#FAUXCHI

Fortnight on the Internets somehow scrounged up enough rubles to fly me uber-economy to Sochi to cover the Olympics!!!

(THIS IS ALL NOT REAL.)

Be sure to follow all my inevitable kooky and zany mishaps via twitter -- @jenisue

Or just follow the hashtag #fauxchi!

(Please note: I am faux-liveblogging.  Nothing to get twisted, because this is not real.  Like when friends thought I was actually attempting to get impregnated by all of Mumford & their Sons when I was faux-liveblogging Coachella, because our offspring would have British.  Fun idea, never really happened.  Please Mom, don't panic. I didn't actually leave the country without telling you.)

#FAUXCHI!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm Challenged

I've been challenged by Gold's Gym (Note: Gold himself did not personally invite me) to undergo a TOTALLLLL BOOOODYYYYYY TRAAAAANSFOOOOORMAAAAATTTTIIIOOOONNN.

12 weeks
36 boot camp training sessions
(aiming for) 24 loads of laundry
And at least 4-6 people who will incur the wrath of my hangry outbursts

I am DOING THIS.  I mean, look.  Look at Steve:

I can only hope to look half as good as Steve, and Steve's beard.

So far, I've executed a 10-step plan.

Step 1: Sign up.

Step 2: Take the before/after ransom picture

Oh, you thought I was going to post that picture? BAHAHAHAHHAHA...HAHAHA...hahahahh...hahaha...haha whewww haha, no.

I call it the ransom picture because the Fitness Director positioned me next to that day's paper tacked to the wall as proof of life(CHANGING RESULTS!!!!!!!!!).  I was told to dress in a sportsbra (personal/physical preference is 2) and shorts.  I chose the most unflattering short shorts and my best mug shot face to really achieve the look of "Infinite sadness at not being in peak phsyical condition."

The Fitness Director conducted the photo shoot in his office, and I appreciated the privacy.  I appreciated it until I looked to the side and saw that his window facing one of the main weight lifting areas -- which was "covered" by a desk calendar, was larger than said desk calendar.  I found myself making direct, intense eye contact with a guy in a cut-off frat tshirt most likely listening to Fall Out Boy.  Or the podcast of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!"  I don't know his life!  Except for the parts I do know because they are so blatantly obvious.

Also noteworthy -- the Fitness Director took these photos on his phone.  So that'll be a fun NSA data-mine found object.  If the NSA manages to connect the photos with this blog, please note that I am not actually being held against my own will at the Gold's Gym on 19th & L.

Step 3: Buy a Pedometer (This step not required, and I'm not sure it's entirely recommended)

During a trip to Target last weekend (that resulted in a ratio of 5:1 things I didn't need, to things I originally planned to get when organizing the Target trip) I purchased a Fitbit Flex.

This lil guy tracks number of steps, calories burned, active minutes, and quality of sleep.  THIS IS THE FUTURE.

I set my goal to number of steps (10,000xday) and check it roughly... every 30 seconds to see my progress.  The display shows a dot for every 2,000 steps taken.  I've found myself marching in place to get to the next dot.  I now have a compulsion to win at a game I've created where I am the only participant, and I win a 10 second vibration indicating I've hit my goal.  AND PRIDE.  SO MUCH PRIDE.

Step 4: Take a Zumba class

This was not my first Zumba.  But this IS the first time writing about Zumba.  For those of you who are unfamiliar, Zumba is the Latin music dance class popular with housewives, mothers, and other very, very white people.  Below is an example of a Zumba class.  For your reference, I was Randy.

I entered the dance studio and took an unassuming position in the back left, right behind the person in front of me.  This way I could avoid all self-eye contact and glimpses of my body somehow resisting any attempts to stay on the beat.  Here's the rub -- I can dance.  In my mind.  But not physically.  Physically, my body makes no sense whilst moving to music.

We started with a "warm-up" which I initially thought was high-impact cardio.  Moving into the next song, the instructor shouted "I HOPE EVERYONE REMEMBERED TO DO THEIR HOMEWORK!"  Homework?  What homework?  This was my first class.  I didn't even get a syllabus!  WHAT WAS THE REQUIRED READING?!  I suddenly felt like John Cusack:

It seemed like every single person had memorized all the choreography to every single song.  I just remembered the instructor's words at the beginning of class "Even if you don't get it, I want you to keep moving."  OK, keep moving.  KEEP MOVING.  This included a hell of a lot of toe tapping, pointing, clapping, and random hip shaking in an attempt to blend in with the Salsa-ly aggressive mid-level bureaucrats LETTIN' LOOSE!

I think the most frightening part of the entire experience was when the instructor would introduce a new move such as the "Step, step, step, STOP."  I step, step, step, stopped only to find myself FACING THE SIDE MIRROR, WHERE I WAS NOW IN THE NEW POSITION OF FRONT OF THE CLASS.  All I could see in the mirror, other than my frightened face, was the entire class looking at my ass for guidance and instruction.  Unfortunately all they got was a few half-assed (literally) thrusts and a pleading face that read "ONE, TWO, PLEASE MAKE THIS STOP SOMETIME SOON, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT."

Once the class was righted back around, the instructor reminded us that "Everyone has their own Zumba!  So as long as you're workin' it, you're doing it right!"  OK!  This was good news!  I was workin' it!  Maybe part time.  Freelance.  Trial period.  Internship.

So everyone has their own Zumba.  HEAR THAT?  DID YOU HEAR THAT?  EVERYONE HAS HIS OR HER OWN ZUMBA SO LAY OFF ME WITH THOSE JUDGMENT EYES, FRONT ROW CAMEL TOE.

After an hour of slight dehydration and Latino tinnitus, I walked away knowing my hips don't lie.  And the truth they are telling me is that I am incredibly mediocre at shakin' dat ass.

Step 5: Buy weightlifting gloves from Marshalls.

I'm an aspiring hand model.  I'll most likely aspire for the rest of my life, but you never know when a scout will pick you up at the nail salon, Mahjong tourney, crotchet club, etc.  That's why I can't run the risk of calluses.

So this happened, and here they are:

And yes, they pretty much look equally, or more ridiculous than they do here, in real life.

Step 6: Buy new running shoes you've yet to use.

These shoes HAVE been in motion.  From the box to my bedroom floor.

SIKE!  They've been on my feet:

(I took them off shortly after this photo was taken.)

Step 7: Start realizing that you have no money.

Shit.  I have no money.

Step 8: Want to win.

IIf I win, I'll have money!  $6,500 to be exact*.  (*IF I win the NATIONAL competition.)  I tend to be somewhat secretly competitive.  I guess it's not so secret since I'm broadcasting this to my readers, so yes, I'm competitive.  ALL THE GLORY, ALL THE MONEY, MINE.  MIIIIIINE!!!!

Step 9: Realize that if you do win, that "Before" picture will be in every Gold's Gym location.  Every.  Location.

Step 10: Shoot for 2nd Place.

30 Under 30

There was no way to avoid Forbes' "30 under 30" list.  It was plastered ALL OVER my Facebook feed.

But let me make it perfectly clear, I'm over it.  I'm over the "Under."

It is pretty neat that I'm friends with pretty cool people who are friends with pretty cool people who Forbes also agreed are pretty cool.

Shout out to my RILL GURL Shauna, and fellow Holton-Arms School for Girls alumna, Clara.

I would also like to give a huge shout out to Forbes for making me feel totally inadequate.  Like I have somehow wasted 27 years of my life.  After reading each bio, I mentally followed it up with my imagined concluding sentence of "And what have YOU done with your life?"

Apparently nothing Forbes-worthy.  I'm not exceptional.  Unique.  Innovative.  Groundbreaking.  Enlightening.  Nor am I important enough to occupy 3 inches of website.  I wake up, I go to work, maybe go to the gym, grab some drinks with friends, or go to a show, then head home, check my personal email, check my work email, check my Facebook, check my Instagram, check my Snapchat, watch some British detective series on Netflix while I fold my laundry I FINALLY REMOVED from the dryer after about 3 days, put on my phone alarm, complete my daily ablutions, check my personal email again, check my work email again, and go to bed.  I'm average.  And if I didn't already realize this, I have Forbes to thank for reminding me that I have done nothing deserving of a paragraph.

Am I jealous?  Absolutely.  But not because I don't have a headshot and blurb.  Please, I can do that all on my own:

JENI SUE BIRNBAUM, 27
Self-Imposed Corporate Slave & Sometimes Freelance Writer (Again, for self)

In 2013, Jeni realized she hated L.A. and moved back home to live with her mother.  Her roommate also happened to be her boss, so her workday ended... never.  At her job, she attempts to provide the best customer service, and by that we mean she's the staff member most willing to bend over her desk and take it without saying "I'D RATHER YOU STOP."  Day after day her company gets paid for her to be cyberbullied.  She credits her success to "Client-induced fear."

I'm jealous because these people listed seem truly happy.  Their success seems to stem from the fact that they love what they're doing and are passionate about it -- which seems to give them energy to do more!  If I'm careful with my energy reserves then I might just swiffer my bedroom!  Might just!  Might.  Just.

I'm not really angry at Forbes.  Forbes is just an innocent bystander in my mental, penetrating hate glare.  The public loves a good list.  I get that.  I'm angry that they just remind me what has really been making me upset -- the fact that I don't feel I've lived up to my potential thus far -- that I'm not doing what I can, and what I WANT to be doing.

Any time a new work email pops up, my mental reaction is: "WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS????" (~Dorothy Parker), but physically, my fingers and the keyboard translate that rage into this: !!!!!! : ) !!!!!!! OF COURSE !!!!!! THANKS !!!!!!

I will show up, I will work my ass off, and I will go home after with enough energy to consume 2 episodes of a "Kardashians" marathon.  But I don't want to have to do that.  I want to wake up and instead of flopping out of bed pulled by some imaginary "Fantasia"-esque broom magnetism, and somehow propelling myself towards an office with a cubicle next to a sad tree that I have been tasked to water after I ACCIDENTALLY uprooted the lil guy whilst transporting him (her?) from box to pot.

I want to wake up every day and go somewhere actually WANT to go.  I want to finally be excited to get up and work on something that is constructive to pursuing my goals, my dreams.  I want more.  I wanna be where the people are.  I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin'.  Walkin' around on those... whaddya call 'em  Oh, feet.  (I know at least 2 of you joined in with me there.)

The other day, I was on the phone with my friend who started reading off the blurbs of some "Under 30-ees," and I had a rare reaction.  "STOP.  YOU NEED TO STOP.  BECAUSE THIS IS MAKING ME FEEL BADLY, AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS ANYMORE."  I snapped.  I became unhinged.  All because a magazine was saying "These 20-somethings are better than you."  They're more talented.  They're more efficient.  They're more creative.  They're more EVERYTHING YOU'RE NOT.  At least that's what I was hearing.

I've basically just complained for a few/a lot of paragraphs.  Well done, you.  You somehow made it through without rolling your eyes or saying "DO SOMETHING, THEN!"  How "Girls" is this post?  "Blah blah blah upper middle class white girl upset about life status blah blah complaints complaints whining, why isn't life fair."  COME ON WHITE GIRL, QUIT YOUR YAMMERING.  STOP HAVING PANIC ATTACKS ABOUT HOW YOU'RE NOT OK THAT YOU'RE NOT OK AND FORCING ME TO DO MENTAL OLYMPICS TO GET BACK TO YOUR MAIN POINT IN YOUR COMPLAINGUMENT IN THE FIRST PLACE WHEN THERE PROBABLY WASN'T EVEN ONE.  You didn't say that, right?  It's OK if you did, just don't tell me.  But I get that!  I need to DO SOMETHING.

And that's where this changes.

I took a break for a year.  No, I didn't technically take a break, but I did decompress from my 4.5 years in L.A.  D.C. was my L.A. rehab.  And now that I've finished recovery, I've woken up from a daze.  I need to move towards what I want to be doing.  Because doing nothing but wishing and hoping gets me nowhere.  Doing SOMETHING is my next step.  Doing something means I'm in motion towards someplace I'd rather be.

(/rant)

So for now, that means writing more, and committing myself to my faithful readers.  You are out there, yes?  Hello!  Hello?  Hello.  I'm just going to trust that you're there.

And I guess if this blogging thing doesn't pan out, I can always pick up a nom de plume and write a trashy romance e-novel.  I welcome all tittle (typo, and it stays) ideas in the comments.

kisses!
jsb

Because It's January

And we're only 15 days out from 2013, click here to listen to me drunkenly ramble about the best and worst of the internets from last year.  You should be on top of your meme history.  Dear God, will they teach memes in future history classes?  I WEEP FOR THE YOUTH!  OK, now go listen to me being a sterling role model for them cool kids.

(By the by, if you're not watching "Adventure Time" then you're probably doing something more productive with your time.  It's great nonetheless.)

Adios '13

2013 was a huge year for me.  Years, technically, are pretty huge -- being that they're 365 days, ~12 lunar cycles, 4 seasons, and on average 2-3 "WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?  Why have I not moved to Wyoming to become a ski lift operator and have all the tourists be jealous since I 'Really just went for it.'" Breakdowns.

Here are some of the highlights:

I moved back home.

I became more social.

I got (read: am getting) into shape!

I went to my last trendy music festival.

I figured out I wasn't quite an adult.

In an attempt to be more of an adult, I moved out of my mom's place.

So, some stuff happened.  Actually, a lot of things happened; I've just been delinquent with blog posts.  In this add/drop period of New Year's Resolutions (the entire month of January) I resolve to post more.  This will most likely be my resolution in 2015, but perchance by that point in time people will be trading me money for words and I'll be able to devote my entire existence to your entertainment.

No?  Alright, then we're done here.

Sleep on It

A few weekends ago I faced a very white, suburban dilemma.  Do I go on a hike with friends in Virginia?  Or do I go test mattresses and play tennis with my dad?  It ended up being mattresses + tennis, since I usually finagle a free lunch (There IS such thing!).

Before I left, my mom asked me what kind of mattress I wanted.

Me: “You know, one where if someone else moves, you can’t feel it.”

Mom: “Who else would move?”

Me: “What?”

Mom: “Who were you talking about when you said ‘Someone else moves?’”

Me: “No one.  Nothing.  What?”

Mom: “You were talking about someone else in your bed.”

Me: “Someone else?  What?  No. No I wasn’t.  I was just talking about some… thing.  Like maybe I just want to bring a glass of wine into bed and jump on the bed.  And I just don’t want that wine to spill.  Are those your keys?  GreatthanksI’m gonna go, remember to buy some more Ezekiel bread, byeeeee!”

I cruised out to Bethesda in mother’s whip, and since selling the Prius, had forgotten what it’s like to listen to the radio.  I got in the car and on came a loud voice.  God?  Carl Kasell.  It then took a good 5-7 minutes to figure out which knob turned the dial, which for the volume, what to press for a lil tush heat, where the lever is that turns on the thing you use when you need to turn.  You know, the think that blinks.  The blinky thing.  This is a pre-emptive apology to my mom if she receives any speed camera photos where I am full out belting to One Direction while potentially going 5… 10… maybe 25 miles sliiightly over Maryland’s suggested speed.

 

The whip in question.  Yeah... really.  I know.  No, I know.

 

I pulled in to the Sleepy’s parking lot at 10:55am.  For some reason, this micro strip on Wisconsin Ave. is home to 2 mattress stores.  Right next door to each other.  Despite there being someone in the back of the store, the Sleepy’s doors were still locked.  Well, you just lost a customer (for about 20 minutes until I was done peeping in Mattress Discounters).

I entered Mattress Discounters.  Now, the only things I know about mattresses is that they should be comfortable, and in my humble opinion, under $1,000.  I also now know “Sticker Shock” is a very real thing.  I had about 35 seconds before being honed in and attacked by the retail drone.  In those seconds, I lifted up the covers that hid the prices on a few mattresses.  There’s a reason they keep those prices under fabric flaps.  They are absurd.  Me exclaiming out loud, “I’m sorry, WHAT?” absurd.  Faint-worthy prices.  Good thing there are beds, literally, all around you.  And falling post-faint, on to memory foam IS pretty nice.

Darren, the suit-clad used car/new mattress salesman must have heard my excitement and quickly approached me.  “Hi, how can I help you today?”  Well, Darren, have you heard of Overstock.com because THIS IS RIDICULOUS.  THIS IS ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS.  WHY WOULD ANYONE PAY THIS MUCH FOR A BOX OF SPRINGS COVERED IN FABRIC?  WHY?  OH, IT’S BECAUSE IT’S “MEMORY FOAM?”  I’M NOT RISKING 2 WEEKS’ PAY ON A SLAB OF FOAM THAT MAY END UP WITH ALZEIMERS IN 4 MONTHS.

None of that came out of my mouth.  Instead, I answered, “Hi, um, I’m looking for a mattress.”  That would be weird if I wasn’t.  “I’m looking for a mattress that does not cost this much,” motioning with disgust at the square bearing the sad market value truth.  Darren looked optimistic.  “We can definitely make that happen for you today.”  Can you, Darren?  Can you make that promise?  Because I’ve been let down many times in my 27 years, and damn it if I’m going to be disappointed by a stranger in a mattress store.

I should’ve known that wasn’t really going to happen when he lead me to the back of the store.  I’m talking back.  As we walked further in, climates changed.  Buzzards sat upon boulders that suddenly materialized, waiting for me to finally keel over after my futile price battle.

“This one here is a comfortable mattress, pretty firm, and in your price range.”  He was right -- it was pretty firm AND under $1,000.  By 5 dollars.  I hopped on, taking my cue from the couple in matching fleece vests and ponytails, lying side by side.  The only thing distracting me from my full lumbar-attentive review was the pillow.  I craned my neck, and saw their ponytails draped over the back of the mattress.  I started to wonder… “How many people have been on this bed?”  I saw their kid jumping on another mattress towards the front.  “How many kids have been on this bed?”  “HOW MANY LICE ARE CURRENTLY ON THIS BED RIGHT NOW?”  Before I could actually compute a realistic number of about a bajillion, I created a scientific law that lice don’t attach to the hair of those over 12.  And for those of you thinking “BUT WHAT ABOUT CRABS??”  You’re gross.

MUST BE THE MATTRESSSSSSS -- Nelly Remix Feat. DJJSB

After testing the cheaper mattress, and then the even cheaper mattress, I was not satisfied.  Frustrated, I sat down.  And sank into gel and foam heaven.  The KoolGel held my heart and gently cradled my ass.  I flipped over, took out my phone and snapped a picture of the mattress name and price.  “Oh.  I see.”  Darrell approached me.  “Taking pictures, huh?  I knew it.  I knew you were working for the enemy.”  I guess the enemy was a comparison shopper?

I waited until Darrell turned his attention to the married twins, and scooted out of there.  I then walked nextdoor to Sleepy’s.  Apparently the mattress market is not booming like I had anticipated, and I was alone in the store.  Just me and a woman sitting at a desk at the opposite end of the wide expanse of mattresses.

Employee: Hi there!

Me: Hello.

(She continued to sit at her desk.)

Employee: How are you.

Me: Fine.

(Still at the desk.)

Employee: How can I help you?

Me: I’m looking for a mattress.

Apparently we were going to complete this transaction at a casual distance of 60-70 feet.

The woman lifted herself out of her chair, yanked up her pajama jeans and waddled my way.  I could tell by her Kate Gosselin-inspired haircut with subtle, white highlights, and bejeweled flip flops housing once manicured feet – this woman knew a lot about mattress technology.  I repeated my needs – a mattress, and a positive checking account balance.



When I see this, I just think -- "Aficionada."

She beckoned me to her desk, and fished out a stack of small papers.

“These are the new special prices – and I mean NEW.  I haven’t even had time to put them out.”  She licked her thumb and started fingering through.  “Oh, look at this one – Sealy pillow top, normally $1,795 and I can give it to you for $1,400.  I mean that’s a steal.”  Yes it is.  She is stealing $1,400 of my money, and replacing it with a sleep square.

Again, I plopped down on a few mattresses.  Bounced, turned, laid.  Stood up, sat down, repeated.  Nothing.  She asked what I was looking for feel-wise.  I told her that I enjoyed the idea of memory foam, but wasn’t really into the sinking-in feeling, which was the entire characterization of a memory foam mattress.  After we had exhausted almost every option, I finally came upon the Serta Perfect Sleeper Luminous Euro Top Mattress and Foundation Set.  It had everything I never knew I wanted in a mattress.  Luminous.  Euro.  IT HAD ‘PERFECT’ IN THE NAME.  There it was – the memory foam top layer, supported by 520 coiled springs.  It was a hybrid dream.  This is what I wanted to be on.  I flipped and I flopped.  The wine definitely wouldn’t spill.  Oh, good, it was only $1,250.  A family came in right after I snapped a picture of the mattress tag.  She could sense blood in the water.  The blood obviously a result of the cerebral hemorrhage caused by calculating expenditures.  I narrowly escaped her Bugles-coated grasp and made it to the whip.

I then went home, and Overstock/com’d the S out of a new mattress.  It was delivered to my new place yesterday.  My retiree landlord apparently let the movers in so… I think it’s there?

Next up is either a post about how impossibly smooth the new move went/my mother’s emotional state after round 2 of emptying the nest.  OR, a multi-paragraph rant WITH thesis statement, on the evils of Overstock.com.

Stay tuned.

 

Flu Shot

SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTSSHOTSSHOTS,SHOTS!  ERRRRRRRYBOOOODDDDYYYYYYGetYourFluShotBecauseI'mScaredOfAContagion-likePandemic.  Alright, thank you, goodbye.

For the second year in a row, I went to get my Flu shot.  Alli, one of my best friends from college-cum-Unknowing Primary Care Physician, OK'd me getting the shot.  And like Dr. Oz, I’ll believe anything medical-sounding that comes out of her mouth.

I was simply curious.

For those of you who don’t know me (For real?  Are there people I don’t know reading this?  Wild.), I’m a huge hypochondriac.  Cough?  Lung cancer.  Headache?  Brain Hemorrhage.  Pain in my right ring finger?  Glomus tumor.  Well, that one actually happened.  I would like to say that after an extensive google search, I self-diagnosed a Glomus tumor under my nail.  Then after my full body MRI(For real.  I asked the technician if he could just check out anything else that may look “iffy”) the doctor pulled up the SAME google image search I previously found, declaring it was a Glomus!  HA, WHO GETS THE LAST LAUGH NOW, PEOPLE WHO THINK I’M A CRAZY HYPOCHONDRIAC?  I ACTUALLY HAVE A TUMOR!  It was a teeny, tiny, tumor in my fingertip.  Benign.  And for some reason I had to be put fully under for the surgery… That was actually decided during my first appointment—

Me: So you’ll just do local anesthesia on the hand, and take it out?

(Beat)

Doc: Well, after meeting you… I think it would be best if we just put you all the way out.

See?

When I woke up after the surgery the first thing I asked was why my throat was in pain.  “Oh, that’s because you were intubated.”  Again.  A teeny, tiny, tumor surgery.

My teeny, tiny, fingertip cast.  Real thing.  Real life.

So last week after work, I strolled over to the neighborhood CVS and went to the pharmacy.

Me: Hello, I’d like to get a flu shot.

Pharmacist: OK, just fill out these forms.  Can I see an ID and Insurance Card?

I handed him both.

Pharmacist (after unnecessary amounts of typing): So the vaccine isn’t covered by your current plan.  It’s going to be $31.50.

Me: OK (Reaching for my wallet).

Pharmacist: You know, you can probably go to your Primary Care Physician and get it for free.

(Beat as I thought about it.)

Me: Yeah, but I’d first have to FIND a Primary Care Physician (Does my pediatrician count?  I wonder if she’s still alive…), and then take time off work, which includes the travel cost to and from the office and the staff already resents me because I took a week vacation back in April when I had TOLD my boss(mother) that I already had this vacation before starting my job.  All of that plus the actual time off work not completing my tasks will end up costing the company... priced out it would definitely be more than $31.50.

I guess I took something away from AP Econ.  Probably an incorrect usage of cost/benefit analysis, but something.  Senior year of high school, I would use cost/benefit hypotheticals to get out of chores.  One parent would yell: “JENI?  You need to take Moose out!”  I’d be in my room, ACT book open, as well as ~10 AIM windows.  “OK, but I’m studying.  And I’m getting to the essay questions, and if I leave now, I may not come back to these questions because it’s a timed practice test, and if I don’t practice these questions and one of them is on the exam, then I may miss that point, and if I miss that point—“ “FINE.  I’LL TAKE HIM OUT.”  What a lil brat I wasssssiiissssss...?  Moose was a 5 pound Maltese, and “taking him out” meant going to the basement, opening the sliding glass door, having him pop out onto the fenced 3x3 ft Astroturf square, wait for him to “do his stuff” as we called it, and then letting him back in.

The Pharmacist looked at me, most likely thinking “Why didn’t she keep that in her mind?”  He rang me up, and I was then told to wait for a few minutes while everything was set up.  A few minutes passed.

“Miss Binbom?  She’ll help you now.”  You wouldn't believe how often the “R” becomes silent in my last name.  I looked around, confused.  Who?  Where was the onsite doctor?  Should I be heading towards the medical suite?  Am I looking for someone holding a bucket of Betadyne?  No.  The Pharmacist pointed to a co-worker who was standing next to a chair.  A chair that was sitting in the middle of the pharmacy area.  I mean, people coughing in my face while looking for NyQuil, middle.  People waiting in line to pick up prescriptions using it as a place to rest their bags, middle.  Holding someone’s spot at the register, middle.

Well, this seemed not at all sanitary.  I hesitantly put down my bag and took a seat on the ominously stained cushion.  The woman administering the shot lay her instruments down on the chair next to me.  Her carrier looked more like a tray used in a back alley nail salon than medical grade equipment   As I took off my sweater, I noticed that she doused her hands in hand sanitizer before putting on the gloves from a box that looked like it was wedged between the Kleenexes and sweaty shinguard in the back of a mom’s minivan.  Good.  Glad to see that she's taking precautionary measures when it comes to needles and blood.  She sloppily swabbed the spot as someone’s gym bag knocked into my head.

Pharmacist 2: “OK, One… Two…”

Me: “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Pharmacist 2: “Three.”

And the shot was done -- NO WAIT, NO, NO, THAT BURNING SENSATION SPREADING IN YOUR ARM IS THE ACTUAL VACCINE BEING INJECTED INTO THE MUSCLE.  OK, now it’s done.

She looked through her caboodle to try and locate some sort of covering for the micro-wound.  “Can I get some cotton balls?”  She attempted to take the back off the Band-Aid with her gloved fingers, touching every part of it in the process.  “Cotton balls?!”  An employee walked over with a bag of already opened cotton balls, presumably from aisle 3.  She reached in and grabbed one with her gloved hand.  Just because YOU are gloved, doesn’t mean the 2 year old cotton balls that were somehow taken from under my bathroom sink are clean.  She wiped the trickle of blood from my arm, and plopped on the Band-Aid.  “All done.”  Yes.  And at this point I can only assume my general health is, as well.

UPDATE: I’m alive.  The day after the shot I had very mild flu symptoms, which I obviously treated like the full-blown flu -- bombing my bod with every type of fever-reducer and Vitamin-C product.

What should you take away from this cautionary tale?  BYOBalls, I guess.