Picture This! (Richmond, VA)

(Written in March, 2011)

My passport expires in June, so I need to re-apply. Piece of cake. Fill out some paperwork, write a check, and -- uh oh! -- here's the hitch: include two, unsmiling, poorly lit photos that make criminal mug shots look glamorous by comparison.

I visit my friendly neighborhood pharmacy, scooting into the restroom to apply lipstick. To avoid looking like death warmed over, I dab some color on my cheeks. Then I run my hands (a.k.a. comb substitute) through my hair. Voila! I'm ready. The face reflected in the mirror isn't pretty, but it shouldn't scare the pants off or the be-jesus out of anyone.

I find the photo counter and the sweet 20-something who takes the pictures. He poses me in front of the white background, which helps create the desired effect.

Click. I examine the image: horror-film zombie.

Help! I've been face-snatched!

This can't possibly be me! Have I inherited my neck from a patchy, scaly, mottled dinosaur? Whose eyes are these? They're staring in different directions, indisputable proof of human evolution from a close insect-ancestor. Wrinkles I never noticed crease forehead and cheeks. A plethora of wrinkles -- maybe they've somehow moved from your face to mine. Hurry! Check the mirror! Maybe you are now wrinkle-free!

I am gazing at an unfamiliar map, crisscrossed with previously unchartered rivers and deltas, all etched in hi-def display. Freckles and shadows and dark discolorations vie with each other on an ashen background, coalescing in a patchwork quilt of splotchiness on what once I considered my face.

"Is this your first day?" I ask the photographer.

We give it another shot.

This time my eyes peer in the same direction, but I look as if I'm either facing a firing squad or viewing my own corpse. My hair, equally alarmed, stands on end.

I am visibly, as well as visually, distressed.

The camera man, momentarily perceptive, tells me that no woman is happy with her passport photo. Whipping out an album from behind the counter, he shows me a parade of highly disturbing and disturbed visages.

"That one's not bad," I say, pointing to the photo of a blue-eyed blond -- probably not at her photogenic best but passable -- about 20 years my junior. "I'll take it!"

Camera guy snatches the book from my hands. "You can't do that!" he admonishes.
"They won't let you use somebody else's photo. That doesn't look anything like you!"

"I prefer to think that's what they're going to say if I pull out the photograph that you just took," I reply and add, "Please do not say anything that is going to get you killed."

Of course, that's his invitation to say, "You don't really look THAT bad."

"You don't have a wife or a girlfriend, do you?" I ask him, sweetly. He shakes his suddenly pale-faced head, his eyes darting around the store like balls on a billiards table.

Female readers will understand with no problem that this fellow had just confirmed that I look terrible. But I must interpret his "manguage" into language that camera guy, himself, can comprehend. "This is not a compliment," I explain. "There is nothing, I mean NOTHING, that you can say to make me feel good about this photo except that your camera is obviously defective and that you don't know how to take a picture. Or you can just close your mouth and leave the building."

The poor kid is in shock. I pay for the photos, but only to console him.

I am depressed for the rest of the day.

A Visit with Baby Doc (Richmond, VA)

I am miserable. I can't walk comfortably, which means I can't salsa or zumba. The ball of my foot is aching, so I find an orthopedist (orthopod?) who specializes in problems of the foot and ankle.

If you're like me, you never saw the TV show "Doogie Howser"(sp?), but you might be familiar with the premise (or perhaps I'm making it up): a 15-year-old is a brilliant medical practitioner.

Well, my foot doctor looks like that guy's younger brother.

Doogie, Jr. lopes into the examining room and, without niceties or preamble (such as: "Hello, how are you?" or "What brings you here today?"), asks: "How old are you?"

The response I want to give is: "How old are YOU?" but I refrain and tell him, instead, my age.

"Diabetes?" he asks.

I barely resist the urge to reply, "Cancer?"

My back is up. Of course, now that I'm in his office, my foot doesn't even hurt, but I'm upset about wasting my time and my co-payment on a young whippersnapper who lacks any discernible bedside -- or even roadside -- manner.

X-rays reveal no broken bones (even as a result of the stiletto-ing I received from somebody's heel a couple of months ago). Junior starts pressing different areas of my foot. When he jabs his finger so far into the top of my foot that I fear it will emerge through my very soul, I yelp.

"Your toe is swollen," he says.

"And you're the one who swolled it!" I want to shout. I resist both making the accusation and using the incorrect verb conjugation. The ball of my foot doesn't hurt a bit; the toe throbs.

"You need a splint," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for a cortisone shot."

I am not into needles and don't want them into me. "If the splint doesn't work, what are my alternatives?" I ask.

He picks up one of my shoes and bends it until it almost breaks in half. "You need a shoe with a stiff sole. Buy one from us or go through your closet."

Little Doogie has, obviously, never gone through my closet, and I don't have all year to search for a hard-soled shoe, so I ask to view his collection. He leaves, leaving me to ponder whether the styles will resemble running shoes or comfortable but hideous, old-lady shoes.

His assistant returns with something that you'd wear after a major skiing accident.

"This will not work for me in Mexico," I think. "What's another option?" I ask the mock doc when he returns.

"A metal plate you put in your shoe," he says. "If that doesn't work, come back next week for the cortisone shot."

Baby Doc's obviously stuck in an eager-to-inject mindset. I'm in escape mode.

I go straight-away to the pharmacy where Doctini said I'd find the splint. He wrote down the name of the item, but when I reach the store, I can't find the note.

"I'm looking for a something for my toe. A bindi splint? (Some kind of henna-painting device?) A Burundi splint? A banana splint?"

The guy behind the counter looks at me as if I were crazier than I am. Whatever it is that I want, he doesn't have it -- or a clue.

I approach another employee. She Googles and identifies what I'm searching for: a budin splint. We both scan the shelves and locate something by another name.

When I go out the next day, I wear the booty splint for about an hour. My digit is red, swollen, throbbing -- in such pain that I tear the thing off (the splint, not the toe) and ditch it. Wow! I feel better!

A little while later, the original pain returns. What am I to do?

The cortisone shot's a no-brainer; I'm not going to get it for my toe, either.

Forget about the metal plate. Trying to explain that it's not a weapon, as I am forced out of the boarding line on the way to my airplane to Mexico, is about as appealing as trying to get through Customs with a thousand condoms. (See my first blog entry.)

I'm going to try the rest-and-hope-for-the-best method. Hopefully, it'll work, and I'll dance my way through Mexico.

And if I'm still in pain when I get back to the States, I'm going to find a grown-up, mature, professional doctor who'll greet me before he suggests splints, metal plates, cortisone shots, or amputation. A nice "hello" and a smile always make me feel better...

One Shot Before Dinner (Richmond, VA)

It's 3:15 p.m. I get on line in the pharmacy for a flu shot. I'm number 95. I ask the woman who hands me the pre-shot questionnaire ("Have you ever had a negative reaction to a flu shot?" "Are you allergic to eggs?" "Will anybody realize you're acting oddly if you start screeching like an angry monkey?" "Have you updated your will?")how long it will be before I get my turn. She doesn't know and wouldn't care that I have to be at a former student's apartment for dinner at 4:30.

Ahmed lives at least 20 minutes away. I wonder if I should wait or just go next door to the florist, buy a nice bouquet or plant, and arrive at dinner relaxed and on time. I opt for stress.

I am not about to stand idly in line. I'll get some work done. The time will fly by and before I know it, I'll be cradling my wounded arm and wondering if this is my last shot. ("If you notice itching, swelling, or tingling at the site of the injection, call your doctor, rush like mad to the emergency room, and dictate your epitaph to the triage nurse.")

I rifle through my Mexican shopping bag, pulling out folders crammed with papers that will, hopefully, form the basis of a presentation I'm giving to 120 new teachers in two sessions next week and which I haven't had time to think about. I shuffle through the sheets, make mental notes -- always a bad move when you're prone to forgetfulness -- and ten minutes or so later, try to put the folders back. They won't fit, so I just shove them in. They're obviously not taking this kind of treatment from me, so they fight back, flying back out and spreading their contents all along the aisle. Everyone watches me (no, I'm not being paranoid) as I hunt down and gather up my stuff.

I decide to jot down my mental notes. After fumbling through my purse to find a pen, I pull the inker out. In obvious collusion with the folders, it jumps out of my hand, shoots into the air, torpedoes down an aisle, and rolls under a display. Everyone watches me as, on hands and knees, I try to retrieve the impudent implement.

Returning to my place in the line that hasn't advanced an inch in 25 minutes, I balance my Mexican bag on a shelf. The shelf collapses. Everyone looks at me. I shrug and mumble that I'm not going to attempt to fix it, as it will probably break.

I tap my toes, then stand on them. I stretch my legs, first one, then the other. Stretched, tapped, and still standing, I decide to find out how long it will be until I reach the front of the line. "I'll be right back," I tell the people who aren't watching me.


Zig-zagging my way through aisles showcasing cosmetics, candy, and weird things straight out of late-night TV ads or science fiction movies(pastel-colored plastic balls that fluff your laundry; pink pads that remove hair from even your most delicate body parts by simply rubbing; electronic devices that shield you from shrieking monkeys), I make my way to the front of the line, in the back of the store.

"Excuse me," I say in my most ingratiatingly pleasant and polite voice. "I'm number 95. Can you please tell me how long it'll be before I get my shot?"

The nurse stops mid-jab to glare at me, pointing the needle as if it were a sword and I the sorry knight who lost the battle. "We are working as fast as we can!"

"I know you are," I say in my most groveling and ingratiating voice. "But could you please just tell me what number you've reached?"

She practically spits at me: "Sixty-nine!"

I return to my place in line. I wrestle my pen to a notepad and figure out that at this rate, I will probably get shot, if not killed, by about 4:15.

We nano-inch forward. When I am finally within sight of the needle-wielders, the kindly couple standing in front of me instructs me to go ahead of them. I thank them and realize later that they must have been watching the proceedings. When I turn again to thank them, they are nowhere in sight -- probably slunk out the front door, high-tailed it to their car, and sped out of the lot, panting in fear and relief.

I am hoping that the nurse doesn't recognize me. I try to make small talk, in my friendliest, most charming voice. Apparently, charming friendliness doesn't work with everyone. I swear that every bit of pent-up rage that this woman has ever felt in her entire, very long life, went into that one thrust into my arm. I'm surprised that the needle didn't break in two or, at the very least, fly into the air in imitative pen-movements. I almost did.

I lurch out of the pharmacy and into the florist. It takes me 15 minutes to make it back to my car, bouquet in hand (of working arm).

It's 4:30. Not too bad. Ahmed is from Saudi Arabia, and in the class before he transferred out (he had to change nights for family reasons), we had discussed when people arrive for dinner in various countries. In the US, I'd explained, you can be 10 minutes or so late. I remember that in Saudi Arabia, you can arrive something like an hour to four weeks late without a problem.

Ten minutes later, I'm driving through the apartment complex, searching for the right building. I find it, but cannot find an unreserved parking spot. I recall the discussion in my class the night before. My students were telling me that none of their friends visit them anymore, because their cars were always towed for parking in residents' spaces.

I ride around for 10 minutes. Reserved. Reserved. Every spot is reserved. There should have been a sign reading "NO VISITORS ALLOWED." After asking various residents where the guest parking is and getting "I don't know" for an answer each time, I park in front of Ahmed's building and exit my car.

Some rather unsavory looking young men are lurking near the building's entrance. "Will I have a problem if I park here?" I ask.

"You'll get towed," Unsavory #1 responds.

"Do you know where there's a space for visitors?" I ask.

"Never seen one," says Lurker #2.

They both run around the lots, searching for a space. Lurker finally finds one and plants himself there until I pull in.

I thank them and walk to the building. It's three stories high. When I step inside, I realize that Ahmed never gave me the apartment number.

I ring all four doorbells and move to the center of the hallway.

A man opens a door. That's when I realize that I don't remember Ahmed's last name.

"Do you know Ahmed?" I ask in my hopeful voice.

"No English," he says. "My daughter speak."

The daughter comes to the door. She doesn't know any Ahmed.

"He's got four or five children," I say in a more hopeful voice.

They both shake their heads no.

In my most hopeful voice, I say, "His wife covers."

They point straight up.

I climb the stairs and ring the bell. Ahmed's oldest son opens the door, smiles, and lets me in. Ahmed's wife comes over, smiles, and tells me to sit down.

She serves me weak coffee, flavored with cardomom, in a tiny porcelain cup. She places a bowl of dates in front of me and apologizes that Ahmed is not home yet; he's getting a flu shot at the hospital.

I help the oldest daughter with her science homework. I talk with Houda and Abdullah. Houda calls Ahmed to tell him that I am in the apartment.

When Ahmed arrives, about an hour later, he apologizes profusely. Later, he tells me that he thought that I was coming for dinner on the 27th. We had originally scheduled for the 20th, but I'd told him that I had to work until 8pm that night. I thought that we'd agreed on the 22nd. I am mortified. Everyone is gracious.

The family admires the flowers. I admire the dinner (biryani with chicken, almonds, and raisins) and a salad of chopped cucumbers and tomatoes.

Ahmed is late for his class. I am late for a meeting. I thank everyone and say goodnight. They tell me I am welcome anytime.