It provided me a sense of wonder when those foreign correspondents would communicate, whether it be via ink or broadcast, from a far-off locale.
OK, it’s my turn.
Today’s column: Dateline COVID Limbo.
Hang on a second, all you Columbo’s out there. No, I don’t have Wuhan Humdinger. Then again, I can’t say with certainty I am COVID free.
For clarity, I feel like I would be better suited to sit steaming in a pasture. However, I have no fever, cough or headache. I’m pretty sure I haven’t missed the bus on this one.
Still, I feel like one ran me over.
The saying goes: “You can’t be a little bit pregnant.” I’ll have to take you ladies’ word for it.
So maybe I’m a little bit COVID?
A lot of folks are saying: “I’m so over this!” I’d say that too, except I’m not sure I’ve even got it.
Last Sunday, Vicki cooked her mac daddy chicken enchiladas. I saw them. I watched the cheese bubble. But I couldn’t smell them. I had no appetite and I couldn’t taste anything.
Uh-oh. A neighbor (and it seems like everyone else) has gone all Marcus Welby.
“They’re now saying that loss of taste and smell is the symptom that means you definitely have COVID,” I was reminded by a neighbor, co-workers and that pint-size bundle of joy, Dr. Fauci.
As I write this, my appetite has returned. Unfortunately, Greg polished off what remained of the enchiladas.
After stumbling around on Monday, it was time to come to grips and see if I had been one of the COVID chosen. Time to get tested.
All kinds of suggestions were fired at me. I was told CVS was easy. Drive-thru and be done with it. All you have to do is make an appointment.
I spent hours dealing with crashed websites, loopy receptionist. C’mon, how many times did she have to ask me my birthday, insurance carrier and address?
For the most part, the answer was the same. Being told an appointment is necessary in order to get tested didn’t seem to be a big deal.
I didn’t realize my appointment was to make an appointment to get a test.
And oh, by the way, who’s your insurance carrier and what’s your birthday?
Luckily, the folks at Cumming Family Practice got me in the same afternoon.
I was a winner, just like on a game show and was told to come on down. Post-COVID test, I made a solemn vow to myself that I would never do anything close to a nose-picking maneuver.
That’s because the two ladies at the clinic, wearing yellow hazmat suit-looking garb were providing services consisting of checking a pulse, taking a temperature and asking questions.
It was all going so well until I had a long Q-tip crammed up my left nostril, at least five times as far as any digit could travel.
But wait, there was more.
Encore! Cram that sucker up the right side. This time, see if you can scrape up some brain tissue. All the while the (I’m sure she meant well) weapon wielder told me to breathe and relax.
I went 1-for-2. No way to relax. And no way was I about to cry in front of Ms. Hazmat.
Do I have the virus?
Good question. One I will be able to answer in 5-7 days.
Stay with me here: By the time I know if I’m infected, I’ll probably be close to done with the blasted thing.
I’d like to find the lab where test results come from and treat the technician like a maitre’d in a crowded restaurant. A discreet 20-dollar handshake and the results would appear, much like that “unavailable” table.
Infected or not. There will be no testing do-over. I’m pretty sure my “smeller” has been resurrected.
I had an opened can of sardines thrust under my nose.
If I couldn’t have smelled those, it would have been time to dig a hole.
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other weekend. He’s grateful the nasal swab wasn’t performed on a dusty day. There’s no telling what would have emerged from the bat cave. Comments can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. He is also on Facebook.