Pickles & Dimes

Come in, Control Tower. I repeat, come in Control Tower.

This is Control Tower. What is your situation?

We’ve got a non-functional right orbital lens cover.

Didn’t we have this exact same conversation three and a half years ago?

Affirmative.

How many hours of use has this lens cover seen?

Approximately two, sir.

TWO? Dammit.

That’s what we said.

What have you received as the error message?

We’re not sure yet what’s causing the malfunction, but it’s scratching the hell out of the retinal surface.

What about utilizing the manual lens cover?

Our professional opinion is that it would interfere with the central brain’s sense of pride.

That is irrelevant.

In addition, the manual lens cover has not been updated with the latest prescription specifications since 2002.

Well, I guess that leaves lasering off the offending lens material, boys.

Oh, hell no, sir!

Repeat that?

I mean, sir, no thank you, sir. We’ll find a workaround.

I thought you might. We’ll expect a status report at 0200 hours.

In other words, my contacts suck - AGAIN.

I had to have an eye exam today. Those of you who know about my intense displeasure at having my eyes touched can probably imagine my enthusiasm.

After I checked in and elicited numerous reassurances that this eye exam would not involve eye-touching, I was left alone in the exam room. I took advantage of the lax security by searching the contact samples, hoping to steal a 30-year supply and ensuring I’d never need an eye exam again. They didn’t have my brand. Naturally.

The doctor came in and after I made her raise her right hand and promise not to touch my eye, she conducted the usual tests, which I think I failed.

“Which is clearer? Number 1 or Number 2?”

“Number 1.”

“Are you sure?”

“Um…Yes?”

“Try again.”

As the exam progressed, I felt calmer. Why would they need to touch my eye? The doctor already agreed that my contacts looked good, so there was no need to be fitted with new ones; that horrific glaucoma puff test had been replaced by the jaundice-inducing eye drops, my prescription hadn’t really changed; and my eyes looked healthy. I was in the clear.

That’s when the doctor told me she was going to insert some numbing drops.

“Numbing drops?!? What for?” I asked, looking for the nearest eye instrument to fashion into a weapon.

“Oh, to test for blah blah blah blah.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to touch my eye!“

“I’m not going to touch your eye,” she said, clearly annoyed with me. “Just the outer layer of tears.“

Would this be the outer layer of tears located 14 blocks away? Or the outer layer of tears located ON MY EYE?!?

As she used her dagger-sharpened fingernail to pull my eyelid up (which, JESUS), I had to endure a moving, neon purple metal tip touch my eye not once, but 5 times, because oops, I kept moving. Also, I kept dying.

Then she put those dilating drops in my eyes and made me wait in the waiting room with 50 other people because the other doctor was behind schedule. I looked like a dork, wearing lame paper sunglasses, the poor man’s version of Nicole Richie. Also, I was blind, since I had to remove my contacts, and the only reading material was a magazine about asthma. Which I read cover to cover. TWICE.

The other doctor then spent 2 minutes with me, but I didn’t care because he didn’t touch my eye, which meant I allowed him to live.

It’s now been over two hours since I’ve gotten back to work and my pupils are still dilated. For reference, this is a great condition to have if you need to edit documents for a living. Or to see.

The plus side? I’m totally waiting for nighttime. I bet I’ll have killer night vision. You know, underneath my outer layer of tears.

Grand Old Day in St. Paul was yesterday. Jason and I had been planning how we were going to eat our way through the giant street festival, starting with giant corndogs and mini donuts and cheese curds and then maybe celebrating our accomplishment of walking the whole 2-mile stretch with some ice cream.

Instead, I ate three chicken strips and promptly lost my appetite. It wasn’t exactly too hot to be outside, but we became listless quickly. My plan early in the week was to be smart and wear lots of sunscreen and tennis shoes, but as I was getting ready yesterday, I foolishly decided on skimpy sunscreen haphazardly applied, and not only flimsy sandals, but sandals I had just purchased the day before.

Planning is not my strong suit.

Although I did have the foresight to bring my glasses along (rather, Jason did, as he was wearing cargo shorts with approximately 347 pockets), and I then had the pleasure of having my fourth brand of contacts prescribed by my third eye doctor in six months crap out halfway through the day, whereupon I got to pry around under my eyelid for my wayward contact in a stifling port-a-potty that had neither a mirror nor toilet paper - nor antiseptic hand lotion. And I had just eaten spicy chicken tenders.

My eyes burned for an hour afterward.

That whole being awake during Lasik thing? Yeah - looking better and better to me.

I have tomorrow off, which would normally be heaven, especially with the holiday weekend approaching, but instead will involve having the following conversation for the third time in three months, as I have YET another eye exam to try to figure out why my contacts hate me:

Me: “I’m sorry, but you can’t touch my eye.”

Optometrist: [Tries to touch my eye]

Me, backing away quickly and using wild hand gestures for emphasis: “No, seriously! I cannot have anyone touch my eye. Only I can touch my eye. It’s like Excalibur that way.”

Optometrist, now annoyed: “Let me just place this contact on your eye.”

Me, panicking: “You can’t! I get violent when people try to touch my eye.”

Optometrist: [Touches my eye]

Me: [Punches optometrist in the throat]

I absolutely cannot stand it when people touch my eye. Gaaaah. I feel like punching someone in the throat just thinking about it. There’s no way I could ever have Lasik. Not if it involves being awake - they’d have to totally sedate me. You know, to avoid all the throat punching.

ANYway, our house party went great. We had over 30 people there and it was so much fun. We overestimated the amount of hot dogs we’d need and underestimated the amount of potato chips. Which is too bad, because I could go for some chips right now, and all we have to eat is seventeen thousmillion hot dogs.

I’m in a great mood today, even though I am typing this one-eyed. I had to remove my left contact because it was using its fingernails to claw itself off my eyeball. After doing so, I discovered I had forgotten my glasses at home.

I remembered the case for them though.

Would you like to touch my eye? I need to punch something.