tried to talk to the President about health care reform. He said, “Jim, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to talk about your hernia. I only took this call because Joe Biden tells me you’re the only person genetically incapable of defecating. That’s pretty cool.” There’s a chance I just imagined this. It’s hard to tell. Maybe I was really talking to the orderly. If the President would listen, I would tell him what everyone knows but doesn’t want to say for fear of offending voters, that people basically want more healthcare than they’re willing to pay for. Every year what they’ll accept as the minimum level of care gets higher and more costly. Democracy is awesome and all that, but it has a growing problem: voters, or rather those people who politicians fear could vote, want more for less. Fifty years ago, my grandfather would have learned to live with his hernia, and no nurses would have seen his shrinkage.

Health Care Reform Part 1

In spite of my diet, I’m a remarkably healthy guy. I’m happy, my HMO is happy, and I had no reason to listen in on the recent health care reform debate. As we used to chant in Sunday School, “Borrrr-ing”. About two months ago I was forced to care by a rupture in my right groin region, an inguinal hernia to be precise. Since then, I’ve become an expert.

I still can’t read past the opening paragraph (OK, sentence) of a health care reform op-ed, and they certainly don’t discuss the issue in football telecasts. No, I get my information from overhearing conversations by people who have time to read and who can sit through cable news. You can find these people easily at coffee places (especially the ones embedded in book stores), but I don’t drink coffee. I make due with donut-eaters and the PTA Moms I hang out with.

As far as I can tell, and this may be too simplistic, there are some people who want a package of health care reforms generally supported by the President [I’ll call this group HCRPP] and other people who would rather not have drastic changes [I’ll call them OTHER]. I’ve decided that my ongoing health care experience will settle the issue once and for all. I’ll keep score as I recount my story, and you can let your representatives in Washington D.C. know the outcome. Or you could tell me who mine are, and I’ll send them an e-mail.

Diagnosis

I’ll spare you the details of my heroic, albeit imaginary, wounding, and skip to the fix. About a month ago it occurred to me, my wife, and all the people watching me hobble around DisneyWorld that my remedy for an inguinal hernia—ignoring it—was not working. Sorry, Blue Shield. I visited my primary doctor, who at first tried to ease my mind by telling me that most hernias can be tolerated indefinitely. He said I could still do upper-body lifting. I told him that I tried, and woke up the next morning thinking that a knife was poking in my groin. He took a quick look, said, “Oh, that’s a bad one,” and left the room, promising an immediate authorization. His 2-second diagnosis was spot-on: score 1 for the OTHER group, [HCRPP-0 / OTHER –1], and the authorization did come quickly [0 – 2].

At this point, I’m thinking, “what’s the big deal?” Can’t Congress work on something everyone I know agrees on, like the legalization of marijuana and prostitution? Or declaring war on Canada? My visit to the surgeon’s office confirmed to me that all the health care horror stories that people are probably sharing on Cable TV are true. First off, the wait was 2 hours (actually 45 minutes, but it felt like 2 hours because all the chairs were taken, and I had to sit on the floor). [HCRPP – 1 / OTHER – 2]. The magazines were old [2 – 2], but at least the waiting room didn’t have Highlights for Kids [2 – 3]. Do dentists and pediatricians get Highlights for free? Who would pay for it? Has any kid ever spent more than 5 seconds looking through one of them? I mean, without a parent ordering them to. Highlights has been a health care crime for at least 40 years, so score 2 points for HCRPP [4 – 3].

Whenever I have a long wait at the doctor’s office, which is always, I’m told something like, “I’m sorry, the doctor had an emergency to attend to this morning,” or “The doctor had 8 surgeries to perform today.” If that’s always the case, why not account for that in scheduling? If there’s an emergency every day, maybe come up with a different word for it. Were the surgeries a surprise? Why not just be honest with people, and schedule them for 4:00 if there’s no chance of 2:00 happening? Why not get a bigger wait room, with enough chairs so that I don’t have to sit next to a creepy sick guy? If I were a doctor, if I had any job at all, I wouldn’t make people wait two hours. I don’t tell the termite inspector to “take a seat on the porch, I’ll be with you when I’m done playing my Jumping Penguins computer game.”

From there, the situation deteriorated. A jaded nurse took my pulse and blood pressure. Good numbers for a donut-eater. Fifteen minutes later (again, why?) she asks me to move to a different room that appears to be no different from the first room [5 – 3]. Here’s where things get weird, i.e., after another 10-minute wait. A young female doctor, clearly new to her craft, walks in the room. “Woo-hoo,” I’m thinking, “a young lady doctor is gonna examine my groin region!” She asks me a few questions about my general health, and I give her great answers (those of you who’ve met me know how smooth I am). Then she leaves. Did I say something wrong? Five minutes later (the waits are getting shorter), the doorknob turns, and frankly I’m having a hard time trying to hide my excitement. Then, despair. It’s not the female doctor coming to look at me, it’s a middle-aged guy. WTH (H stands for Heck)? I paid a $15 co-pay. I know I’m not in a brothel, but come on. I’ve been married 14 or 15 years. Sorry, OTHER group, this ain’t cool. [10 – 3]

By the way, this isn’t the first time my hopes have been crushed by a cruel medical profession. One time about ten years ago, I kid you not, another young woman doctor was examining my privates [10 – 14] when she suggested a prostate exam. “Every man over 30 should have one.” I tried to play it cool, using all my mental energy to keep from embarrassing myself, if you know what I mean. She misinterpreted my reaction as resistance, unfortunately, and the deal was off. “I won’t insist on it this time, but you should really have it done soon.” [15 – 14] I was speechless for once in my life. I’m old enough to know how damaging regrets can be, so Michael J. Fox, I need your car. I’ll speak up this time: “I don’t mind if you stick your finger in my ass. You can even wear a latex glove.” (I'm saying this to the nurse, not Michael J. Fox.)

Back to the future, meaning now, the office manager schedules my surgery and gives me assorted pre-op information. I say, “I don’t need an authorization?” She explains that since I have a PPO, I don’t need one. Ethical dilemma—do I admit that I’m in an HMO? Since they’ll probably find out anyway, I let her know, and she gives me the polite but telling look that apostles would have given to lepers, and Jesus would have given to Frankenstein. “We shouldn’t have even seen you. You didn’t bring us authorization for this visit.” Huh? The authorization, complete with contact details for this surgeon, is sitting at my house. If I have a copy, why wouldn’t the HMO send one to the surgeon's office as well? They're the ones who need it. [16 – 14]. I get home quickly, and fax it in as promised, right before the office closes (at 4:00!). I’m in business.

Pre-Op

Covering your ass is a big portion of health care costs. The surgeon wants 3 tests done—a blood test, a chest X-ray, and an EKG. And they all have to be done in the week leading to surgery. This means I have to postpone the surgery until after the school year. I can’t do 3 medical tests and a surgery and also drop off and pick up my children every day. Not to mention various PTA obligations. It also means more authorizations, waits in under-chaired waiting rooms, and 2-year-old Sports Illustrateds. Which brings up another gripe: do doctors really need to hold on to their personal copies of magazines for a year or more before they can bring them to the office? If you don’t read Time within the week, what’s the point of keeping it around? Do they have another waiting room at home for visiting friends that gets first dibs?

I had the EKG done at my primary doctor’s office. According to him, and I hope I’m not violating doctor-patient privilege, having all these tests done, especially in the limited time frame, is “stupid.” He actually used a worse word, but I’ll keep that confidential. He told me he’d call the surgeon in protest. The EKG was done quickly, and my heart is fine. What I don’t get is how one doctor’s office says that I’m authorized (for insurance coverage) with one particular form (a horribly illegible copy of a copy of a copy, and so on), and another says that I need a different form. My surgeon’s office gave me a form, the primary doctor gave me another set of forms, and now I’m covered either way as I head to the other pre-op tests. [HCRPP 18 – OTHER 14]

The blood test was simple and quick, and my only gripe is that I signed in ahead of another guy who then had his blood drawn first. In this case, it was probably just a simple mistake. But sometimes not, sometimes rude people complain about the long wait, and receptionists think they can solve the problem by putting jerks ahead of patient patients. This has happened to me at least three times. I like to point out that no one likes to wait, that rude people are not more important than patient people, and that by accommodating the bad apple you make one person less angry, but two or more people more angry. The reform group wins this round easily. [20-14]

Anytime anything in health care seems to be too easy to be true, it probably is. I called the imaging clinic, which only does MRIs and x-rays, on a Saturday, and they assured me they were open. That would have been very convenient for me, since on weekdays I’m a virtual prisoner in my home with only one family car. When I arrived, however, the receptionist explained that they are open, but not for x-rays. She was watching TV and sipping boba, with no other staff, nor any patients, present. I guess they’re open if you want to watch TV and sip bobas. [21-14] With surgery on Thursday, a time frame of 3-5 days prior to surgery to get the tests done, and 2 days needed to get the x-ray results to the hospital, I had to go in on Monday. The wait was only 10 minutes and the x-ray technician was a quiet, but polite, Russian immigrant in her mid-20s. [21-17] To get a usable x-ray I have to be in the proper position—my chest pressed against the machine, with my shoulders awkwardly pulled back. [22-17] Fortunately, I’m not in the proper position and she has to guide my body to the right place [22-20], not just twice, but an extra time as well, because my “torso is too long.” [22-22] Later I asked my surgeon if he saw my x-ray. He says he didn’t get a copy, and I’m wondering if anybody actually looks at the results of the tests, or if they were actually even received by the hospital in time, or ever. I wish I could see my medical test results, but whenever I’ve asked to do so, I get the run-around, even though the tests concern my body, and not the doctors. I believe that everybody should automatically get copies of their medical test results. I have no idea if health care reform would make this happen, but I’ll give them a point just in case. [HCRPP 23- OTHER 22]

To be continued when I get around to it...