Welcome to Hack Mule Notebook #11! I’ve had a busy and eventful week, although I’ve been sticking pretty close to home—it’s amazing how productive a full day working at my desk can be.
And this is a long weekend thanks to the federal holiday. Columbus Day has always been one of my favorite holidays. It requires us to do nothing—you don’t have to go to church, buy anyone presents, decorate, or pretend to thank veterans for their service. (Do thank veterans, of course, just mean it, please. But more on that next month.)
For many years, I ate spaghetti on Columbus Day to commemorate the Italian explorer’s voyages to the Far East, where he sought a trade route, but found spaghetti.
Later I learned that was Marco Polo, not Columbus, and the Italians had been eating pasta for centuries by then. But my cause is just, so I keep eating it.
Anyway, here’s what went into my notebook last week:
My Evening with Poison Control
1-800-222-1222
My mother was a big fan of the Poison Control Center when I was little. We called them a lot. Like the time I chugged some Lemon Pledge when I was three. Or when I tried to lick the silver polish off the silver just before Thanksgiving when I was four. Or when I chewed on the ficus when I was teething.
We dialed that number so often that Mom had it taped up next to every phone. She even made me memorize it.
What can I say? I was a challenge.
I eventually learned how to open the refrigerator and eat actual food, so until a few nights ago, I’d never needed it as an adult. But late Friday night, I was taking some new medications when I suddenly wondered if I’d made a bad mistake: Had I just accidentally taken the same drug twice? I couldn’t be sure, and I needed to be—it was a medication that can tank blood sugar and send you into a coma at the wrong dose.
It was too late at night to call my doctor’s cell phone, especially to say, “I might have done this dumb thing…but I’m not sure.” I could have run over to Suburban Hospital, but after the horrible care I got there a few weeks ago, I’ve placed that in the “only if the EMT insists” column. And since I don’t even like CVS when I use self-checkout, urgent care there was out of the question.
So I did the logic-adjacent thing and asked ChatGPT. It offered a brilliant response: Call Poison Control. 1-800-222-1222.
Poison Control had never even occurred to me. I thought it was exclusively for childhood mishaps and chemical exposures. It turns out that’s just the start. They handle all drugs, including prescription, over-the-counter, recreational, and even veterinary. Plants? Insect stings? Weird smells? Food poisoning? Whatever causes a reaction, they can help 24/7/365.
And that same number works everywhere in the United States—dialing it will connect you with your local poison center. And it’s always free and private.
The Maryland Poison Center, which serves Maryland and the District of Columbia, is a division of the University of Maryland School of Pharmacy, and it’s staffed with specially trained nurses and pharmacists.
That’s important to remember when budget cuts target higher education. This is a service we need to protect.
But more important to me at 1 a.m. was how kind, professional, knowledgeable, and reassuring they were. The nurses I spoke to—and I talked to about six of them in 24 hours—radiated competence and caring. Within moments of calling, I had a care plan: actions to take, signs to watch for, and next steps if anything changed.
And this is not like calling some soulless 800-number with customer service reps. They treated me as their patient, and they called to check on me five times over the course of the day and night. They even followed up the next day to ensure that everything was back on course.
I was blown away. I had no idea about the breadth—and quality—of the service the Maryland Poison Center provides. Their website explains that their mission is to improve patient outcomes while reducing health care costs. Each dollar spent on the Maryland Poison Center saves $16.77 in health care costs. Nationally, the 52 Poison Centers save $3.1 billion in health care costs each year.
This was news to me, so I had to share it with you all. I’d urge you to save that number—and tell your friends. (And be careful when taking your medications!)
And again, that number is: 1-800-222-1222.
Listening
“Anticipation,” Carly Simon—in the ketchup aisle at Giant. A man about my age smiled, pointed at the speaker playing the music, and said, “Coolest thing that has ever happened at Giant.”
“Paraiso,” Lost Frequencies and Mari Froes. At my desk—you’ll want to get up and dance.
“Tall Cool One,” Robert Plant. Don’t know why, but I heard it multiple times last week.
“The Battle of New Orleans,” Johnny Horton. My next-door neighbor was playing it at 2 a.m. the other morning.
“Get It On (Bang a Gong),” Power Station. What I played through the wall at 2:02 a.m. to remind my neighbor that sound travels.
“Tropicalia,” Beck. On the way to the County Council Transportation & Environment Committee hearing.
“Mr. Lincoln,” The Jayhawks. On Ride On, contemplating this song about the Lincoln assassination. It’s catchy, but not as catchy as “Our American Cousin—The Musical!”
“Ain’t Nobody Talkin’,” Taj Mahal & Keb’ Mo’. Around the house.
“The Goodbye Look,” Donald Fagen. Trying to stay awake between Poison Center calls.
“Holiday Road,” Lindsey Buckingham. Alexa randomly played it at 6 a.m. one morning. Fair.
Hack Mule Hits are now available on Spotify and Apple Music.
Listen on Spotify | Listen on Apple Music
Elevator Follies
Chucks and Salwars
I got onto the elevator at the Leviathan the other day, where a woman wearing a floral caftan and red Chuck Taylors was bickering about the building’s air-conditioning with a woman so tiny and wrinkled, I wondered if she’d washed herself in hot water one too many times.
I’ve seen them both around for years, but I don’t know them by name.
The Chuck Taylor woman looked at me, gestured vaguely toward my sling, and said, “I see you still have that thing. Poor Kristen!”
Tiny Terror nodded sympathetically. “Poor Kristen!”
I smiled and patted my arm. “Would you press 14 for me, please?”
Chuck Taylor seemed annoyed, but she hit the button.
We rode up a floor to the lobby, where an elderly Indian woman pushing a wire basket filled with dry cleaning got on.
Chuck Taylor leaned over to examine the dry cleaning. “Look at those beautiful fabrics! Are they saris?”
The Indian woman, clearly delighted to talk about her dry cleaning, said, “No, these are tops with pants. They’re salwars.”
Tiny Terror reached into a dry-cleaning bag to finger the fabric on one of the salwars. “This is beautiful! Is it silk?”
“Thank you! No, it’s cotton. Quite annoying, actually. Has to be dry-cleaned, because it wrinkles so much, I’d spend all day ironing them.”
Chuck Taylor, possibly sensing an alternative to caftans, asked, “Where do you get them?”
The Indian woman lit up with excitement—she’d been waiting years for someone to ask. “A place up in Rockville. You should come with me sometime. You’d really enjoy it!”
Tiny Terror squinted at her. “Can I come, too?”
“Yes, of course! We’ll have lunch!”
The doors opened on 5. The Indian woman backed out of the elevator, positioning her cart to block the doors, because she wasn’t done talking.
“I could go on Tuesday,” she said.
Tiny Terror nodded. “Next Tuesday? I think I can do that.”
Chuck Taylor clapped. “Me, too!”
The Indian woman, ignoring the doors slamming into her cart and the elevator alarm going off, asked, “What are your names?”
They told her and exchanged apartment numbers. She finally backed her cart out and the doors closed.
Chuck Taylor turned to me. “Now, Kristen, you’re still on 14, yes?”
Me, vaguely alarmed that a person I don’t know has this information in her head: “Yes.”
“Great,” she said. “I’ll stop by with all the details about Tuesday. Do you want to drive?”
“Oh,” I stammered, patting my sling. “I have an arm…”
Tiny Terror’s head started bobbing. “I think we should all go together because we don’t know where we’re going.”
Finally, we got to my floor.
Chuck Taylor clapped again. “Oh, this is so fun! I can’t wait until Tuesday!”
Tiny Terror agreed. “I can’t either.”
I exited as fast as possible. “I’ll be home with my arm. Have fun!”
Milestones
Still missing: Amelia Earhart. Last week, Hack Mule reported that an expedition funded by Purdue University had set out for Nikumaroro Island in search of the plane Amelia Earhart used during her ill-fated attempt to fly around the world. (At least we think it was ill-fated—maybe Amelia ended up living happily on a tropical island without a care in the world. We have our suspicions.) Purdue announced late last week that the expedition will reach the island on Monday. Then, we’ll see what develops. Your Hack Mule correspondent will stay on this stuff until all the news is broken.
On the menu: McDonald’s is now offering “Pickle Boost,” a pickle-brine electrolyte drink timed to appear alongside the Chicago Marathon. I’d really like to meet the marketing whiz who thought, “Let’s aim for that subset of McDonald’s customers who run far and drink pickle juice. Both of them.”
On tap: Coca-Cola announced that it will begin testing prebiotic versions of Coke Zero, Sprite Zero, and Fresca later this month.
I have no idea what “prebiotic” means, but Coca-Cola says the new Coke Zero will contain six grams of fiber, providing what the company calls “added functionality.”
In other words, Coke Zero will now make you poop. Perhaps they should change the name from Coke Zero to Coke Number 2.
Playing
Left-handed Scrabble
A warning to anyone who plays word games with me: By the time I get out of this sling, I am going to be unstoppable. Turns out typing with only my left hand is like living with a satanic rack of Scrabble tiles. But I’m learning how to cope, and my left-keyboard vocabulary grows by the day.
I maxed out on the easy ones—fad, fab, fade, saber, wade, was, twas, bags, crags, warts, and zebra—the first week. But I’ve come to realize that the left-handed typist can also produce words like reverberated and stewardesses.
I’m even producing left-handed haiku:
A great red zebra
Eats qat, reverberates
Stewardesses stare.
Sure, I know “stewardesses” is no longer appropriate, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stretch across the keyboard for “flight attendants.”
Spotted in the Wild—October 5
The Montgomery County Board of Elections does some great and important work ensuring that our elections run smoothly and fairly. They also engage the public—even future voters.
Montgomery County is one of the only counties in the United States that engages middle-school and high-school students as election workers. The Board of Elections anticipates more than 1,500 students assisting with this year’s elections.
And the Board publishes important documents, such as this voters’ guide. It explains all the ways people can cast ballots this year. It provides information on ballot drop-offs and voting sites. It has a sample ballot. It’s in English and Spanish. It’s even topped with an American flag and the Montgomery County seal.
If only the cover mentioned the date of the election… Oh, well, no one’s perfect.