yeah, i'm about 8% sure i have a bed sore

Somehow, many days have gone by and little can be said about them. I’ve had an interview here and there. I headed out to Flushing to hang out with my best friend Corinda, my unemployment office representative. At some point I made a pie. Mostly, I’ve sat around looking at the job listings I’m not qualified for and eating food at my desk (and by desk, I mean bed). It has become hideously obvious how much of my life was defined by my job now that I don’t have one. This whole weekend went by without leaving the apartment (and by apartment, I mean bed.) (Just kidding. I had to use the bathroom sometimes, and once, I answered the door to get my Chinese food.)

I did go to my first pub quiz, which was a fine event. It was mostly just drinking some beer and surprising myself with my knowledge of the inane (What Olympic ring color represents Europe?) and of the things that no one should know because they shouldn’t exist (What is the full name of this season of The Bachelor?). I also knew how old J.D. Salinger was when he died, the number of boys in The Pet Shop Boys, and who sang “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” But I did not know any of the sports questions, did not recognize a single celebrity on a page of pictures, and did not remember the 2007 Oscar Winner for Best Picture. Well, I did know that the bantam in bantamweight was for a chicken but had no idea about fly or feathers. Chickens have feathers but can fly. Well they can sort of fly. Better than, say, I can fly. But really, how would I know about those weight classes? Clearly I was always a heavyweight. What did I need to know about the other ones?

So, overall, I would classify myself as a great third member of a trivia team. Someone needs to know sports. Someone needs to know pop culture. Those are two big pillars of trivia. But then you need a Jesse, who doesn’t recognize Sienna Miller or know anything about the Pittsburgh Steelers, but has a loose grasp on literature, Bible characters, state capitals and Jenny’s phone number (you know, 867-5309).

Sidebar: Just as I think I’m a good third team member on a trivia team, I think I’d be a great third commentator for a sports broadcast. There is the main guy, who is probably a venerable newscaster of some kind. Been around forever. Bob Costas or Greg Gumbel. Then you have someone who has played or coached the sport. Jerry Rice stopping by. Brian Boitano saying things like “Triple Salchow, Triple Toe Loop!” You know, an expert with anecdotes a-plenty. And then you have just some third person who just fills in the gaps. It goes like this:

Guy #1: So, here you have it, 3^rd and 3. This has been tough for the team all season, these third downs blah blah blah

Guy #2: You said it, Guy #1. In cases like this, you want to stay focused, work on getting the ball down the field. Back in ’89 when I was blah blah blah

Guy #1: And here’s the snap. He’s looking, looking, throws it. Incomplete!

Jesse: Oh, they really wanted to catch that pass.

They help you know what’s going on. “Well, Smith finished the course in 3:45, so he’s going to want to get at least a 3:44 to qualify.” They help you empathize. “Oh, I bet she’s disappointed she missed that shot.” They even help in those tough spots when you can’t figure out the math. “Well they’re down by 2, so they’ll need at least 3 runs to win.” I feel like if anyone can get paid to do that, I’m just as deserving. How hard can it be? Anyway. Sidebar out.

So, pub quiz was all in all jovial affair. But it could have gone another direction. See, there is competitive Jesse and there is everything’s cool Jesse. Thankfully, throw a few beers in regular Jesse and he turns into everything’s cool Jesse, not competitive Jesse. Competitive Jesse might have vehemently complained about the question “What is the only sequel to win an Oscar?” Competitive Jesse would have said, “I think you meant ‘what is the only sequel to win a BEST PICTURE Oscar’ which is a flawed question and even still, my answer of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King is correct (and you can clearly see I wrote The Godfather Part II first before doubting myself). So I think what you REALLY meant was ‘what is the FIRST sequel to win a Best Picture Oscar.’ Right? That is what you meant. Right? Because I think you should be a little more careful with your words, mister.” But everything’s cool Jesse let it slide. Why? Because everything’s cool! I got my Brooklyn Lager, had a couple of hot wings, and am feeling good.

Competitive Jesse would have also gone apeshit on the drunk Irish lady (yes, it is important to the story that she is Irish) who accused us of cheating. (Do you want to see all the texts I’ve sent?! Do you want to look at my internet history on my phone?! You best back down because you do not go around accusing people of shit without backing it up, bitch.). Competitive Jesse would also have been more upset that we lost (by ONE point. Well technically two to win. But by one question, for sure. A single question like, what was the FIRST sequel to win the BEST PICTURE Oscar.). But competitive Jesse is nowhere to be found. Happy to be out of the house Jesse was, well, in the house.

So, I don’t know how much I would make pub quiz a regular thing. Competitive Jesse has not seen the light of day lately, but he is always lurking underneath. That is a beast best kept deep down. Oh! Speaking of, for those of you keeping count at home, my winning streak of FreeCell came to an end. 676. (I believe I literally screamed “No!” out loud). The new current one is 16. But it just doesn’t feel worth it any more. Yeah, I need a job.

on the plus side, I can eat all the cockroaches I want

I was laid off yesterday. More on this later.

In the past couple of weeks, I had convinced myself I was allergic to shrimp. So, it was off to the allergist.

I have gone to a doctor plenty of times convinced I had some ailment which I did not. I imagine it comes a lot from my parents who dealt with a lot of sick progeny who were typically not me. So when it was me—say, the time I got a weird, puffy bug bite or the time I stabbed my hand with a pencil—it was a trip to the emergency room, just like any of the other kids. It didn't matter how minor it actually was. So now, any time I suspect something may be wrong, I visit the doctor.

The visit typically begins a long story. I don’t know if that is how most people start off a doctor appointment, but it is how I start one. “Well,” I begin, usually with a sort of a high-pitched intonation. “Well…” and then we take a nice little journey through an anecdote without a lot of the salient information but with a dash of unnecessary specifics.

“Well,” I began (after some runaround with the receptionist and the insurance card and the referral I was told I didn’t need but I did need but it was okay because they were going to fax it over). “Well, I was eating shrimp at this event we had at work where they were giving us some free food and felt funny afterwards. And later I was eating Chinese food that I had ordered in and I felt funny again. I don’t know how to describe funny. Like. Unusual.” The doctor asked, “How long ago was this?” I had no idea. A week or so. Maybe a month. No, that doesn’t sound right.

The doctor asked a few more questions about what “funny” meant (you know, funny. Not like I usually feel. Not like I felt before). Then, I took a breathing test with a little Asian nurse. There was definitely miscommunication. “What you’re going to do is…” And then the test wouldn’t read right. “No, you’re not doing it right!” “I don’t know what you’re asking me to do!” I felt like she was trying to teach me to drive for the first time. “Breathe, breathe, breathe!” “I have no more breath!” “That’s because you’re doing it wrong!” I am pretty sure she jumped up and down at one point.

Sidebar anecdote: it brought up the memory of a visit to the eye doctor in which the technician pleaded with me to open my eye wider to take a picture of it with some expensive machine and I crossly protested that I could not. “Please try!” “This is as far as they open!” Anyway. I’m pretty good at math, so it balances.

Somewhere in there, I got something usable for the doctor to see (whose door was open the whole time and I am sure could hear the whole conversation). And then came the pinpricks of allergens. One of them was “cockroach” which is disgusting one on level already. But then I found myself playing out this story in which it wasn’t the shrimp but a cockroach in my Chinese food that had caused the reaction and that garlic sauce was really cockroach bath sauce.

It wasn’t.

And I’m not allergic to shrimp. At least not by the first round of testing. I am allergic to cats and grass and tree pollen and a bunch of other things he mentioned that I hope I wasn’t supposed to memorize (what’s a tree plantain?).

So, in addition to joining the growing ten whatever percent of unemployed Americans in this economy, I am also joining the ranks of (judging by the patients I witnessed flitting in and out of the office, greeting the receptionist by name) nebbish (white) men with medically diagnosed allergies. Great.