You might open up your eyes

I tossed and turned last night. I think I was on a mental scavenger hunt for something I haven't been able to find in quite some time. Sleep. The other day, I misplaced my camera and went on a vicious search around my house for it. Giuliette and Ricky, both practicing Christians, mentioned that I should utter the words "Saint Anthony" and, while saying the saint's name, I would magically stumble upon the missing item. I thought that'd be a little bit silly, and ignored their suggestion. I found the camera a little bit later and all was good. But last night was just a hassle. Not only could I not find sleep but both of my ears were in severe pain. So, there I was, a Jew wiggling beneath my Anthropologie duvet, whispering "Saint Anthony" over and over again--hoping I'd find the sleepy solitude I needed so desperately. Sort of a ridiculous scene to play over in my head. 

The sleep never came. I'm not sure if maybe that was God's way of punishing me. Perhaps I should've been repeating "Moses" or "Devora" in my head instead. The godly smiting persisted when I crawled out of bed at 12:45 this afternoon, feeling as if I had gone half deaf except for a shrill buzzing noise deep inside my ear. I decided it was about goddamn (pun intended) time I get myself to a doctor. I called a local ear, nose, and throat doctor, but a snooty receptionist told me the doctor was away until wednesday. Figuring that I wouldn't be able to endure the buzzing and clogged ears all the way on to wednesday, I called my own doctor. I was lucky to get a 3:15 appointment (which means I wasn't seen until about 4.) Turns out, I didn't have an ear infection, but a bad, bad case of impacted wax. My doctor filled a Windex-like spray bottle with water, and attached a long, straw-like contraption to the nozzle. He squirted about fifteen spritzes of water into each of my ears, causing the wax to come spirting out each ear. Sorry, graphic. It felt good. I think my ears may be a-okay now. 

While leaving the doctor's office, I scanned the small cubbies of pamphlets. Hep-A seminars, babysitting requests within the county, and a rather out of place looking thick flyer. "ONE PEOPLE 1 SOUL: AN EVENING OF TRIBUTE TO THE REBBE" Now, there are places where a flyer like this would seem appropriate. A synagogue, a J-CC, a kosher butcher. Now, I might be Jewish, but I am also fairly certain that a doctor's office is more of a secular experience than a religious gathering (thank you, Beizer.) I also noticed that I was probably the first person to grab a flyer (for the sole purpose of being able to quote it in this entry.) I highly doubt that Marilyn O'Donnell and her six month old son with a case of the chicken pox, could really use a spiritual desert commemorating the Lubavitcher Rebbe. 

Things only became more comical after the trip to the doctor. My mom and I then ventured to the post office where we needed to both renew my passport as well as send my brother, who is off at camp, a box of Oreo Cakesters, Swedish Fish, and a Nerf ball. While the passport renewal took less time than we had anticipated, the shipping was the ridiculous part of the day. Leave it to the bureaucracy of the New York state post office to charge my mother to tape a box together. They literally made her pay $3.29 to tape her own cardboard box together. Talk about absurd. So, when we moved the box to the counter--to tape it up--a short, black man with a parted sea of grey curls, essentially yelled at us. "That is NOT the counter for boxing shipments!" He then pointed to a counter about two inches to the left of us and gestured for us to tape the small box over there. I believe there is probably some sort of criteria for being able to work at the post office. You must have some sort of personality disorder. I guess they call it "going postal" for a reason.