A big story earlier this week was about old people lining up at our local coliseum for a one-time flu-shot clinic. The state got 190K doses, and they’re being distributed to the at-risk populations; it’s probably the same where you are. I read this story, complete with photos of these geezers creaking along on their walkers and quotes about why they need the vaccine (“my chemotherapy wipes out my immune system,” etc.). Then I turned the page and read about the AMA debate on whether to investigate the issue of drug reimportation, as more Americans wonder why we have to prop up the drug companies’ profit ambitions, and Canada gets a discount.
And then I sit back and smack both cheeks, remembering how, early in the year, I predicted health care would be the big domestic issue in the presidential election.
This is why I’m the smashing success I am — always with my finger on the pulse, you know.
(Long pause while I try to figure out why I thought that important.)
OK, let’s try again: Moving! Realtors! What’s up with that?
Maybe one more time: One of the first things we did after we listed our house was go to Sears and buy a new vacuum cleaner. The old one was only two years old, but in that time it managed to queer both of us on the so-called miracle of the bagless vacuum. Oh, sure, you get seduced at first, taking a few swipes across the wall-to-wall and then marveling at the wad of swirling dog hair in the cup: Wow! Cool! If you’ve ever used one of those pore strips, it’s like that — inspecting blackheads from the other direction.
After that, things went downhill. The HEPA filter was perpetually clogged, the cup leaked dust everywhere, it smelled awful and it was as loud as a 747 screaming in for a landing six inches above your head. If I was going to vacuum daily — and when your house is for sale, that’s what you do — I would need fresh equipment.
So we went old-school — bag — with improvements — HEPA. It’s red, a Kenmore. Today, when I came home from work, Alan was frantically pushing it around the kitchen. “Showing between 2 and 3,” he panted.
Regular readers know Alan has a knack for the domestic that is still revealing itself. Sometimes I tell him he has a recessive gay gene. Sometimes I call him the world’s hairiest metrosexual. But I retain the bafflement that dawned the week after we moved in together, when Alan transformed himself, in one week, from a man who owned a naugahyde rocker with a spring that poked you in the ass to a guy who haunted antique auctions, with an eye for mission oak.
This house-selling business has only brought out a different facet. He’s like a drill sergeant whose mission is to plump couch pillows. “Everyone take their shoes off! OUTSIDE!” he snarls at the kids when they come in. Of course, since he did most of the work in cleaning the place down to its tiniest crack, he has a lot at stake. Even the guppies got their tank and plastic plants spiffed up yesterday. Yesterday — this is the truth — I caught him watching Martha Stewart.
And what does he get for it? A couple who passes because we don’t have a bathroom on the main floor! The nerve.
I better get to the blogging before it’s too late:
Tom Friedman is so smart we should have elected him president. Or at least put him on the Iraq planning team.
Lance has an amusing story about December’s favorite act of mischief — stealing the baby Jesus from Nativity scenes.
Thanks to all who wrote/left comments about the upcoming move.
Frequently occasionally OK, sometimes asked questions:
Yep, the blog will continue. No, I don’t know exactly what I’ll do in Detroit just yet, other than continue freelancing and figure it out as I go. Someone sent me a quote from a book she recommended, “The Artist’s Way” — Think of yourself as an accident victim walking away from the crash. You old life has crashed and burned; your new life isn’t apparent yet. You may feel yourself to be temporarily without a vehicle. Just keep walking.
I plan to keep walking.