Review: Anesthesia

This post is going to be a story about a time that I had anesthesia.

Once upon a time, my heart was confused and was not doing the beats the right way. Apparently even my heart doesn't have a good sense of rhythm. Maybe this is why I can't dance.

Anyway! There's this really simple procedure where they talk to your arteries in your groin (ew, gross) and laser out these extra electrical pathways in your heart that are messing up the beats and making you a bad dancer. It's really really common, and you don't even have to be asleep during the whole thing.

Since you don't have to be asleep, the anesthetic they give you isn't the kind that will necessarily knock you out. The doctor told me right before that almost everyone falls asleep, or at least lightly dozes, so I should expect to fall asleep.

Guess who doesn't react normally to anesthetic?

My anesthesiologist (or nurse anesthetist, whichever he was (the word anesthesia SUCKS)) was a guy named Dale. As he switched the IV over to the anesthetic, he told me to tell him if I felt anything and needed more or less. 90 seconds later, drugged-me took this as an invitation to tell Dale anything and everything that I had ever thought about ever.

They wheeled me into the operating room at some point. Or maybe it was just a regular room. I don't remember. Dale was sitting next to my table/bed/flat thing that I was lying on.

"Dale," I said, "the ceiling is moving."
"No," Dale said firmly, "it is not."
"But Dale, are you looking at it?"
"Yep."
"I see it moving."
"Well, it's not."
"But Dale, I'm looking right at it and it is moving!"
"I promise you, it's not moving."
I turned my head slightly to look at him. "Well your head just turned into a giant eagle, so whatever."
Dale made a sound through his beak that sounded like a chuckle.
"Kay. Talk to me when you're done being a bird."

At that moment, Dr. Kleinberg walked in (that's not his real name, I changed it to protect his privacy) (cuz you know, I'm super cool and professional and whatnot).

"Hey Dr. Kleinberg!" I shouted.
"Good morning Beth. How are you feeling?"
"I feel so amazing right now!"
"Good, good."
"How are you feeling?!" I was still shouting.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Dr. Kleinberg, I did not shave my armpits before I came here."
"That's okay."
"Also I didn't get a bikini wax."
"Okay."
I looked back at Dale. "Hey Dale, you're back!"
"Hi Beth."
"Dale, this one time I got really drunk at a Passover seder, and it was really fun."
"That's nice."
"But guess what?"
"What?"
"This is SO much better!"
"Hm.
"No really, this stuff is fantastic! Can I take some home?"
"Nope."
"Can I buy it?"
"No."
"You're such a Debbie Downer, Dale."
"Yep."
"Dale Downer! You're such a Dale Downer! Hey guys," I yelled at all the nurses and miscellaneous people wearing scrubs and lab coats, "Dale is a Dale Downer!"

At some point, they got to the part where they were actually laser-ing in my heart. I knew this because I felt it. It didn't hurt. If you can imagine what it would feel like if your heart was drinking hot chocolate or tea, that's exactly what it felt like.

"Oh my god. Dale! I feel the laser! Guys, I am AWAKE right now! I am going to remember this when I wake up!"
"Okay, okay," Dr. Kleinberg mumbled.
"Dale, is he trying to tell me to be quiet?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Okay, I will whisper," I said in my loudest whisper voice. "Dale, I think we just bonded."
"Okay."
"Are we friends now?"
"Sure."
"You're a good friend, Dale."
"Thank you."

And I NEVER SAW DALE AGAIN.

I did see Dr. Kleinberg after, where he told my parents that I am very animated when given anesthetic. I had to stay in the hospital for the rest of the day so that they could keep me in a bed that was standing up. They wouldn't let me move or eat or go to the bathroom or anything. Instead, they used the IV to give my stomach food and water and such.

And this is the most exciting part: at one point, I said that I was super thirsty, and the nurse said, "I can fix that," and she switched something on the IV and it was the WEIRDEST feeling. It felt like I was drinking water, but through my veins. My throat wasn't dry anymore, and then I had an epiphany-- this is what a tree must feel like! Because trees don't have mouths, they drink through their roots, which are kind of like veins!

Moral of the story: I know what it feels like to be a tree. I am the Tree-Whisperer and it is the greatest thing ever. The end!

Also drugs are the best thing ever.

Review: Pet Peeves

Having a 'pet peeve' is code for 'I am a mean, backhanded person who can only communicate through passive-aggressive snideness and subtle acts of hostility'.

Because really, does it bother you SO MUCH when other people make noises or dress a certain way or engage in behaviors that do not affect you at all? Does it actually, really bother you?

Let's say, for example, that you really really hate ballet flats. That is a shoe style that's popular these days. It's like a ballet shoe, except it's not actually made for doing ballet. Why would other people's shoes bother you? No one's forcing you to wear them. In fact, you don't even need to look at other people's feet. Unless they're in your house and walking on your floors, why in the world do you care? Is your head so empty of interesting thoughts that you have to fill it with criticism of other people?

I actually heard a guy on the radio the other day complaining about how gross and unattractive it is when girls wear ballet flats. You know what I find unattractive? That guy. I could tell by his voice that he was a snobster and was thus unattractive.

Point of contention: it is entirely normal to not like things. It's okay to think something that someone does is annoying, or to have a weird thing about ballet flats or whatever. But when you label something as a 'pet peeve' instead of just saying 'I don't like that', you make it sound like everyone else is so gross and weird and you are perfect and never do anything that bothers anyone ever. Other people are not the issue. People wear ballet flats. People sneeze and crack their fingers and make odd sounds. That is normal. The only person with the issue is you.

This is why:

Let's say that I really don't like when people clear their throats. Maybe it grosses me out or something. I don't know, this is a hypothetical situation.

But let's say that I'm telling someone about this. If I say, "My biggest pet peeve is when people clear their throats," it puts all the blame on other people. It makes the person you're talking to feel ashamed for all the times that they've cleared their throat. It is snobby and not nice.

But instead, let's say you tell your friend, "I have this weird thing about people clearing their throats. It grosses me out for some reason, I don't know why. I'm weird," and then you both laugh at how weird you are because you know what? Your weirdness makes you awesome. You should embrace it and laugh at how silly it is that clearing throats grosses you out, because YOU'RE weird! Not other people!

So next time someone sneezes on you, don't tell your friends that your pet peeve is when someone sneezes on you. Tell them that it is fucking disgusting when someone sneezes on you. It's not a peeve, it's just gross. End of story.

Skymall Review: Bob's Affirmation Box

You ever had a moment where you looked at yourself in the mirror and realized that you are the American/other-countries-an version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame? Not the actual hunched back per say, but maybe your veins are too blue for your face, or you have lumps of fat in places that make it hard to wear clothes, or your nose is bad at being a nose. Maybe you have a unibrow, or perhaps a unibutt. Maybe you have a mole on your chin with a single dark hair growing out of it that makes you look like a witch, and you have to pluck it out every so often to avoid being ugly and witch-y (that is totally NOT true story).

Whatever the cause, we all have moments where we feel bad about the way we look. Thank god Skymall is here to help... especially if your name is Bob.

Bob's Affirmation Box

Bob's Affirmation Box is a wooden box that says affirmations when the lid is opened. Except the affirmations aren't directed towards any old person who happens to open the box, they are ONLY for people named Bob. How many Bob's are there in the world? Why would a company limit their market to such a tiny sliver of the world's population?

Thanks to this handy dandy website that knows everyone's names, I can tell Skymall exactly how many Bob's there are in the US. Behold!

I searched for Bob as a first name and a last name. Hopefully there is no such person as 'Bob Bob'.

If you look at howmanyofme.com's home page, they tell you that as of RIGHT NOW, there are 315,803,486 people in the US (this can be verified by googling 'population US' because Google knows everything, I think). You know what percentage of the US population has the first name Bob? 0.0275%. That basically means that 1 person out of every 3,600 Americans is named Bob. There are not nearly enough people named Bob to justify making a talking box ONLY for Bobs.


Soooo this piece of Bob-crap is the perfect gift for anyone named Bob (which is no one). Other than that... it's pretty useless. You could actually get way more for your money with one of those Hallmark cards that lets you record a message for the recipient. That way, you wouldn't have to wait for someone named Bob to come along. Unless, of course, you are one of "Bob's legions of fans". That is the creepiest product description I've ever read ever.

Can you tell that I just learned how to make screenshots and am really excited about it?

Although according to the customer reviews, the box will only say "Way to go, Bob," and none of the other affirmations. If Skymall's customers say it's a piece of crap, then it's definitely a piece of crap. Also, what is a 'big send-off'? They make it sound like that's an object that can fit inside the box. I was under the impression that a send-off was more of an abstract concept? ANYWAY Bob box yes done.

Review of Grandparents

Badass Percentage:

Anyone who has grandparents should consider themselves lucky. Though grandparents can often be a source of annoyance, headaches, and politically incorrect humor, they can also be a source of inspiration. For example, if your grandparent was a badass back in the day, then you will be known as "that kid with the badass grandpa/grandma". Qualifications for being badass include being sassy, having tattoos, playing sports, buying you stuff like candy and beer, not telling your parents all your secrets, and having a bigger attitude than the baristas at one of those dive-coffee places.

Kvetch Intensity:

Of course, you could be cursed with a grandparent who scores low in the "Badass Level" category. These are the kind of grandparents that have a house that smells like stale macaroni and cheese, or pull their pants all the way up to their chest hair, or tell you that you "need to learn how to keep a house so that you can find a nice man and settle down". These grandparents are the ones who call when they don't receive a thank-you note within 6 1/2 days of your cousin Clare's bat mitzvah, regardless of the fact that Clare lives in a bungalow in Arkansas and is technically only your fourth cousin twice removed, and possibly isn't even related to your grandparent at all. These grandparents think it's rude to even acknowledge your phone's existence while in their presence, yet don't see the irony when they say "You never call!" This particular species of grandparent is under the impression that driving laws have not changed since 1940 when they got their license, and are outraged when they are sentenced to traffic school for going 55 mph in a 20 mph zone. 

"Back in my day, they taught you to speed in order to pass a car!" 

"But Grandma, you were passing a school bus. A stopped school bus. In a school zone."

"They make it up just to harass a poor old lady."

The "harassing a poor old lady/man" line is one that is frequently heard directed at traffic cops, secretaries at the doctor's office, the condo association, and anyone that requires them to fill out a form.

Spoiling Score:

The abysmal ratings in the "Kvetch Intensity" category brings the overall score down by quite a bit. But the phenomenal rankings in the “Spoiling” category bring Grandparents up to a passable grade. When you get strep throat, grandparents are always the first to show up at the front door with a pint of ice cream from Baskin Robbins, balloons, and one of those greeting cards that plays “Disco Inferno” when you open it. Grandparents are also the first volunteers for any babysitting, carpooling, and entertaining needs that come up. For example, when Fantasia 2000 comes out in theaters, your grandma has no complaints when you beg her to take you to see it in IMAX. 50+ viewings later, Grandma still isn’t complaining. They sang you nonsense songs you were a baby, let you get a waffle cone even when you dripped chocolate ice cream all over their clothes, and bought you new Tamagotchi pets when your old ones died (they didn't understand how the reset button worked).


Final Review:

Grandparents are like smoothies. On a hot day, a smoothie is creamy and delicious. Grandparents are also creamy and delicious in good conditions. On a blizzarding day, a smoothie will give you frostbite. Grandparents will also give you frostbite, specifically if they disown you and cut you out of their will (this is a metaphorical frostbite). Also sometimes smoothies have unblended bits of fruit in the bottom, and then when you try to suck it up the straw a giant chunk of banana clogs it and it's just a mess. Like it's good, and you're enjoying it, and then out of nowhere it gets gross and weird. So to grandparents can be fun and hilarious, and then come out with one of those weird old-people things like talking about their warts and how their warts all have arthritis. Maybe that's just my grandparents.