The 49ers played the Packers last Friday night at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara.  As a family we aren’t big 49er fans but it’s fun to go when tickets land in our lap.  We’ve seen a couple pro games, a college game and I’ve been to a concert at Levi’s.  The stadium just opened in 2014 so it has a number of amenities and environmental considerations that don’t exist in some older arenas or stadiums.  All this progress also presents a couple of dangers.

An example?  Let’s see…  I know, how about the men’s room?  One of the environmental measures was to incorporate reclaimed water in the restroom.  It looks normal as one approaches the urinals…

But the fine print is oh-so-important to read:

Let’s say it’s a real scorcher here in Santa Clara – the mercury’s soaring.  The lease is up on the 40 ounce soda you just drained from that “collector’s item” plastic cup.  You’ll definitely need another refreshment but not before a stop in the men’s room.  Standing at the urinal, a thought occurs:  Wait just a minute!  Why stand in a concession line when I can simply wet my whistle here on the porcelain!  Alas, it’s not to be.  The signs posted next to every head expressly forbid the quenching of one’s thirst from the urinal.  Apparently urinal guzzlers as a group are both voracious readers and strict rule followers.

I laugh every time I see this sign.  Last summer I went to one of the Grateful Dead shows at Levi’s.  The Indy 500 has a broad demographic draw but it’s nothing compared to the last Dead shows.  It was a warm day but cooled off significantly when the sun went down.  By the time the band started “Drums” at the beginning of the second set it was downright cold.  This is a terrific time to visit the restroom at a Dead show, other than the waiting in line with throngs of people who feel the same way.  When my turn came, I was standing next to a shirtless gent who was clearly viewing the world through a different set of glasses.  He looked at the sign, then at me and asked, “Who would do that?”  When I shrugged he asked louder, an exclamatory interrogative, “No, WHO would DOOOOO that?”

I don’t know, brother, I don’t know.

The kids are to be picked up from swimming at 6:30.  This isn’t some days, it’s every day.  Yet time after time I find myself driving with great urgency, coaxing upcoming traffic lights and groaning at slow drivers.  It was the same again tonight.  It became clear I wouldn’t be on time and my last hope was the kids would get out late.  Then I saw something that made me forget I even have children.

A man was walking his two golden retrievers.  Three souls (in my world, dogs have souls, cats and fish are animals), two leashes and ten shoes making their way down the street.  Do the math.  Ordinarily, I try not to park on sidewalks.  I also try not to terrify pedestrians by leaping out of my car and bounding toward them.  I was unsuccessful on both fronts.  My need to know what the hell he was thinking got the best of me.

I raised my palms to let the startled fellow know I meant no harm but there was an awkward pause.  I couldn’t simply say, “Ummm, why?!?”.  I went with “What are your dogs wearing there?”

“Shoes.”

“Shoes indeed!” I answered, nowhere in the vicinity of satisfied.  The phony reasoning for my stopping quickly coalesced.  “My wife and I are taking our dog camping and thought he might need something for his feet.  Do they work well?”

“I think so, the man at the pet store said the dogs won’t get allergic reactions from the cement.”  Or, equally likely on cement, canine STD’s.

This was now a contest to see who could be most ridiculous and I was way behind.  For the time being.  “My concern is that they might get a little ‘footy’.  Do they start to stink?  I mean, I have that problem.  The wife makes me keep my shoes in plastic containers in the closet.  Is there a smell issue?”  That got me on the ridiculous scoreboard.  I was too far behind to ever catch up but at least it wasn’t a shutout.

Apparently, dog shoe folk lack a sarcasm radar.  His brow furrowed a bit, then cleared with recognition.  “Oh, smell, there’s no smell problem.”

“Terrific,” I oozed.  “Do you mind if I take a quick photo?  I’d love to be able to show my wife what they look like.”

 

Now you can see I’m not making it up.

Eventually, I did pick up three irritated teenagers.  They climbed into the car, one complaining, two opting for the silent irritated routine.  It’s shocking how fast a picture of two dogs sporting Air Fidos can change the mood.  At the kids urging, on the way home we drove up and down streets trying to find the trio but no luck.

A little research shows that any number of footwear options are available to the fashion conscious pooch.  There are practical options (if you live on the North Pole or Death Valley) and the eccentric, ranging from denim basketball shoes to the night-out-with-the-gals leopard print.  Until we move to Minneapolis or Phoenix, our dogs will be bare foot.  I wouldn’t want to see the look on my Lab’s face if I tried to lace him up in cross trainers.

I sleep through earthquakes.  If one of the kids comes into our room in the middle of the night, well, I learn about it in the morning.  Not long ago, some genius elected to spend the wee hours of the morning lighting fireworks in the woods behind our house.  Carrie shook me, poked me and yelled for me to get up.  Apparently I rose from bed, walked in a circle and said, “Let’s not overplay this”, and climbed back in bed.  That’s what she tells me anyway.  I know what you’re thinking, but no, I don’t drink.  There is one thing that wakes me up, though…

Experience tells me it takes twelve seconds from the initial canine retch until the finished product hits carpet.  If that sound wallops my eardrum, I pop out of bed like I’m sleeping on an ejection seat.  The door off the bedroom is open before the wife’s eyes.  She considers this oddity the eighth wonder.

Does anyone else suffer/benefit from the midnight hound heave?  If so, this could be a huge marketing coup.  The easiest to produce would be the alarm clock.  Certainly better than a buzzer and easily as effective as a bucket of cold water.  You wouldn’t use it every day but in certain instances it might be the just the thing.  For example, “Doris, I have to be at the airport by 5:30 tomorrow morning, so be forewarned, I’m changing the alarm setting from ‘Shih Tzu’ to ‘Great Dane’”.

The best use of the canine cacophony could be that of the last resort.  I imagine the hospital waiting room, a doctor dressed in scrubs explaining to Carrie, “Mrs. McGaughey, we’ve tried most everything and he remains unresponsive.  We have one last test, still very experimental mind you, and we’re going to need your help.  Do you happen to have a recording of your dog vomiting?”

If that doesn’t work just go ahead and plan the wake.

Last week was it.  The actual knee pain finally exceeded the perceived pain of scheduling the MRI, the subsequent doctor’s appointments, the surgery and the physical therapy.

It was time to schedule the MRI.  My practice in all things medical is to take the first available appointment on any given day.  There is less impact on my work day and there are less people in the office, making it almost impossible for them to be behind schedule.  The first appointment available was a 6:15 a.m. time slot.  Bingo.

Walking into the office, I was met (not greeted, mind you) by Mr. Personality who presented me with the obligatory clipboard, complete with waiver and extensive questionnaire.  Do you have this disease?  That disease?  Oozing wounds?  Difficulty using a snorkel?  I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea.  Only one question had to be answered in the affirmative:  Are you claustrophobic?  Yes, but only in confined spaces.  The last page stressed the importance of not having ANY METAL on my person.  Please remove earrings, nose rings, alternative piercings, they all must come out.  Be sure to let your technician know if you have bullet fragments or shrapnel anywhere in your body.  Wish I was that tough.

The prize for completing the written exam is a pair of paper shorts.  Mr. Personality led me to the changing room, pointed out the stack of paper clothing, the lockers (“Be sure to leave your keys!”) and promised he’d wait right outside.  Reassuring.

I emerged all papered up to find my amigo, waiting true to his word.  “Now, before I lead you in, have you removed all your piercings?  Not just your nose and ears?”  Though sorely tempted to be a wise ass, I calmly answered, “Yes, good to go.”

“Are you sure?”

I can only be pushed so far.  Keeping my eyes trained on him, I answered evenly, “Let me noodle that a second…  Yep, I’m sure.”  It’s probably a good thing that certain people are totally impervious to sarcasm.  First off, I don’t have nose or ear piercings.  Secondly, how many men that begin an appointment in slacks and button down shirts exclaim, “Oh, wow, almost forgot that belly ring!”  Not being judgmental here, pierce away if you wish, it’s just not my speed.

Perhaps water soluble clothing makes me look stupid.  Could be that the penitentiary issue, suicide watch apparel has been proven to temporarily lower the IQ of medical patients.  In any case, a couple of questions arose from this experience.  Don’t MRI technicians have to pass tests to get this job?  They must be reasonably intelligent folks, correct?  I mean, c’mon, they get to wear scrubs just like real doctors.  Assuming these questions are answered in the affirmative, how many people lie about piercings?  Lastly, and most interesting to me, how many people stick so doggedly to their lie that they get microwaved in the MRI machine instead of just removing the stud from their belly or, possibly, points south?

The bottom line from my MRI is a torn meniscus.  The news was delivered in an email with mucho mumbo jumbo that I don’t understand, except the part with a phone number to call to schedule step two.  Should be a grin.  As an aside, it was fun borrowing a line from one of my favorite comedians, Steven Wright.  I mentioned in conversation (several times) that I had an upcoming MRI and waited for the inevitable question, “Why are you having an MRI?”

“To see if I’m claustrophobic.”