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Blog/September 2017/Sep 8th

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September 8th

Not a lot to report this week. We were both very busy. The Norks decided to crank the lunacy knob all the way up. The BBC tells us that “digital black-face” is unacceptable. There go my plans for the future.

Just FYI:


I’ve been very busy with 8th. I’m working on expanding the features for the next release; in particular, an assembler for the Professional version and above. Today I posted about various options for embedding an array (in a word) in 8th, since it’s a topic which seems to cause a bit of confusion amongst new users.

I’m continuing discussions with various and sundry contacts (mostly from LinkedIn), and hope that something “gels” in the near future. Of course, we’ve got the “holidays” coming in two weeks, which means for a month-and-a-half nothing’s going to happen here in the Land.

The highlight of my week was going to get a tetanus booster. Sad, I know; but wait for the story!

I contacted my doctor to ask if I needed a tetanus booster, since it’s been 10 years since the last one. He sent me a referral to the nurse’s station (they’re the ones who do all the jabbing and poking). So I set up an appointment with them, and showed up at the designated time (the instructions were very clear that one must not be late!).

The nurse wasn’t ready at the appointed time, so I had to wait. Eventually, she saw me and started grilling me, “Why do you need a t-booster? Where do you work? You know, if you get injured the shot is free, but you have to pay for it otherwise? It’s only been nine years, you don’t need a shot! Blah, blah, blah.”

I agreed that I would pay for the shot. But they didn’t have the plain tetanus booster, since apparently there’s a nationwide shortage of that. So she had to give me a DPT shot instead. I said, “Fine, I don’t care”. But nothing is as simple as, “roll up your sleeve”. Not at the Nurse’s Station.

She proceeded to make me remove my footwear so she could check my feet. She gave me the shot. She took my BP and height and weight. She duly informed me about my dietary restrictions, as if I hadn’t heard them fifty times already. She suggested all manner of improvements I might make. She told me about the expected side-effects of the injection. Then she told me to go pay for it at the office.

Whenever I go to the Nurse’s Station, it takes an hour.

At the office, there was a line of people (a “queue”, for my proper English-speaking friends) waiting to be taken care of by the solitary clerk. Normally, one takes a number from the handy number-dispensing machine. But the handy NDM wasn’t working, so we were operating in time-honored Israeli fashion by asking, “who’s last?”. Slowly, the queue advanced and I fretfully anticipated the culmination of my visit.

The people in front of me had a packet of papers as thick as their wrists. I was demoralized as the time in-queue stretched out.

But then, a miracle! My turn arrived, I confidently stepped up to the desk and told the clerk that I just wanted to pay. He hmmmed and pecked at the computer for several minutes. Got up and went to another station, came back. He said to me, “I’m sorry, but the computer won’t let me charge you for this”. Concealing my glee, I asked, “why?”. He said, “because the shot was for women (!?!) and it knows you’re a man”. How does the computer know how I identify?

I hope I didn’t get injected with birth-control hormones or something. I hope my breasts don’t grow too big as a result, I don’t want to buy more undershirts!

In the end, they did find a way to charge me for it, all 17 ILS (approx. USD 4.42). As always.

And that, my friends, was the highlight of my week. Read it and weep. Now my arm is completely painful, from the shoulder to my hand. Good times.

Weather was mostly pleasant, but it’s supposed to warm up over shabbat. Boo, hiss!

The two of us are going to feast outrageously on:
homemade ḥalla, pollo con papas de la abuela (de mi esposa), some kind of eggplant, baked ziti casserole, tuna salad, various salatim, ginger-snaps, and fruit.

Until next time,
shabbat shalom!




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