Olympic hurling. I mean curling.

Although Olympic hurling would be provocative. Can he nail the bowl without splattering the rim? Yes! It’s good!

According to one of the commentators in the piece below, Canada spent $22 million researching the science of curling. I wonder if they were able to learn anything that the curlers didn’t already know intuitively? We may never know, although supposedly they’ll release their findings eventually — after the Olympics.

We usually watch men’s and women’s figure skating, but this year we’ve been watching curling. Must say it’s a hell of a fun sport to watch. It’s amazing how rapidly a situation can get turned on its head.

D.

Generation gap

Jake had to hang out in my office after work yesterday, so he spent his time (as usual) surfing the net. Nope, no games on my computer. One of the float nurses chatted him up. She wanted to know what he was doing.

He was reading mspaintadventures and had the unpleasant task of trying to explain this to someone who probably knows how to google and that’s about it.

“How did that go?” I asked him later.

“Not well.” (The kid is a stickler for proper usage of “good” versus “well.” I have trained him good 😉 ). “How do you explain something that’s a serial cartoon satirizing text adventures?”

“To someone who doesn’t know what a text adventure is?”

“Right.”

“Whereupon you told her, ‘You know, like Zork,’ and she met that with a blank stare.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Were you listening in?”

I wasn’t. Really!

D.

Unfortunate names

Over at the Bad Product Names blogspot, you can discover all kinds of rotten trade names. (I see they’ve picked up on the irony that is Publishit.com.) We’ve all heard about the Chevy Nova (bombing in Central and South America, since Nova = no va = “it doesn’t go”), but Kum & Go gas station? And I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks Wii is a hella stupid name for anything.

But tonight, I heard a commercial for a drug with a most unfortunate name.

Main Entry: qui·etus
Pronunciation: \kwī-ˈē-təs, -ˈā-\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English quietus est, from Medieval Latin, he is quit, formula of discharge from obligation
Date: 1540

1 : final settlement (as of a debt)
2 : removal from activity; especially : death
3 : something that quiets or represses

The manufacturers are thinking of definition 3.

I (and who knows how many other folks) am familiar with the word primarily from its second definition.

Honey, did you remember to take your dose of Lethal tonight?

D.

Duggars on PEOPLE MAGAZINE!

It was bound to happen eventually: Michelle Duggar gave birth to a premie. Not just a premie, but a “micropremie,” scarcely heavier than one pound, born at 25 weeks gestation. When I was in med school and residency (late 80s, early 90s), 25 weeks was considered the lower limit of survivability, and few of these kids made it. I’m not sure what the current lower limit is, but I’ve met children who had been micropremies younger than 25 weeks.

So now we know how many kids you need to have in order to make the cover of People: 19. Not surprisingly, Michelle and Jim Bob say they would be delighted to have more, despite the scathing criticism of . . . what? On-line chat groups? Blogs? Says Michelle: “When I say we would love more children, we open ourselves up for attack.”

I picked up this issue of People because the cover hinted at reportage of the controversy. “THE DUGGARS UNDER FIRE.” “HOW MANY KIDS ARE TOO MANY?” But the story itself pussyfoots, with only a few hints of criticism. A quote from Dr. Jeffrey Richardson, a California obstetrician: “The risks of additional pregnancies start to go up dramatically after four.”

Get that? The risks to the mom. Or, perhaps, to the neonate. How about the children, who are left to raise their younger sibs or be raised by older sibs? Psychologist Michelle Gannon: “What tends to happen in such large families is that the older siblings parent the younger ones and begin to manage the family. The children, the very young ones, get their emotional and physical needs met by their siblings.” She goes on to say (wishy washy alert!!!): “Is it fair? I don’t know. Hopefully, everyone’s needs are being met.”

What do I know? I know that Michelle will have to stop some time soon.

They’re running out of J names.

D.

Soft tissue is a piece of cake

It’s the inorganic world that defies me.

I’ve misplaced our mailbox key. Mind you, I’m not delighted that we have to have a key to our mailbox. Paranoid people like it, I suppose, since a key implies that no one can steal their mail. On the other hand, if you’re paranoid, you probably figure someone has already made a copy of your key, perhaps several copies, and the creepy guy who lives down the block and drives that battered Volvo is right now steaming open your American Express bill to discover just how many purchases you’ve made from Xandria this month.

So, really, I don’t understand the point of locked mailboxes.

It was a small key on a tiny ring attached to a circular, foil-rimmed, paper tag. I kept it in our Camry, in the detritus-catcher (cup holder) behind the parking brake. Sometimes I put it into the other detritus-catcher in front of the parking brake, but since Wednesday, it has been in neither place. I’ve tossed the car, twice nearly gotten my upper torso stuck in the driver’s side foot well (and, yes, it’s possible to reach the horn from there, just in case), and I am assured that the key has not fallen beneath either seat. It’s not in the crack between the seat bottom and back. It’s not in the ash tray. It’s not in the glove compartment.

I’ve checked all of my shirt and pants pockets. No go.

Today, I had the bright idea of looking into the recess from which the parking brake emerges. I could see something round, a glint of metal . . . my key, perhaps? And was this sufficient encouragement to rip apart something I would no way, no how be able to put back together? (Admittedly, I could possibly reach this object with any one of the long forceps I still own. Ripping-apart was and is an option of last resort.)

From private practice, I still have a flexible fiberoptic laryngoscope and light source. I broke it out, found an extension cord to power the light source, and went hunting. Sadly, the two round objects in the recess are (A) a washer and (B) a quarter. But I give myself points for resourcefulness.

I went to the post office, and they wanted $50 to change the lock and give us new keys. Then the woman helping me discovered that our homeowner’s association owns the boxes, so we’re out of luck for now.

I remembered that when we moved in, there were a buttload of random keys in a drawer. I was pretty sure we only had one mailbox key, but maybe, just maybe, one of those keys was a backup mailbox key. And maybe one is. I don’t know. I can’t find those damned keys anywhere.

Don’t get me started on how difficult it was to change the bathroom light bulbs.

D.

Wordless

I have nothing to say. I suppose I could write one of those “what I did today” entries, but then you’d find out how much time I waste playing Dragon Age or Oblivion.

Oh, well. We’ll make it a Hoodia update. Yes, it works as an appetite suppressant, but I’m still not losing any weight. Not gaining, either, so that’s something.

D.

One good way to donate

I’m sure there are many others, but MSF was my choice.

From their homepage:

MSF has already treated more than 1,000 people on the ground in Haiti following Tuesday’s earthquake, but the needs are huge. An inflatable hospital with operating theatres is expected to arrive in the next 24 hours.

D.

The latest

My scale seems pegged between 172.5 and 173.5. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to weigh yourself daily, but I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. And I’m half tempted to take a diuretic just for the rush of seeing a few pounds drop off in a matter of hours.

(And that’s why doctors shouldn’t treat themselves.)

I’m dieting, kind of, and still exercising, but it’s not happening fast enough for me. A pound a week, that’s all I ask for! Is that so much? I want to get back to 163. I look and feel good at 163. When I made it there before (scarcely two or three months ago), I decided wrongly that exercise alone would keep me there, so I stopped watching my diet.

Anyway, here is what my doc recommended:

Ram one of these babies down your esophagus, and you won't eat for days.

It’s hoodia, or Hoodia gordonii, a cactiform succulent from the Namib desert. Extracts supposedly act as diet suppressants, and since I’m not the suggestible type I’m going to assume that my current bloated feeling is proof of concept. I think I need to take the medication earlier, though, since the bloat struck well after dinner. On the other hand, I avoided dessert, which I usually cannot do. So perhaps we are getting somewhere.

Does it work? I mean, is there good solid evidence for this stuff? Wikipedia says only that it is “being investigated as an appetite suppressant.” According to some website called NaturalNews.com, a study from Leicester, England, showed that patients on Hoodia consumed 1000 calories per day less than controls. That’s remarkable. That translates to a two pound per week weight loss . . . if true. Obviously, I would have to continue exercising to keep up my muscle mass, watch my diet to avoid malnutrition, etc. But I’m not sure I trust a place called NaturalNews.com. It ain’t Nature, you know?

Then I had the brilliant idea: what does my friend the Fanatic Cook have to say about it? Since she’s my go-to gal for all things dietary. But, unfortunately, Bix doesn’t have much to say, other than she likes her appetite and doesn’t want to see it suppressed.

So I’m left thinking, “Well, if I can at least prove it won’t kill me, what’s the harm in trying?” Over at drugs.com, I learned

Hoodia has not been evaluated by the FDA for safety, effectiveness, or purity. All potential risks and/ or advantages of Hoodia may not be known. Additionally, there are no regulated manufacturing standards in place for these compounds. There have been instances where herbal/ health supplements have been sold which were contaminated with toxic metals or other drugs. Herbal/ health supplements should be purchased from a reliable source to minimize the risk of contamination.

So I should be good, provided my Hoodia doesn’t contain mercury, lead, cadmium, or Kryptonite. (Honestly, though, this is one of the few negative reports on Hoodia, but the strongest argument they make is that your Hoodia might be bogus.)

Oh, and I’m drinking green tea now, too.

D.

Unclear on the Craigslist concept, Part Deux

To reiterate: the Casual Encounters section is for women looking to hook up with men. Or men with women. Or men with men. Or women with women. Or men with transgenders. Or transgenders with men. Or . . . you get the idea. It’s about hooking up. And it would be a lot more interesting place if the pro$titute$* had their own area, but that’s another story.

It’s not really about women looking for lost loves, so I was a bit surprised by

Jeremy where r u? – w4m – 29 (Bakersfield)

So sad! Always tugs at my heartstrings when people can’t find their special someones.

Looking for some dude named Jeremy, in the army, bald, tall, white guy. U came to Bako for the holidays. U gave me the clap so where r u bastard? Pay for my medication!

Um. Oh.

D.

*A dollar sign, not an S, get it? Those prostitutes sure are clever.