Well, hello there fellow internetters!! What has been going on with everyone? Sorry I haven't posted in a while but life has gotten kinda hectic. Anyhoo, I thought I would try a post.
Today I'm still having problems with the rapidly deteriorating state of my body. Well, maybe deteriorating isn't the right word choice, how about rearrangement. As everyone knows, Ms. Pippi is heading toward her golden years. A time of life when things should be getting a bit less stressful and freeing of inhibitions allows for new experiences. When I think about the age I am I think that I should have it all together and be one of those glamorous "older women". Nah, I'm looking more and more like Edith Bunker every day; some days I'm Edith crossed with Vicki Lawrence's "Momma" character.
Mid life. A time of change. A time for re-evaluating one's life achievements thus far and a time for planning the last half so as it may be as comfortable as possible. However, I think Mother Nature has other plans.
I have been going thru "peri-menopause" since I was 40 and I can honestly say, "I'm sick of it". The hot flashes are killing me. I can be having the most invigorating conversation with someone when all of the sudden I've become a lawn sprinkler. I don't even have the grace to be an oscillating one at that. I'm more like a garden hose nozzle that has been turned the "blast the paint off the car" setting. Now mind you this doesn't happen all at once. No, it's more like I can be chatting with someone who is sitting in a chair with me standing beside them when a bead of sweat forms, slides its way down, usually, the side or back of my head until it lands with a "plop" on the head/shoulder/arm of my unsuspecting victim. The person will typically ignore the first drop but by the time the second or third begin to fall, one can note they begin to look around for either a leak in the ceiling or an air conditioning vent. IF I am lucky enough there will be at least a vent that we can blame it on, at least until I can make a hasty get away to the bathroom and dry off. Sometimes though, I'm not so lucky. Then the shower really starts which causes me to begin to pace back and forth behind the person I'm speaking with only to grab my shirt tail as soon as I'm out of their line of sight and swipe my forehead with it. But there is a limit to the number of times I can pull this off before my companion informs me I'm making them nervous with my pacing. At this point I have no other recourse but to excuse myself from further interaction with them for the rest of the evening.
Another irritating thing I have noticed is these little random hairs that are showing up in places they have never grown before. I have a scar on the underside of my chin from an incident involving being pushed down onto a piece of sharp glass on the playground when I was in the third grade; I ended up with several stitches and a lone black hair that began to grow there during puberty. That hair, once I discovered it was there, I shaved it off. My mother yelled at me once when she caught me shaving my face and informed me that if I continued to shave my face, then I would start to grow a beard. Well, I definitely did not want a face full of these black hairs as I was having a hard enough time being the only girl in fifth grade with 36C boobs, so, Mom showed me how to pluck my renegade hair.
Now mind you, she told me about the non shaving of facial hair but she never informed me about any additional body hair. I guess I was supposed to somehow "know" about the female grooming ritual. It wasn't until my sixth grade class had a swimming party at the local pool and I had pulled off my t-shirt and shorts to reveal my lovely one piece swimsuit I had picked out was I made aware there was a problem. And Mom, lacking a discreet bone in her body, let out a shriek followed by, "Oh my God PippiSnickerdoodlesky!! You look like Big Foot!" I can remember scrunching up my face not understanding what she was getting at. "Girl, why have you not shaved?" "I didn't need to. There wasn't a black hair on my chin", I said rubbing my hand across the scar. "NOT your face, your legs! You look like a hairy gorilla!" With the scowl still on my face I looked down at my legs and well, from the bottom leg openings of my suit down to my ankles there was a lot of black hairs, thick as the shag carpet we had in the living room. And we won't mention my arm pits. Well, that ruined the party for me. We didn't stay long because I was too embarrassed about my metamorphosis into a member of the ape family.
To say the episode that followed at home was unpleasant would be putting it mildly. I'm not real sure I remember how many razor blades we used. We had even tried Nair, like on the commercial, "If you dare wear short shorts, then Nair for short shorts", but that stuff was highly resistant to giving up its home. When the first "grooming" episode was over I remember having a lot of little cuts and my legs had red bumps all over them. We had used soap and water cuz Mom said that was all she ever used but she suggested next time I better use my Father's shaving cream since I was gonna have unruly hair like his. So began my hate-hate relationship with body hair.
Now that I'm older I'm so thankful for the day when those pesky leg hairs became lighter in color and fewer in number allowing me to stretch shaving periods for as long as possible. The problem is, the hair that was on my legs is now springing up in various spots on my head. Sometimes there will be two black hairs in my chin scar, other times there will be several hairs randomly scattered under my chin going down my neck. I have to say though the most amusing one, and I'm not sure how I didn't notice it for so long, was a long, curly one that grew from my cheekbone. Maybe because it was a light white color I didn't spot it or maybe I should blame it on the fact I try not to long too long in the mirror at my face because it gets scarier everyday.
Of course, Scooter was the one who found it for me and announced for everyone to hear, "Hey Mom, what's that hair doing?" "What hair Scooter?" "That hair on your face?" "I don't have any hair on my face Scooter, now quit it!" With that he promptly walked up to me, and with his fingers he grabbed the hair and gave it a good yank! Fortunately, he removed it and showed it to me. Well, that sent me into full panic mode. I had to immediately run to the bathroom and look in the mirror at every inch of my face. I even made Scooter come in with a flash light to make sure I hadn't missed a stray. Now it's an every day ritual. I check to see if there is a hair. Then I assess the quality and length of said hair. Next I analyze my plans for the day and based on if there is a chance I will appear in public on that day. After careful weighing of all factors, I usually find that I can let those little suckers hang around a while; at least until Scooter threatens to start braiding them.
Now, I know I have told you all about my breasticle issues, so, I don't feel we need to venture down that road again. Yet there is another area we have not covered in our discussions: the gastrointestinal tract of the older woman. For those lay persons, we will be discussing my bowels. Over the last couple of days it has been pretty interesting what sort of activities have been going on way down deep in the darkest nether regions of my body beginning yesterday. I was making my commute to work and at approximately at the half way point, I felt stirrings in my undercarriage. Of course, I was in the middle of nowhere. Ok, I think, is this an issue of air needing expelled or a brown turtle trying to poke his head out or worse, impending leakage of the icky kind?!
Like I said, I was in the middle of nowhere. As I am driving I'm trying to adjust myself in the seat to possibly relieve the urge at least until I reach civilization. Well, during one of my adjustments, a long forceful blast of air escaped, even with my tightly clinched butt cheeks. Great!! It was just gas I think to myself laughing as the air made its way up the front of my pants to my crotch and out my pants legs. I was so relived it wasn't anything worse. Until I got a whiff of that sucker. **Sniff, sniff* I smelled coffee. How could I smell coffee? There were no restaurants around and I don't drink coffee. About that time another urge hit so I let it rip. Again, once the gas had made its way through my pants leg I again smelled coffee. So, I thought for a while. Well, I know it's not a GI bleed because it smells like roasted almonds (and no, I hadn't eaten any almonds, I don't like them). After a bit I rationalized to myself that with all the rearranging my body has been doing over the years I guess my abdomen had decided to open a Starbucks in my bowels. I was satisfied with that explanation and it gave me cause to laugh at myself the rest of the way to work.
HOWEVER, today...today was different. I went to Taco Bell for lunch and with my limited budget I purchased a bean burrito. I love bean burritos and never have had a problem with them. When I returned back to the VA I still had time before I needed to head back in so I thought I would take a quick cat nap in the car, especially since I didn't sleep well last night. I set my cell phone alarm for 15 minutes, leaned the driver's seat back, and closed my eyes. I'm not sure exactly how long I laid there before I felt "IT" at the back door, my back side door that is. I wasn't alarmed because of yesterday's episode so I just squeezed the old butt cheeks as tight as I could to cut short this nonsense. Well, let's just say that my anus was having none of this nonsense because it decided instead of puckering, it would bulge. You know the feeling, like right before the poop is gonna blow. Well, I panicked. I yanked up the seat back, grabbed my purse, opened the car door, and headed toward the building with the quickest duck walk I could manage. I don't even remember if I locked the car door.
So here I am goose stepping as fast as I can while attempting to not look like I need to be a patient over in building 25. Halfway to the door, an overwhelming urge hit! I came to a complete stop. I not only squeezed my butt cheeks but I tightened my thighs and crossed my legs. I kept praying no one was watching as I tried to nonchalantly look around at the park lot. Once I thought it was safe to move again, I double timed the rest of the way to the door. I don't believe I have ever walked that fast but let me tell ya, it was a great workout for my glutes! Of course, I had to go to the original facility today; not the one I'm used to at UK, so, I have NO CLUE where there may be a single stall bathroom. As I opened the door to the building I looked right, nope, that was class rooms. So, I started walking, carefully, down the hall to my left. And as luck would have it, there were several Veterans standing around blocking the hallway having a social gathering. Once I was able to gentle maneuver around them, I continued on my bathroom quest, looking at door signs on my left and right as I goosestepped on. Until I heard, "Miss! Could you help me? I'm looking for Primary Care."
OMG!! I think. Not only do I desperately need a toilet but I don't have a clue where Primary Care is. If it's not a unit with intubated people, then I'm lost. But being a good girl I attempted to find a sign to show me where it was. Fortunately a couple hallways down there was a "You are here" map and I was able to locate it for him. I then lead him to the elevator bay and told him what floor to get off on. He thanked me for my help but I was too far gone by this time to do more than give him a quick "welcome" over my shoulder as I flew back down the hall. Walking, walking, oh no, here it comes, I'm not gonna be able to stop it, I know it!! OMG!!! I don't have a change of clothes, ugh!!
Then, like the beckoning sign of a Motel 6, I saw a sign for a unisex bathroom. As I ran the last few feet to the door, I began to pull up my shirt. I barely gave the door time to close, hit the button, threw my purse across the floor, and dropped trouser before Old Faithful blew her stack. I don't know how many times I flushed. I quit counting after 5. I know there were people out in the hall probably wondering what was wrong with that toilet, but I didn't care because this time it sure wasn't Starbucks that was gonna be lingering around today.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
First day of school/work...overrated
Ah, yes, the Pippster has been a tad negligent on the posting side. Sorry 'bout that but I'm gonna try to squeeze out one now.
So, yeah, went to UK today. Yeah...for those of you who don't know who or what UK is, please, by all means allow me to show you:
Yeah...no reason at all to be intimidated...at all...only 42 PACU beds and I believe, if I heard correctly, 32 OR suites. Nope, piece of cake...
W-E-L-L...it would be, maybe, if it hadn't also been the first day of classes. Yeah, newbie Pippi with newbie college freshmen, not a pretty combo. It was pretty much old lady vs young resilient flesh all day. I wish someone would have warned me I needed a battering ram, helmet, and elbow/knee pads. And that was just to get a parking spot.
What was that??? You could do it better? I'm sure you could as many of you have the advantage of age on me, but where's the fun in that?? It's more entertaining to see an old woman fight off an oblivious, bare chested, skateboarding freshman than someone who can blend in.
Anyhoo, back to the issue at hand. So, yeah, I've been a patient here and it wasn't that bad, mostly everyone just pointed me in the right direction. For today, I was armed with nothing more than a piece of paper with an address, time, and instructions to park in any "E" parking area.
Yes, any "E" parking area. Why any moron can do that? Now just where are those pesky "E" parking areas? Umm, I'm pretty sure I don't have a clue but that's ok, I have Google maps and in Lexington it's expected behavior to drive and be on one's cell phone. Yes, well, good luck to you if you are, in fact, hitting the prime time influx of people. It makes it a more challenging when everyone "knows" where to go and you, repeatedly, must refer to your phone.
Every one wants a parking spot and it's every man, woman, and invalid for him/herself. Not to mention that "E" parking areas are kinda like chameleons, they blend into their surroundings if the area you are looking at is #1 not the giant football stadium or #2 the lone parking garage that has the entrance hidden down a one way street. Not to mention the art of either trying to flag down the elusive shuttle bus or the 6 mile hike over under construction terrain one must undertake. Not a problem as long as it's cool weather, little trickier to breathe though when it's warm outside and your body decides now is the best time in the world to turn up the hot-flash-ometer! I hate menopause or peri-menopause or whatever the heck it is I'm supposedly going thru.
The first 6 hours I was inducted into the brainwashing of UK. Person after person came in and talked and talked and then talked some more. Each one was a little too enthusiastic cuz each wanted to know if I bled blue? Nope, 'fraid I don't. Didn't know it was a requirement. However, if you let me go on a hike again, then I'm sure I can turn my skin blue...
As each of the large electronic displays played video after video about the university, I found myself wondering when in the heck did trying to be a medical professional turn into one giant commercial with everyone saying, "You are playing a role. You are always on stage. You can never be out of character." Last time I checked my degrees indicated that I, in fact, studied to be a nurse, but I guess I am now an actress too! Yay!! A step up from maid.
Alrighty, so, I survived the first 8 hours of first day hell. Tomorrow is another 8 hours of healthcare initiation. It's in another building, which, fortunately, I have actually been in. However, I don't believe the trail of bread crumbs I left the last time I wandered around the surgery area will still be there. There are an awful lot of pesky people with brooms. I may need to consider a tracking device for myself. That's it!! I will pretend I'm on the set of Running Man and maybe I won't get lost if someone can keep tabs on my position 24/7 on a big giant screen!
Many times I questioned my sanity today (yeah, I know, what made today any different). I especially had a small panic attack when they mentioned there were 8000 employees and with classes in session, the total number of people comes to around 66, 000. Yeah, and I thought making the transition from small 100 bed community hospital to the Level 2 Trauma Center with 300 beds was gonna cause me to pee my pants. One would think I would have learned from prior experiences that change isn't always good, especially when one doesn't like crowds. Nor does it help that I've decided to have another position (fortunately next door to this monstrosity). I have not only lost my sanity, I'm pretty sure I've lost my mind. Unfortunately, the other place will insist I wear a white coat all the time. Not too happy with that either as the white coat they want me to wear is starched cotton and long, not my familiar burlap with buckles. I'm pretty sure I'm going to look like a sweaty toad wearing that.
So, I guess I will end this story, what there is of it, for today. But before I go, I would like to share one little fun nugget from today. Since I had to prance around in dress clothes and dress shoes, I was extremely delighted that when I was safely back in the bat mobile, I was able to kick off those shoes allowing my feet to breathe. I managed to fight my way back out of the traffic and onto the freeway. But during the fun of that, my breasticle restrainer decided that it had had enough. The beasties popped out of their cubbies, the snaps dug into my back, and the elastic band rolled up over the pointy end of both breasticles which resulted in them looking like 2 bald men with their faces pressed between the jail cell bars.
I wiggled and wormed, trying to ever so nonchalantly, return everyone to their appropriate positions. Of course, no one wanted to cooperate. So, I decided, as I'm driving down I64 that I will discreetly try to remove said restrainer. I slowly took my left hand placed it on my right shoulder and acted as if I had an itch while I shimmed the strap down. Next I repeated the same procedure for the left shoulder. Now, this was a sight for sore eyes because the girls had now decided to poke their behinds up and out of the neckline of my blouse. I was literally being held hostage by my own body and my clothes.
I was trying to figure out what to do when my cell phone rings and I must spend about 10 minutes in a conversation while tressed up worse than a Thanksgiving turkey. Finally I was able to get the caller off the phone only to have another well meaning friend text me to check on me. By this time I had finally made it to mountain parkway. Great, I think, now I can probably wiggle the rest of the way out of this harness because the traffic is very light. So, as I'm cruising down the parkway at 70mph, texting, now 2 friends, I am trying my best to remove my bra. I will say it was quite a spectacular sight as boob after boob popped out of the neck of my shirt followed by the sleeve and finally, out the bottom of my shirt.
Once I finally had wrestled that alligator down, around, and off I realized I was so very grateful to be the only car I could see. Well, at least until that black unmarked crown vic made it's way around me and the driver just smiled and waved. I bet that made his day; a peep show for free and he couldn't arrest me for reckless driving cuz I maintained control over my vehicle during the whole mess. Sigh!
I can't wait for tomorrow. Go team...or wildcats or whatever....
So, yeah, went to UK today. Yeah...for those of you who don't know who or what UK is, please, by all means allow me to show you:
Yeah...no reason at all to be intimidated...at all...only 42 PACU beds and I believe, if I heard correctly, 32 OR suites. Nope, piece of cake...
W-E-L-L...it would be, maybe, if it hadn't also been the first day of classes. Yeah, newbie Pippi with newbie college freshmen, not a pretty combo. It was pretty much old lady vs young resilient flesh all day. I wish someone would have warned me I needed a battering ram, helmet, and elbow/knee pads. And that was just to get a parking spot.
What was that??? You could do it better? I'm sure you could as many of you have the advantage of age on me, but where's the fun in that?? It's more entertaining to see an old woman fight off an oblivious, bare chested, skateboarding freshman than someone who can blend in.
Anyhoo, back to the issue at hand. So, yeah, I've been a patient here and it wasn't that bad, mostly everyone just pointed me in the right direction. For today, I was armed with nothing more than a piece of paper with an address, time, and instructions to park in any "E" parking area.
Yes, any "E" parking area. Why any moron can do that? Now just where are those pesky "E" parking areas? Umm, I'm pretty sure I don't have a clue but that's ok, I have Google maps and in Lexington it's expected behavior to drive and be on one's cell phone. Yes, well, good luck to you if you are, in fact, hitting the prime time influx of people. It makes it a more challenging when everyone "knows" where to go and you, repeatedly, must refer to your phone.
Every one wants a parking spot and it's every man, woman, and invalid for him/herself. Not to mention that "E" parking areas are kinda like chameleons, they blend into their surroundings if the area you are looking at is #1 not the giant football stadium or #2 the lone parking garage that has the entrance hidden down a one way street. Not to mention the art of either trying to flag down the elusive shuttle bus or the 6 mile hike over under construction terrain one must undertake. Not a problem as long as it's cool weather, little trickier to breathe though when it's warm outside and your body decides now is the best time in the world to turn up the hot-flash-ometer! I hate menopause or peri-menopause or whatever the heck it is I'm supposedly going thru.
The first 6 hours I was inducted into the brainwashing of UK. Person after person came in and talked and talked and then talked some more. Each one was a little too enthusiastic cuz each wanted to know if I bled blue? Nope, 'fraid I don't. Didn't know it was a requirement. However, if you let me go on a hike again, then I'm sure I can turn my skin blue...
As each of the large electronic displays played video after video about the university, I found myself wondering when in the heck did trying to be a medical professional turn into one giant commercial with everyone saying, "You are playing a role. You are always on stage. You can never be out of character." Last time I checked my degrees indicated that I, in fact, studied to be a nurse, but I guess I am now an actress too! Yay!! A step up from maid.
Alrighty, so, I survived the first 8 hours of first day hell. Tomorrow is another 8 hours of healthcare initiation. It's in another building, which, fortunately, I have actually been in. However, I don't believe the trail of bread crumbs I left the last time I wandered around the surgery area will still be there. There are an awful lot of pesky people with brooms. I may need to consider a tracking device for myself. That's it!! I will pretend I'm on the set of Running Man and maybe I won't get lost if someone can keep tabs on my position 24/7 on a big giant screen!
Many times I questioned my sanity today (yeah, I know, what made today any different). I especially had a small panic attack when they mentioned there were 8000 employees and with classes in session, the total number of people comes to around 66, 000. Yeah, and I thought making the transition from small 100 bed community hospital to the Level 2 Trauma Center with 300 beds was gonna cause me to pee my pants. One would think I would have learned from prior experiences that change isn't always good, especially when one doesn't like crowds. Nor does it help that I've decided to have another position (fortunately next door to this monstrosity). I have not only lost my sanity, I'm pretty sure I've lost my mind. Unfortunately, the other place will insist I wear a white coat all the time. Not too happy with that either as the white coat they want me to wear is starched cotton and long, not my familiar burlap with buckles. I'm pretty sure I'm going to look like a sweaty toad wearing that.
So, I guess I will end this story, what there is of it, for today. But before I go, I would like to share one little fun nugget from today. Since I had to prance around in dress clothes and dress shoes, I was extremely delighted that when I was safely back in the bat mobile, I was able to kick off those shoes allowing my feet to breathe. I managed to fight my way back out of the traffic and onto the freeway. But during the fun of that, my breasticle restrainer decided that it had had enough. The beasties popped out of their cubbies, the snaps dug into my back, and the elastic band rolled up over the pointy end of both breasticles which resulted in them looking like 2 bald men with their faces pressed between the jail cell bars.
I wiggled and wormed, trying to ever so nonchalantly, return everyone to their appropriate positions. Of course, no one wanted to cooperate. So, I decided, as I'm driving down I64 that I will discreetly try to remove said restrainer. I slowly took my left hand placed it on my right shoulder and acted as if I had an itch while I shimmed the strap down. Next I repeated the same procedure for the left shoulder. Now, this was a sight for sore eyes because the girls had now decided to poke their behinds up and out of the neckline of my blouse. I was literally being held hostage by my own body and my clothes.
I was trying to figure out what to do when my cell phone rings and I must spend about 10 minutes in a conversation while tressed up worse than a Thanksgiving turkey. Finally I was able to get the caller off the phone only to have another well meaning friend text me to check on me. By this time I had finally made it to mountain parkway. Great, I think, now I can probably wiggle the rest of the way out of this harness because the traffic is very light. So, as I'm cruising down the parkway at 70mph, texting, now 2 friends, I am trying my best to remove my bra. I will say it was quite a spectacular sight as boob after boob popped out of the neck of my shirt followed by the sleeve and finally, out the bottom of my shirt.
Once I finally had wrestled that alligator down, around, and off I realized I was so very grateful to be the only car I could see. Well, at least until that black unmarked crown vic made it's way around me and the driver just smiled and waved. I bet that made his day; a peep show for free and he couldn't arrest me for reckless driving cuz I maintained control over my vehicle during the whole mess. Sigh!
I can't wait for tomorrow. Go team...or wildcats or whatever....
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Humor provided at no extra charge
The following post may gross out some readers due to the graphic biological details. Continue reading at your own risk!
I had a nice block of time today to try to brainstorm on an idea for discussion today. So, demented as I am, I thought why not discuss what it's really like to be in the healthcare profession.
When I was accepted into nursing school I was so excited. I couldn't wait until I could be the one standing there at the patient's bedside, cool wash cloth in hand, and imparting words of comfort. School clinicals did only a little to diminish my rosy colored outlook on my future career. When I finally received word I had passed my boards, I was elated. The topper came when I was told I was going to work in the Intensive Care Unit. This, to me, was a badge of honor. Straight from nursing school, straight into the "intense" zone!!! Yay! I so rock, look out world here I come!!
WELL, let's just say, come the end of day 6 of my orientation, I was informed I was no longer in orientation, I had to take my own load of patients with no one double checking me! I had no further preparation than nursing school and my short orientation. I was shocked! How could they turn me loose so soon? I hadn't even been to class for a code yet! That was the beginning of the end.
Every day I stressed myself out about what I was doing because I had no clue. I was working in a unit where all the nurses had the mentality of "eating their young". They would purposefully tell me wrong answers to questions I asked, they would call me at home about an antibiotic that was labeled to be given at 9pm the night before, which was still in the frig but was the exact same dose and med that was to be given at 9am, I had only hung the time label wrong everything else was correct. They wrote me up if I didn't document to suit them, if I didn't secure the endotracheal tube the way they liked, and if I didn't have everything ready for the day shift (supplies, papers, etc.). I not only stressed about my patients, but I stressed about not making any of the she-devils I worked with mad.
Somewhere around the 9th month of working, I lost my "Nurse Nightingale" attitude. I decided I was sick and tired of being trampled on. I did everything they asked, but they never returned the favour. I went beyond what I should have to make their transition to oncoming shift go smoothly, while they consistently left me in a disaster every night. To say the least, this is when "Little Miss Prissy Pants" nursie nurse showed up.
I came into shift one evening, having been assigned the most complex and demanding patients, and the other nurse was essentially only babysitting. I got report about a patient who had several blood pressure supporting drips, a ventilator, arterial line, etc. Essentially, the patient was what we not so professionally call, "circling the drain". I went in with my report sheet to check the patient's status compared to my oncoming report when I discovered none of the drips were running at the appropriate doses and the art line was lying in the bed with the patient's restraint. I was furious!!
After I made sure the bleeding was controlled, I yelled out into the unit for the nurse who was getting ready to go home. When she came to the room, she was all mad, she said, "I've had a bad day and I wanna go home." I said, "Well, I don't care. You are gonna explain why I found this arterial line in the bed and take a look at those drips; no wonder the patient isn't doing so well. You're not even running them at the dose you claim they were running at. The meds are on a minimal dose!" I guess I was pretty convincing about how I felt after enduring months of their torture and now, I had her by the "balls", so to speak. She about tripped over her own feet trying to fix the meds and clean up the mess she had left the patient in. I was so frustrated I told her to forget it; I would take care of it, just like I always do. Before she left, she had the nerve to ask me to NOT consider writing this little incident up. I told her I didn't have time to discuss this, I had a patient to care for, and I turned my back to her.
That was the end of the torture. But they had already hardened me from their power play antics. I took every opportunity to look up information about disease processes and treatments and began to question them why these things were not being done for the patients. I turned the tables, so to speak.
I wish I could say I never had to go through another "initiation" but that would be a lie. Each time I went to a new unit or hospital it was the same, more or less. But it never takes long once they realize you can dish it right back. I decided if I ever had a student to teach, then I would never treat her the way I had been. Now that's the end of my rant; let's talk about the stuff that is TV worthy. LOL!!
Ok, there are several non glamorous aspects of being a nurse, but I will try to only select the most entertaining ones.
First of all, patients who are admitted as drug overdoses are not always the kind who you can just let them "sleep it off". I can't tell you the number of times I have had a bedpan hurled at me which contained a bunch of charcoal induced diarrhea stool. Actually, I learned how to quickly dunk, step behind a door, or essentially "play catch" when one was hurled at me. Sometimes, the patient is so out of it that he will think he's figure painting and literally smear it all over his body, the bed, and anything else in reach. Fun times.
I've had patients who have been very polite overdoses and informed me that they wouldn't bother me; they just needed to sleep.
I have encountered a patient, who needed a foley catheter inserted so that I could make her pee to help pass the medication, but she thought I was trying to be intimate with her. She kept trying to "grab my thing" to put it in the "right spot".
Another patient was wheeled into the ICU as an overdose. She was laying on the stretcher as if she was gorked out of her mind. She was limp as the ER nurse and I moved her to the bed. Once the ER nurse was gone, the patient sat up in the bed, bright eyed and bushy tailed. She told me, "Honey, I didn't overdose. I took just enough of my meds to test positive when they brought me in. I'm fine; I'm just up for a re-certification for my SSI check. Could you just bring me a pop and a sandwich? I'll eat that and then just go to sleep. I won't be any trouble. Thanks, you're a doll!"
I have encountered a patient who, God bless her heart, was one of the largest, round individuals I had ever met in my life. And she needed a foley catheter placed. Umm, yeah. I couldn't even move one of her legs by myself. I can remember calling the house supervisor and asking for help. I ended up with 2 people holding each leg, 2 people holding up her belly, while I, adorned with mask, gown, and gloves essentially went deep sea diving to place the catheter. Let's just say, the ghostbusters never saw that much slime.
Then I made the transition to the Burn ICU and that was when the real fun began. Now, I know what you all are thinking, "ew, that's gross!" Well, yes, it was, for about the first year. I think I cried more during giving wound care than the patient did.
But the Burn unit held a lot of entertaining characters. I believe the staff were some of the most unique individuals I have ever met in my life. Every one was just slightly "off-centered" when it comes to a sense of humour. At first I was offended by this, but over time, I realized, it was the way they coped with the reality of what we had to do day in and day out. One fellow loved to play music while he was getting started for the day. A lady, who I will affectionately call a Tazmanian Devil because she moved around so fast from one thing to another, was really a frustrated Broadway performer as she would spontaneously break out in song whenever the notion hit no matter we were doing or who was there. I spent 8 years with them.
Anyhoo, I eventually honed my own "quirkiness" to coping. Mostly it involved me doing scraping of the patients. I particularly loved it if the patient was on a ventilator and sedated because I would be in the room providing care for the patient and I would take up humming a little diddy. Then I would make up silly songs to sing and I would scrape and scrape. I became known as the Queen of the Norsen. I was bestowed the honor of providing extensive wound care to whoever needed it.
However, things weren't always so smooth there either. I was fresh off orientation and providing face care to a patient when his earlobe fell off. I was a little freaked out. I had no clue what the procedure was for this. Uh, do I save the earlobe or do I dispose of it in a biohazard bag? So, I made my way to the other room where my co-worker was and said, "Uh, his earlobe fell off. What should I do?" This resulted in the nurse and nurse assistant bursting out in laughter. I was embarrassed but they finally said, "Just throw it away." Well, yeah, I felt foolish, but hey, I'm not used to body parts spontaneously falling off.
We had one young fellow one was in a serious car accident who ended up as a bilateral above the knee amputee. After enduring much wound care while sedated, when he was finally off the ventilator, he was having a difficult time coping with the pain of wound care, even with pain meds. So, one day, during wound care, instead of screaming, he let out a loud "mooo". I stopped, looked at him, looked at the nurse assistant with me, and looked back at him. He started laughing and said, "I'm sick of screaming, so, I decided to moo." So, from that point on, during his wound care, we would each take turns performing various animal sounds. My speciality was a clucking chicken. I had no clue how good the imitation actually was until I came out of the patient's room and was stopped by one of the medical residents. She said, "Did you just hear a chicken clucking?", to which I replied, "Yes." Then I began to laugh. I explained the situation with the patient and she began to laugh. She said, "I wanna know, who was doing the chicken?" I looked at her and with the straightest face I could muster and I clucked. She rolled and rolled with laughter. So, then I became chicken woman.
I could go on and on with the stories but I don't think you all want to read the book it would be. So, I would like to leave you with one of my favorite stories. How I became the "Turd Wrangler". I know everyone is familiar with enemas. In the hospital, we have various types; the one I was using was called a soap suds enema professionally, but to those of us in the know, it was called a "Triple H" enema (hang it high, make it hot, and a helluva lot). This poor little patient had not been successful be the traditional means of stool softening to have a bowel movement, so, I was to give a soap suds enema.
So, my lovely nurse assistant and I gathered our materials and set about preparing the patient, who was sedated and intubated (thank goodness). After clearing a few of the little brown boulders at the entrance of the exit, I lubed up the tube and began to insert it. I inserted it to the appropriate depth and released the fluid. Nothing happened. No fluid, no brown boulders, no farting. Nada. So, I adjusted the patient and attempted insertion again. This time the tube went, I released the fluid, and watched...Nothing. I looked to make sure I had opened the clamp, I gently squeezed the bag, and still nothing. So, I had to physically inspect the area.
As my lovely assistant separated the cheeks, I took a flashlight and looked. I couldn't see anything. I decided maybe I could insert the tube a little further, so, I eased the tube in. I watched and low and behold if I didn't see the tip of the tube exiting the entrance. I thought, great, the tube got bent. So, I tried to remove it by gently pulling back on the tube, but, it was stuck. The tube wouldn't move. Try as I might, the tube wasn't coming out the same way it went in. So, after consultation with my partner in crime, I decided I would try to remove it by the tip. Yeah, no, that wasn't successful either. The tube wasn't going anywhere. Now, I was really bumfuzzled. Ok, well, the only other thing, aside from informing the Doc that there is now a plastic tube lodged in my patient's rear end, was to try to remove the tubing by gently pulling on both the tubing and the tip of the tube at the same time.
I released some additional fluid to lubricate the area, then I took hold of the tubing from both sides, and gently pulled. With a little bit of effort, the tubing came out and with it revealing why it was stuck. The tube had went in, through, and exited the brown boulder. In other words, the turd had snagged my tube. Ok, so, I clean my tube, thinking that was a fluke, and now with the blocking boulder removed, things could proceed as normal. Nope, I was wrong. The same thing happened to my tube again. And again, I had to remove it using both hands. I had to repeat this procedure over and over again, hooking boulder after boulder, because the traditional method was obviously not going to work for this patient.
Like I said, thank goodness the patient was sedated, because my partner and I began to giggle. We couldn't help it. Neither of us had ever saw anything like it before. After I finally finished rounding up the boulders, we finished bathing the patient.
As I was cleaning up at the nurses station, my co-worker for the day was sitting at the desk charting, and my nursing assistant came out to the station. We looked at each other and began laughing hysterically. The other nurse looked at us, "What on earth is wrong with you all?" Together we briefly explained what had happened, giggling the entire time.
After that I left to use the bathroom and upon my return I found laying on my keyboard a face mask which had 2 eye holes cut out, and the name "Turd Wrangler" written across the top!!! I picked it up, looking at it, when all of a sudden the theme from the Lone Ranger came playing out of the CD player in the station. I lost it! The other nurse and my assistant came out of the breakroom laughing at me. They had also noted by my name in the assignment book, The Turd Wrangler. Crazy times I tell ya.
So, yes, we may present a professional front to you because that is what is expected of us by our respective professional boards, our employer, and society in general, but we really do have a sense of humor. And I have found, particularly in certain contexts, displaying a bit of appropriate jocularity when interacting with the patients establishes a sense of trust and rapport a lot faster than any of the recommended other techniques.
In the end, everyone just wants to be treated as a human being, an individual with feelings, personality, and not just a number on a graph for the hospital to get reimbursements. So, for me, my practice will not change; for better or for worse, I am who I am. I will not change my approach to providing care. I can guarantee I will get better outcomes than will ever be reflected along some sterilized evaluation tool.
Love a nurse!!!
P.S. I had to come back and tell one more story! I can't believe I left it out. There was a fellow who while in the Burn unit decided he might as well scope out the female staff. He was constantly making comments to us, hitting on us, sexual innuendos. One day I had him in the tub for wound care and the following conversation took place:
Patient: "So, are you married?"
Pippi: "Yes."
Patient: "Are you happily married?"
Pippi: "I don't think that is any of your business."
Patient: "Why won't you answer me?"
Pippi: "Why do you need to know?"
Patient: "Cuz I wanted to know if you would like to take a ride on Willie the One Eyed Wonder Snake."
I left the tub room, walked out to the nurses station, spoke to the Doc about changing up the patient's wound care, and returned. There was much splashing of water and several curse words yelled. Then I returned to the nurse's station, informed the Doc he could examine the patient now. The Doc walked in, looked at the skin floating around, mentioned that the wound looked pretty clean, and then informed the patient he could go home the next day. After the Doc and I left the tub room, the Doc asked me what the patient had done, so, I relayed all the behaviour he had displayed as well as recounted the recent conversation with me. The Doc just looked at me and said, "Remind me to never get burned."
I had a nice block of time today to try to brainstorm on an idea for discussion today. So, demented as I am, I thought why not discuss what it's really like to be in the healthcare profession.
When I was accepted into nursing school I was so excited. I couldn't wait until I could be the one standing there at the patient's bedside, cool wash cloth in hand, and imparting words of comfort. School clinicals did only a little to diminish my rosy colored outlook on my future career. When I finally received word I had passed my boards, I was elated. The topper came when I was told I was going to work in the Intensive Care Unit. This, to me, was a badge of honor. Straight from nursing school, straight into the "intense" zone!!! Yay! I so rock, look out world here I come!!
WELL, let's just say, come the end of day 6 of my orientation, I was informed I was no longer in orientation, I had to take my own load of patients with no one double checking me! I had no further preparation than nursing school and my short orientation. I was shocked! How could they turn me loose so soon? I hadn't even been to class for a code yet! That was the beginning of the end.
Every day I stressed myself out about what I was doing because I had no clue. I was working in a unit where all the nurses had the mentality of "eating their young". They would purposefully tell me wrong answers to questions I asked, they would call me at home about an antibiotic that was labeled to be given at 9pm the night before, which was still in the frig but was the exact same dose and med that was to be given at 9am, I had only hung the time label wrong everything else was correct. They wrote me up if I didn't document to suit them, if I didn't secure the endotracheal tube the way they liked, and if I didn't have everything ready for the day shift (supplies, papers, etc.). I not only stressed about my patients, but I stressed about not making any of the she-devils I worked with mad.
Somewhere around the 9th month of working, I lost my "Nurse Nightingale" attitude. I decided I was sick and tired of being trampled on. I did everything they asked, but they never returned the favour. I went beyond what I should have to make their transition to oncoming shift go smoothly, while they consistently left me in a disaster every night. To say the least, this is when "Little Miss Prissy Pants" nursie nurse showed up.
I came into shift one evening, having been assigned the most complex and demanding patients, and the other nurse was essentially only babysitting. I got report about a patient who had several blood pressure supporting drips, a ventilator, arterial line, etc. Essentially, the patient was what we not so professionally call, "circling the drain". I went in with my report sheet to check the patient's status compared to my oncoming report when I discovered none of the drips were running at the appropriate doses and the art line was lying in the bed with the patient's restraint. I was furious!!
After I made sure the bleeding was controlled, I yelled out into the unit for the nurse who was getting ready to go home. When she came to the room, she was all mad, she said, "I've had a bad day and I wanna go home." I said, "Well, I don't care. You are gonna explain why I found this arterial line in the bed and take a look at those drips; no wonder the patient isn't doing so well. You're not even running them at the dose you claim they were running at. The meds are on a minimal dose!" I guess I was pretty convincing about how I felt after enduring months of their torture and now, I had her by the "balls", so to speak. She about tripped over her own feet trying to fix the meds and clean up the mess she had left the patient in. I was so frustrated I told her to forget it; I would take care of it, just like I always do. Before she left, she had the nerve to ask me to NOT consider writing this little incident up. I told her I didn't have time to discuss this, I had a patient to care for, and I turned my back to her.
That was the end of the torture. But they had already hardened me from their power play antics. I took every opportunity to look up information about disease processes and treatments and began to question them why these things were not being done for the patients. I turned the tables, so to speak.
I wish I could say I never had to go through another "initiation" but that would be a lie. Each time I went to a new unit or hospital it was the same, more or less. But it never takes long once they realize you can dish it right back. I decided if I ever had a student to teach, then I would never treat her the way I had been. Now that's the end of my rant; let's talk about the stuff that is TV worthy. LOL!!
Ok, there are several non glamorous aspects of being a nurse, but I will try to only select the most entertaining ones.
First of all, patients who are admitted as drug overdoses are not always the kind who you can just let them "sleep it off". I can't tell you the number of times I have had a bedpan hurled at me which contained a bunch of charcoal induced diarrhea stool. Actually, I learned how to quickly dunk, step behind a door, or essentially "play catch" when one was hurled at me. Sometimes, the patient is so out of it that he will think he's figure painting and literally smear it all over his body, the bed, and anything else in reach. Fun times.
I've had patients who have been very polite overdoses and informed me that they wouldn't bother me; they just needed to sleep.
I have encountered a patient, who needed a foley catheter inserted so that I could make her pee to help pass the medication, but she thought I was trying to be intimate with her. She kept trying to "grab my thing" to put it in the "right spot".
Another patient was wheeled into the ICU as an overdose. She was laying on the stretcher as if she was gorked out of her mind. She was limp as the ER nurse and I moved her to the bed. Once the ER nurse was gone, the patient sat up in the bed, bright eyed and bushy tailed. She told me, "Honey, I didn't overdose. I took just enough of my meds to test positive when they brought me in. I'm fine; I'm just up for a re-certification for my SSI check. Could you just bring me a pop and a sandwich? I'll eat that and then just go to sleep. I won't be any trouble. Thanks, you're a doll!"
I have encountered a patient who, God bless her heart, was one of the largest, round individuals I had ever met in my life. And she needed a foley catheter placed. Umm, yeah. I couldn't even move one of her legs by myself. I can remember calling the house supervisor and asking for help. I ended up with 2 people holding each leg, 2 people holding up her belly, while I, adorned with mask, gown, and gloves essentially went deep sea diving to place the catheter. Let's just say, the ghostbusters never saw that much slime.
Then I made the transition to the Burn ICU and that was when the real fun began. Now, I know what you all are thinking, "ew, that's gross!" Well, yes, it was, for about the first year. I think I cried more during giving wound care than the patient did.
But the Burn unit held a lot of entertaining characters. I believe the staff were some of the most unique individuals I have ever met in my life. Every one was just slightly "off-centered" when it comes to a sense of humour. At first I was offended by this, but over time, I realized, it was the way they coped with the reality of what we had to do day in and day out. One fellow loved to play music while he was getting started for the day. A lady, who I will affectionately call a Tazmanian Devil because she moved around so fast from one thing to another, was really a frustrated Broadway performer as she would spontaneously break out in song whenever the notion hit no matter we were doing or who was there. I spent 8 years with them.
Anyhoo, I eventually honed my own "quirkiness" to coping. Mostly it involved me doing scraping of the patients. I particularly loved it if the patient was on a ventilator and sedated because I would be in the room providing care for the patient and I would take up humming a little diddy. Then I would make up silly songs to sing and I would scrape and scrape. I became known as the Queen of the Norsen. I was bestowed the honor of providing extensive wound care to whoever needed it.
However, things weren't always so smooth there either. I was fresh off orientation and providing face care to a patient when his earlobe fell off. I was a little freaked out. I had no clue what the procedure was for this. Uh, do I save the earlobe or do I dispose of it in a biohazard bag? So, I made my way to the other room where my co-worker was and said, "Uh, his earlobe fell off. What should I do?" This resulted in the nurse and nurse assistant bursting out in laughter. I was embarrassed but they finally said, "Just throw it away." Well, yeah, I felt foolish, but hey, I'm not used to body parts spontaneously falling off.
We had one young fellow one was in a serious car accident who ended up as a bilateral above the knee amputee. After enduring much wound care while sedated, when he was finally off the ventilator, he was having a difficult time coping with the pain of wound care, even with pain meds. So, one day, during wound care, instead of screaming, he let out a loud "mooo". I stopped, looked at him, looked at the nurse assistant with me, and looked back at him. He started laughing and said, "I'm sick of screaming, so, I decided to moo." So, from that point on, during his wound care, we would each take turns performing various animal sounds. My speciality was a clucking chicken. I had no clue how good the imitation actually was until I came out of the patient's room and was stopped by one of the medical residents. She said, "Did you just hear a chicken clucking?", to which I replied, "Yes." Then I began to laugh. I explained the situation with the patient and she began to laugh. She said, "I wanna know, who was doing the chicken?" I looked at her and with the straightest face I could muster and I clucked. She rolled and rolled with laughter. So, then I became chicken woman.
I could go on and on with the stories but I don't think you all want to read the book it would be. So, I would like to leave you with one of my favorite stories. How I became the "Turd Wrangler". I know everyone is familiar with enemas. In the hospital, we have various types; the one I was using was called a soap suds enema professionally, but to those of us in the know, it was called a "Triple H" enema (hang it high, make it hot, and a helluva lot). This poor little patient had not been successful be the traditional means of stool softening to have a bowel movement, so, I was to give a soap suds enema.
So, my lovely nurse assistant and I gathered our materials and set about preparing the patient, who was sedated and intubated (thank goodness). After clearing a few of the little brown boulders at the entrance of the exit, I lubed up the tube and began to insert it. I inserted it to the appropriate depth and released the fluid. Nothing happened. No fluid, no brown boulders, no farting. Nada. So, I adjusted the patient and attempted insertion again. This time the tube went, I released the fluid, and watched...Nothing. I looked to make sure I had opened the clamp, I gently squeezed the bag, and still nothing. So, I had to physically inspect the area.
As my lovely assistant separated the cheeks, I took a flashlight and looked. I couldn't see anything. I decided maybe I could insert the tube a little further, so, I eased the tube in. I watched and low and behold if I didn't see the tip of the tube exiting the entrance. I thought, great, the tube got bent. So, I tried to remove it by gently pulling back on the tube, but, it was stuck. The tube wouldn't move. Try as I might, the tube wasn't coming out the same way it went in. So, after consultation with my partner in crime, I decided I would try to remove it by the tip. Yeah, no, that wasn't successful either. The tube wasn't going anywhere. Now, I was really bumfuzzled. Ok, well, the only other thing, aside from informing the Doc that there is now a plastic tube lodged in my patient's rear end, was to try to remove the tubing by gently pulling on both the tubing and the tip of the tube at the same time.
I released some additional fluid to lubricate the area, then I took hold of the tubing from both sides, and gently pulled. With a little bit of effort, the tubing came out and with it revealing why it was stuck. The tube had went in, through, and exited the brown boulder. In other words, the turd had snagged my tube. Ok, so, I clean my tube, thinking that was a fluke, and now with the blocking boulder removed, things could proceed as normal. Nope, I was wrong. The same thing happened to my tube again. And again, I had to remove it using both hands. I had to repeat this procedure over and over again, hooking boulder after boulder, because the traditional method was obviously not going to work for this patient.
Like I said, thank goodness the patient was sedated, because my partner and I began to giggle. We couldn't help it. Neither of us had ever saw anything like it before. After I finally finished rounding up the boulders, we finished bathing the patient.
As I was cleaning up at the nurses station, my co-worker for the day was sitting at the desk charting, and my nursing assistant came out to the station. We looked at each other and began laughing hysterically. The other nurse looked at us, "What on earth is wrong with you all?" Together we briefly explained what had happened, giggling the entire time.
After that I left to use the bathroom and upon my return I found laying on my keyboard a face mask which had 2 eye holes cut out, and the name "Turd Wrangler" written across the top!!! I picked it up, looking at it, when all of a sudden the theme from the Lone Ranger came playing out of the CD player in the station. I lost it! The other nurse and my assistant came out of the breakroom laughing at me. They had also noted by my name in the assignment book, The Turd Wrangler. Crazy times I tell ya.
So, yes, we may present a professional front to you because that is what is expected of us by our respective professional boards, our employer, and society in general, but we really do have a sense of humor. And I have found, particularly in certain contexts, displaying a bit of appropriate jocularity when interacting with the patients establishes a sense of trust and rapport a lot faster than any of the recommended other techniques.
In the end, everyone just wants to be treated as a human being, an individual with feelings, personality, and not just a number on a graph for the hospital to get reimbursements. So, for me, my practice will not change; for better or for worse, I am who I am. I will not change my approach to providing care. I can guarantee I will get better outcomes than will ever be reflected along some sterilized evaluation tool.
Love a nurse!!!
P.S. I had to come back and tell one more story! I can't believe I left it out. There was a fellow who while in the Burn unit decided he might as well scope out the female staff. He was constantly making comments to us, hitting on us, sexual innuendos. One day I had him in the tub for wound care and the following conversation took place:
Patient: "So, are you married?"
Pippi: "Yes."
Patient: "Are you happily married?"
Pippi: "I don't think that is any of your business."
Patient: "Why won't you answer me?"
Pippi: "Why do you need to know?"
Patient: "Cuz I wanted to know if you would like to take a ride on Willie the One Eyed Wonder Snake."
I left the tub room, walked out to the nurses station, spoke to the Doc about changing up the patient's wound care, and returned. There was much splashing of water and several curse words yelled. Then I returned to the nurse's station, informed the Doc he could examine the patient now. The Doc walked in, looked at the skin floating around, mentioned that the wound looked pretty clean, and then informed the patient he could go home the next day. After the Doc and I left the tub room, the Doc asked me what the patient had done, so, I relayed all the behaviour he had displayed as well as recounted the recent conversation with me. The Doc just looked at me and said, "Remind me to never get burned."
Friday, August 16, 2013
Someone stop the madness
As I have fiddle farted around the house today I have been trying to decide on a topic to discuss. Life has been kinda boring lately; nothing too thrilling to share. Been doing all the fun things required to acquire a job, a regular paying job, since free lancing is very slow going.
Job hunting is not all the thrill and excitement some of these web sites like to tout. "You're entering mid-life, is it time for a career change?" or "Stephanie went back to school to study medicine while working on her new upstart private business of organic foods". Each web site varies on the extent of excitement they wish to dole out as well as the "helpful advice", which I might add, is at best, questionable.
Somewhere along the line, things have changed. What used to be a simple exchange of work philosophy and attendance record has turned into some kind of endurance, maze, cat/mouse type race. I haven't interviewed for a position in over a decade, so, one can imagine the culture shock I was exposed to.
First of all, the number of people one must talk to has increased from 2 (a secretary and a boss) to as many as 10, and that's just to get to one phase, getting them to even look at your resume. Next, I've noticed, NO ONE is in any particular hurry to set about getting people in for interviews or if selected as a candidate for a position. What used to take at most 2 weeks from initial application to first day of employment has now become a minimum of a 2 week wait to be notified of an interview up to, so far for me, a maximum of 4 months to be called.
Then, there is a period of patty cake one must play with the potential employer. Dependant upon if the employer is in the private, public, or government sector. The HR department used to be the place where you went to fill out your W2 forms only, but now has become some sort of monstrosity resembling a demented cookie monster as they have to have their hand in everything that goes on. What I want to know is, do these people get educated about how to determine if a potential employee actually knows how to do a job and do it well, or are they simply frustrated wanna be psychologist or psychiatrists?
I have been informed, because as we all well know Ms. Pippi doesn't simply go gently into that good night without at least some sort of explanation for such nonsense, that there has been a marketing tool which has been developed to assist facilities in making a better selection in potential employees. When I heard that this is exactly what came to my mind (Peanut to Jeff Dunham): "Seriously?"
Hmmm. Kinda like when hospitals decided to start letting "business people" run the facilities. Business majors who don't have any idea what is needed to run a medical facility let alone any clue about what exactly it takes for a medical professional to perform his job safely. Those individuals, from my past experience, seem to only know how to run a business, which, in my humble opinion, healthcare is not like going to buy a shirt and looking for the cheapest or best deal. Especially when that "cheaper alternative" is a result of business people cutting the amount of money available to the practitioner to purchase desperately needed supplies, better equipment, or an adequate number of staff members.
Ah, but, it has become a business and therefore, one must learn to play the game, so to speak. Any one with half a brain can pass the silly interview tests because the questions are exactly the same no matter where you go. Go to one interview, make note of the questions, do research for the "right answer", and wha-la, you have got it. It's a test, a screening tool, that is completely generic and to which there are "certain answers" they will accept. I can only shake my head in disbelief. Not only do I think this is a strange practice to determine the most fit individual but I feel sorry for those who get nervous during an interview and may make a misstep or two. Believe you me, those HR people like to turn up the heat and the ones I've encountered are definitely on a power trip.
Now aside from those pesky HR people, if, perchance, one would be interested in obtaining a job with the federal government, then, oh boy, will you E-V-E-R be in for a treat!!! "Our application process has been streamlined to be more effective and for your convenience". Excuse me, but, isn't the use of 'government process, streamline, effective, and convenient' considered an oxymoron? Yes, the application is online, as well as about 6 other forms you need to download, print, fill out (cuz forbid the forms could be filled in on-line), scan, upload, and submit to the website. Not to mention the scanning of all your credentials, identification records, as well as all transcripts from any educational facility you have ever attended. Oh, and don't forget your resume.
Then, of course, there are a series of questions one must answer which if the person looking at your application could easily find on your resume but NOOOOO, you must fill out the information that's on your resume into the question answer area. From the time you get all of these items submitted until you "possibly" get a phone call can be anywhere from 1-2 weeks.
Ok, so, you get the phone call to come in to be interviewed. Well, of course, the government has their own version of this sick, twisted interviewing process. Not only do they have the strange, new questions, but they mix in some from the old interviewing style. The topper, though, is you get to sit at the head of a big table while surrounded by a panel of anywhere from 5-8 people who are going to interview you. These people can represent any area of the facility from the CEO to the janitor (still not sure how that applies to healthcare personnel, but O-K).
They have in front of them a stack of papers which includes all of the stuff from your online adventures as well as the interview questions in a essay answer packet form. So, in between each of the questions, you must wait until everyone has written down your answer and any impressions they have about you. There are only 10 questions, but the "hurry up and wait" effect makes it seem like forever. I found the best thing about interviewing with the government, especially when you have bombarded them with applications, is that you may very well end up seeing these same people over and over again at every interview which means you get to show off your creative side to come up with some new, interesting answers that will help these poor souls stay awake through another session with you.
Now it's back to the "hurry up and wait" phase. Two or three more weeks go by, nothing; then a month later, lo and behold the phone rings and it's the government. Now, as you all well know I'm not a huge fan of authority figures and more often than not I particularly hate playing the b.s. game, but I've gotta hand it to these people, they are slick when it comes to covering their a$$. The conversation goes something like this:
"Yes, Ms. Cheshire, this is Donald Peanut at the VA and I am calling to talk to you about a position you expressed interest in and were interviewed for. Now, I am not offering you the job but this phone call is a pre-screening, pre-offer call to find out if you are still interested. If you are still interested then there is some additional paperwork (of course there is) we need for you to fill out. Now, you must fill this paper work out completely and truthfully, as the position you are interested in is dependent on your information. I will be sending you an example of how to answer these 12 questions, but do not copy the answers from the example. Answer them in the manner which reflects your abilities, knowledge, and education. You cannot say you have done something, if in fact you have not. Now, as I said, this is not a job offer, but conditions are favorable that once you have completed this additional paperwork and we have reviewed it, then there will possibly be a forthcoming job offer. So, are you still interested?"
Truthfully, I fell asleep somewhere after the first five words this man said and I had no clue what he was rambling about but I replied "yes". Thankfully, he said he would email me all of the things he had discussed with me. Ok, that's good buddy, cuz you're boring me to tears.
I get the email and yes, there are only 12 questions, but it's the exact same questions I have already answered in all of my previous interviews and paperwork. HOWEVER, this time, I get to write the answers in essay form. Yay me!! And yay for the fact I have been in healthcare for an eternity and now I get to wrack my brain to remember everything I have ever done in the last 14 years. Those 12 questions took me 3 days and 30 pages typewritten, single space, Times 12 New Roman, to complete. Once I was done, I felt like I had given birth...to an encyclopedia set.
And now, for the piece de resistance. After I had sent that enormous email packet, my phone rings. "Hi, this is Dolly at St. Joe's and I would like to speak to Pippi. Yes, I'm so sorry we haven't gotten back to you in four months but I just started working here 5 weeks ago. The unit has been without a manager and we are in the middle of rolling out a new electronic charting system. So, are you still interested in working with us?" I can only laugh at this point because what used to be something so simple has now become such a night mare.
The last thing I will mention before signing off today is everyone's favorite: the drug screening process. So, I'm sitting there waiting and there is a young man who is there to have some blood drawn. Well, of course, as luck would have it, Mr. Studly Muffin Man gets woozy at the sight of blood. They're in there yelling at him to wake up, they are fanning him, they've put a cool wash cloth on his neck, he's dry heaving; you name, he's doing it. I'm sitting there saying a small prayer, "Please God, don't let this moron quit breathing. I'm not in the mood to work today plus my bladder is extremely full." Finally after 15 minutes, wienie boy is stable enough to leave the lab. As he was leaving, of course, snarky old woman as I am, I couldn't resist asking the poor fellow where he was going to be working, to which he replied:
"Oh, I'm not working as a health care employee. I couldn't possibly do that! I'm going to be working in Human Resources!", he said with a smile and I simply returned the same moronic smile as I tell him, "Well, HR is probably a good idea for you; we wouldn't want you losing it out there on the floor; wouldn't be professional and all, you know?"
Bad, bad Pippi! LOL!!
Job hunting is not all the thrill and excitement some of these web sites like to tout. "You're entering mid-life, is it time for a career change?" or "Stephanie went back to school to study medicine while working on her new upstart private business of organic foods". Each web site varies on the extent of excitement they wish to dole out as well as the "helpful advice", which I might add, is at best, questionable.
Somewhere along the line, things have changed. What used to be a simple exchange of work philosophy and attendance record has turned into some kind of endurance, maze, cat/mouse type race. I haven't interviewed for a position in over a decade, so, one can imagine the culture shock I was exposed to.
First of all, the number of people one must talk to has increased from 2 (a secretary and a boss) to as many as 10, and that's just to get to one phase, getting them to even look at your resume. Next, I've noticed, NO ONE is in any particular hurry to set about getting people in for interviews or if selected as a candidate for a position. What used to take at most 2 weeks from initial application to first day of employment has now become a minimum of a 2 week wait to be notified of an interview up to, so far for me, a maximum of 4 months to be called.
Then, there is a period of patty cake one must play with the potential employer. Dependant upon if the employer is in the private, public, or government sector. The HR department used to be the place where you went to fill out your W2 forms only, but now has become some sort of monstrosity resembling a demented cookie monster as they have to have their hand in everything that goes on. What I want to know is, do these people get educated about how to determine if a potential employee actually knows how to do a job and do it well, or are they simply frustrated wanna be psychologist or psychiatrists?
I have been informed, because as we all well know Ms. Pippi doesn't simply go gently into that good night without at least some sort of explanation for such nonsense, that there has been a marketing tool which has been developed to assist facilities in making a better selection in potential employees. When I heard that this is exactly what came to my mind (Peanut to Jeff Dunham): "Seriously?"
Hmmm. Kinda like when hospitals decided to start letting "business people" run the facilities. Business majors who don't have any idea what is needed to run a medical facility let alone any clue about what exactly it takes for a medical professional to perform his job safely. Those individuals, from my past experience, seem to only know how to run a business, which, in my humble opinion, healthcare is not like going to buy a shirt and looking for the cheapest or best deal. Especially when that "cheaper alternative" is a result of business people cutting the amount of money available to the practitioner to purchase desperately needed supplies, better equipment, or an adequate number of staff members.
Ah, but, it has become a business and therefore, one must learn to play the game, so to speak. Any one with half a brain can pass the silly interview tests because the questions are exactly the same no matter where you go. Go to one interview, make note of the questions, do research for the "right answer", and wha-la, you have got it. It's a test, a screening tool, that is completely generic and to which there are "certain answers" they will accept. I can only shake my head in disbelief. Not only do I think this is a strange practice to determine the most fit individual but I feel sorry for those who get nervous during an interview and may make a misstep or two. Believe you me, those HR people like to turn up the heat and the ones I've encountered are definitely on a power trip.
Now aside from those pesky HR people, if, perchance, one would be interested in obtaining a job with the federal government, then, oh boy, will you E-V-E-R be in for a treat!!! "Our application process has been streamlined to be more effective and for your convenience". Excuse me, but, isn't the use of 'government process, streamline, effective, and convenient' considered an oxymoron? Yes, the application is online, as well as about 6 other forms you need to download, print, fill out (cuz forbid the forms could be filled in on-line), scan, upload, and submit to the website. Not to mention the scanning of all your credentials, identification records, as well as all transcripts from any educational facility you have ever attended. Oh, and don't forget your resume.
Then, of course, there are a series of questions one must answer which if the person looking at your application could easily find on your resume but NOOOOO, you must fill out the information that's on your resume into the question answer area. From the time you get all of these items submitted until you "possibly" get a phone call can be anywhere from 1-2 weeks.
Ok, so, you get the phone call to come in to be interviewed. Well, of course, the government has their own version of this sick, twisted interviewing process. Not only do they have the strange, new questions, but they mix in some from the old interviewing style. The topper, though, is you get to sit at the head of a big table while surrounded by a panel of anywhere from 5-8 people who are going to interview you. These people can represent any area of the facility from the CEO to the janitor (still not sure how that applies to healthcare personnel, but O-K).
They have in front of them a stack of papers which includes all of the stuff from your online adventures as well as the interview questions in a essay answer packet form. So, in between each of the questions, you must wait until everyone has written down your answer and any impressions they have about you. There are only 10 questions, but the "hurry up and wait" effect makes it seem like forever. I found the best thing about interviewing with the government, especially when you have bombarded them with applications, is that you may very well end up seeing these same people over and over again at every interview which means you get to show off your creative side to come up with some new, interesting answers that will help these poor souls stay awake through another session with you.
Now it's back to the "hurry up and wait" phase. Two or three more weeks go by, nothing; then a month later, lo and behold the phone rings and it's the government. Now, as you all well know I'm not a huge fan of authority figures and more often than not I particularly hate playing the b.s. game, but I've gotta hand it to these people, they are slick when it comes to covering their a$$. The conversation goes something like this:
"Yes, Ms. Cheshire, this is Donald Peanut at the VA and I am calling to talk to you about a position you expressed interest in and were interviewed for. Now, I am not offering you the job but this phone call is a pre-screening, pre-offer call to find out if you are still interested. If you are still interested then there is some additional paperwork (of course there is) we need for you to fill out. Now, you must fill this paper work out completely and truthfully, as the position you are interested in is dependent on your information. I will be sending you an example of how to answer these 12 questions, but do not copy the answers from the example. Answer them in the manner which reflects your abilities, knowledge, and education. You cannot say you have done something, if in fact you have not. Now, as I said, this is not a job offer, but conditions are favorable that once you have completed this additional paperwork and we have reviewed it, then there will possibly be a forthcoming job offer. So, are you still interested?"
Truthfully, I fell asleep somewhere after the first five words this man said and I had no clue what he was rambling about but I replied "yes". Thankfully, he said he would email me all of the things he had discussed with me. Ok, that's good buddy, cuz you're boring me to tears.
I get the email and yes, there are only 12 questions, but it's the exact same questions I have already answered in all of my previous interviews and paperwork. HOWEVER, this time, I get to write the answers in essay form. Yay me!! And yay for the fact I have been in healthcare for an eternity and now I get to wrack my brain to remember everything I have ever done in the last 14 years. Those 12 questions took me 3 days and 30 pages typewritten, single space, Times 12 New Roman, to complete. Once I was done, I felt like I had given birth...to an encyclopedia set.
And now, for the piece de resistance. After I had sent that enormous email packet, my phone rings. "Hi, this is Dolly at St. Joe's and I would like to speak to Pippi. Yes, I'm so sorry we haven't gotten back to you in four months but I just started working here 5 weeks ago. The unit has been without a manager and we are in the middle of rolling out a new electronic charting system. So, are you still interested in working with us?" I can only laugh at this point because what used to be something so simple has now become such a night mare.
The last thing I will mention before signing off today is everyone's favorite: the drug screening process. So, I'm sitting there waiting and there is a young man who is there to have some blood drawn. Well, of course, as luck would have it, Mr. Studly Muffin Man gets woozy at the sight of blood. They're in there yelling at him to wake up, they are fanning him, they've put a cool wash cloth on his neck, he's dry heaving; you name, he's doing it. I'm sitting there saying a small prayer, "Please God, don't let this moron quit breathing. I'm not in the mood to work today plus my bladder is extremely full." Finally after 15 minutes, wienie boy is stable enough to leave the lab. As he was leaving, of course, snarky old woman as I am, I couldn't resist asking the poor fellow where he was going to be working, to which he replied:
"Oh, I'm not working as a health care employee. I couldn't possibly do that! I'm going to be working in Human Resources!", he said with a smile and I simply returned the same moronic smile as I tell him, "Well, HR is probably a good idea for you; we wouldn't want you losing it out there on the floor; wouldn't be professional and all, you know?"
Bad, bad Pippi! LOL!!
Monday, August 12, 2013
Boobs, boobs, boobs
Here at Pippi Cheshire's web home we usually strive to focus on the humor and light side of being human. Today's post, while intended to be light hearted is also a salute to a dear friend of mine, Elvira, who is battling breast cancer. To you my friend: I am in awe of your strength and grace under pressure. Always remember, we serve a mighty God who has answered and continues to answer prayers. Love to you my friend.
The things the medical community comes up with in the name of improving, diagnosing, and treating diseases of the body amaze me. They can stick a hose down your throat or up your butt looking in places no one should ever have to see by the light of day. They can inject you with radioactive material and run you back and forth through a machine as if they were making photocopies of you. Shoot, sometimes they don't even inject the radiation into you, they just shoot it at you; kinda like a demented photographer would.
It makes one think about who were these people who came up with the ideas and what warped individuals volunteered to be the first guinea pigs? Personally, I'm of the mindset, if you think up the idea, then you should believe in your theory strongly enough to be the first one to try it out. But I digress.
Men have longed had to endure the ole "turn your head and cough" thing as part of the physical required for the military (as well as routine exams) but women, being the special creatures we are, we get to exceed the limit of humiliation via the good old mammogram.
I know this process was dreamt up by a man as part of his "pay-back" to the female species, as if pregnancy and childbirth wasn't enough. For those who have not yet endured this lovely process, by all means, I'm about to share with you the joy of it!
Ok, first of all, a little background to set the mood. The Pippster was blessed in the boobage department. Not just a regular blessing, no, that would be too simple; we're talking double Ds. I affectionately call them my breasticles.
When I was a teenager they plagued me, but then they were only a size C. Since Zex and Scooter came along, well, they not only grew during the pregnancy, but they stayed around long after they were no longer needed. In addition to their growth in size, the problem is, now, not all things are created equal, even in the boob department.
I'm often reassured by many well meaning female friends, "oh, that's quite common for one to not be the same size as the other", but what they don't seem to grasp is the severity of the deformity that resides on my chest. For lack of a better illustration, God forgive me if I offend anyone, the difference I suffer from is like having one normal size adult arm and one pygmy arm. If I wasn't so tight, then I would buy two different bras, cut them in half, and make myself a bra that actually fits right, but I don't. Therefore, I do what most teenage girls do while they are awaiting puberty, I stuff my bra...but only on one side.
Anyhoo, once I reached the appropriate age (actually, I managed to sneak by a few years without one), my lovely GP decided that Pippi must have this experience. Great! I think to myself, remembering all the horror stories from previous participants in this exam. So, I get the phone call, my appointment was scheduled, and I was given a list of instructions; on this list is "no deodorant". Now, for those of you who have read my previous posts, then you know going without deodorant is an issue for me, but thank fully, my appointment was early morning. On a mother's day, how appropriate!
So, I arrive to the breast centre and am greeted by the lovely receptionist who while registering me seeks to ascertain that I am not wearing any scented lotions or deodorant, to which I reply, "No". When my name is called, I'm escorted to the back by another young woman who asks if I'm wearing deodorant and to which I, again, reply in the negative.
I'm herded into a changing room and handed a lovely gown with the instructions to remove everything on the top of my body and put the gown on, open in the front. With that she asks me if I had any questions. Although I had many a sarcastic thought run through my mind, I refrained and stated, "No". I strip off my shirt and bra and as soon as I do I realize how truly awful it is without deodorant. Once they were freed from their prison, the breasticles slid around all over my chest leaving behind a trail of sweaty ooze. I tried to blot them dry with a paper towel, but it didn't last long. There I sat in a little 2 x 2 room, clad in a paper gown wide open despite the lovely paper ties to hold it closed, and my pointers facing due south, then southeast, then southwest as they slithered around in time to my breathing.
Finally, a knock on the door! I was lead by a really chatty lady who was obviously playing her part to try to ease the sense of any embarrassment, me, the patient, may have being exposed as I was (you know, like walking around with the boobies hanging out of a gown is not my normal mode of dress). Little did she know, I couldn't have cared less as long as we could get a little breeze going under these puppies.
Anyway, she explains the procedure to me. There is a lovely metal surface on which we will place one breasticle at a time on. She will then lower another plate down on the top of the boob and it will be snug. She says, "Now, the snugger we can get it, the better look we can have at the tissues". Great, that's a nice way to say she is gonna make my boob flatter than a pancake. "Ok, let's do this", I say with great enthusiasm, "which one first?" She said it didn't matter, so, I whipped out the right one.
As soon as I flopped it up there it immediately slipped off the surface. Laughing I said, "It's a tricky little sucker especially since I haven't prepped it with deodorant". She reassured me it was ok and she cleaned the surface with a paper towel and gave me another one to absorb some of the extra moisture. When she was ready, I again presented the right girl to the plate, and this time she stood her ground. The boob lady adjusted the upper plate to her satisfaction, told me to hold my breath, and she ran behind a large lead plated glass.
A little click and a buzz and she returned. "Time for the other one and we'll get ya out of here!" Yay, I think, this isn't so bad. Not anything quite like I had anticipated or had heard via the female rumour vine. But then again, we had started with the right one.
As she prepped the metal surface, I blotted under both breasticles again ensuring immediate placement. When she indicated she was ready, I brought out Lefty, and I heard an audible sucking in of breath; not mine, hers. "Oh my, this might be a challenge", she says in her most professional voice as she clucks her tongue. She arranged, then rearranged Lefty. She lowered the plate, but Lefty wasn't giving it up. Lefty was defying all odds, Lefty refused to be flat.
Now, it's one thing for the medical professional to torture and contort your body, but it's another thing when they decide they need to enlist your assistance to help them torment you. "Maybe if you could pull on the front part here while I pull on this side, the plate will be able to flatten the rest." Ok....
So, essentially I end up taking a hold of Lefty's pointer region and pulling her out like one would do when making balloon animals. Then the tech grabs the right side of Lefty and stretches with all she's worth while lowering the upper plate. After several tries we were finally able to get Lefty in a position where she vaguely resembled a pizza crust. "Ok, I'm gonna hurry, don't move, don't breathe, if we're lucky we'll get it on the first shot!", the woman exclaimed as she quickly ran to her protected area. Meanwhile, I'm hanging onto Lefty's pointer, pulling straight out with my left hand and my right hand has Lefty's right side stretched. Now mind you I'm not supposed to move because if I do then the picture would result in looking as if my boob had an alien growing in it.
Finally I hear the click and buzz and I don't even wait for her to tell me we're through because at this point Lefty is numb and my fingers are sore from trying to hold her in position. "We GOT it!", the tech exclaims happily, "first try too!". Great, I think, I would hate to picture us trying to reposition Lefty again. The old girl was so happy to be released from her torture chamber and to be freely swaying from side to side once again.
Once I had closed my gown up, I was led back to the changing room where I was told there was deodorant available to use (no thanks, I brought my own). I was instructed to wait there until the film was checked and someone would come to get me. As soon as she closed the door, I ripped off the paper gown, grabbed a handful of paper towels, ran them under the water from the sink, cleansed under the girls, dried, and applied lavish amounts of Secret Summer Breeze not just to my arm pits (which by this time were waterfalls) but under the girls as well.
When I was satisfied everyone was as dry as they were gonna be, I dressed myself. Before I could even sit down to wait, there was a knock on the door, and I heard a voice say, "Ms. Cheshire, everything is good, you're free to go. Just stop by the reception desk on your way out".
After checking to make sure everything was in it's rightful place and the girls looked "remotely" equal, I opened the door and walked to the reception desk. I was greeted once again by the same friendly woman. She set a follow up date for me and said, "Please take a rose; we are celebrating Mother's Day with all of our ladies today!" I smiled and thanked her as I selected one of the blossoms.
Once in my car, I laid the rose down on the seat beside me while I gathered my thoughts. It occurred to me this was the first time anyone had ever given me a rose. Who knew the only thing one had to do was let a total stranger smash the crapola out of your girls while you helped them. If I had know this was the only reason I hadn't been given flowers before, then I might've considered it long before now.
So, just a heads up for all you ladies out there. If you're waiting for your man to give you flowers, then take a tip from me. He is more likely to present you with a big bouquet if you allow his best friend to pull and tug on your girls to his hearts content!
P.S. On second thought Elvira, don't ask if there is a discount for only one boob, they might get the idea like the airlines to charge extra for those of us with breasticles!
The things the medical community comes up with in the name of improving, diagnosing, and treating diseases of the body amaze me. They can stick a hose down your throat or up your butt looking in places no one should ever have to see by the light of day. They can inject you with radioactive material and run you back and forth through a machine as if they were making photocopies of you. Shoot, sometimes they don't even inject the radiation into you, they just shoot it at you; kinda like a demented photographer would.
It makes one think about who were these people who came up with the ideas and what warped individuals volunteered to be the first guinea pigs? Personally, I'm of the mindset, if you think up the idea, then you should believe in your theory strongly enough to be the first one to try it out. But I digress.
Men have longed had to endure the ole "turn your head and cough" thing as part of the physical required for the military (as well as routine exams) but women, being the special creatures we are, we get to exceed the limit of humiliation via the good old mammogram.
I know this process was dreamt up by a man as part of his "pay-back" to the female species, as if pregnancy and childbirth wasn't enough. For those who have not yet endured this lovely process, by all means, I'm about to share with you the joy of it!
Ok, first of all, a little background to set the mood. The Pippster was blessed in the boobage department. Not just a regular blessing, no, that would be too simple; we're talking double Ds. I affectionately call them my breasticles.
When I was a teenager they plagued me, but then they were only a size C. Since Zex and Scooter came along, well, they not only grew during the pregnancy, but they stayed around long after they were no longer needed. In addition to their growth in size, the problem is, now, not all things are created equal, even in the boob department.
I'm often reassured by many well meaning female friends, "oh, that's quite common for one to not be the same size as the other", but what they don't seem to grasp is the severity of the deformity that resides on my chest. For lack of a better illustration, God forgive me if I offend anyone, the difference I suffer from is like having one normal size adult arm and one pygmy arm. If I wasn't so tight, then I would buy two different bras, cut them in half, and make myself a bra that actually fits right, but I don't. Therefore, I do what most teenage girls do while they are awaiting puberty, I stuff my bra...but only on one side.
Anyhoo, once I reached the appropriate age (actually, I managed to sneak by a few years without one), my lovely GP decided that Pippi must have this experience. Great! I think to myself, remembering all the horror stories from previous participants in this exam. So, I get the phone call, my appointment was scheduled, and I was given a list of instructions; on this list is "no deodorant". Now, for those of you who have read my previous posts, then you know going without deodorant is an issue for me, but thank fully, my appointment was early morning. On a mother's day, how appropriate!
So, I arrive to the breast centre and am greeted by the lovely receptionist who while registering me seeks to ascertain that I am not wearing any scented lotions or deodorant, to which I reply, "No". When my name is called, I'm escorted to the back by another young woman who asks if I'm wearing deodorant and to which I, again, reply in the negative.
I'm herded into a changing room and handed a lovely gown with the instructions to remove everything on the top of my body and put the gown on, open in the front. With that she asks me if I had any questions. Although I had many a sarcastic thought run through my mind, I refrained and stated, "No". I strip off my shirt and bra and as soon as I do I realize how truly awful it is without deodorant. Once they were freed from their prison, the breasticles slid around all over my chest leaving behind a trail of sweaty ooze. I tried to blot them dry with a paper towel, but it didn't last long. There I sat in a little 2 x 2 room, clad in a paper gown wide open despite the lovely paper ties to hold it closed, and my pointers facing due south, then southeast, then southwest as they slithered around in time to my breathing.
Finally, a knock on the door! I was lead by a really chatty lady who was obviously playing her part to try to ease the sense of any embarrassment, me, the patient, may have being exposed as I was (you know, like walking around with the boobies hanging out of a gown is not my normal mode of dress). Little did she know, I couldn't have cared less as long as we could get a little breeze going under these puppies.
Anyway, she explains the procedure to me. There is a lovely metal surface on which we will place one breasticle at a time on. She will then lower another plate down on the top of the boob and it will be snug. She says, "Now, the snugger we can get it, the better look we can have at the tissues". Great, that's a nice way to say she is gonna make my boob flatter than a pancake. "Ok, let's do this", I say with great enthusiasm, "which one first?" She said it didn't matter, so, I whipped out the right one.
As soon as I flopped it up there it immediately slipped off the surface. Laughing I said, "It's a tricky little sucker especially since I haven't prepped it with deodorant". She reassured me it was ok and she cleaned the surface with a paper towel and gave me another one to absorb some of the extra moisture. When she was ready, I again presented the right girl to the plate, and this time she stood her ground. The boob lady adjusted the upper plate to her satisfaction, told me to hold my breath, and she ran behind a large lead plated glass.
A little click and a buzz and she returned. "Time for the other one and we'll get ya out of here!" Yay, I think, this isn't so bad. Not anything quite like I had anticipated or had heard via the female rumour vine. But then again, we had started with the right one.
As she prepped the metal surface, I blotted under both breasticles again ensuring immediate placement. When she indicated she was ready, I brought out Lefty, and I heard an audible sucking in of breath; not mine, hers. "Oh my, this might be a challenge", she says in her most professional voice as she clucks her tongue. She arranged, then rearranged Lefty. She lowered the plate, but Lefty wasn't giving it up. Lefty was defying all odds, Lefty refused to be flat.
Now, it's one thing for the medical professional to torture and contort your body, but it's another thing when they decide they need to enlist your assistance to help them torment you. "Maybe if you could pull on the front part here while I pull on this side, the plate will be able to flatten the rest." Ok....
So, essentially I end up taking a hold of Lefty's pointer region and pulling her out like one would do when making balloon animals. Then the tech grabs the right side of Lefty and stretches with all she's worth while lowering the upper plate. After several tries we were finally able to get Lefty in a position where she vaguely resembled a pizza crust. "Ok, I'm gonna hurry, don't move, don't breathe, if we're lucky we'll get it on the first shot!", the woman exclaimed as she quickly ran to her protected area. Meanwhile, I'm hanging onto Lefty's pointer, pulling straight out with my left hand and my right hand has Lefty's right side stretched. Now mind you I'm not supposed to move because if I do then the picture would result in looking as if my boob had an alien growing in it.
Finally I hear the click and buzz and I don't even wait for her to tell me we're through because at this point Lefty is numb and my fingers are sore from trying to hold her in position. "We GOT it!", the tech exclaims happily, "first try too!". Great, I think, I would hate to picture us trying to reposition Lefty again. The old girl was so happy to be released from her torture chamber and to be freely swaying from side to side once again.
Once I had closed my gown up, I was led back to the changing room where I was told there was deodorant available to use (no thanks, I brought my own). I was instructed to wait there until the film was checked and someone would come to get me. As soon as she closed the door, I ripped off the paper gown, grabbed a handful of paper towels, ran them under the water from the sink, cleansed under the girls, dried, and applied lavish amounts of Secret Summer Breeze not just to my arm pits (which by this time were waterfalls) but under the girls as well.
When I was satisfied everyone was as dry as they were gonna be, I dressed myself. Before I could even sit down to wait, there was a knock on the door, and I heard a voice say, "Ms. Cheshire, everything is good, you're free to go. Just stop by the reception desk on your way out".
After checking to make sure everything was in it's rightful place and the girls looked "remotely" equal, I opened the door and walked to the reception desk. I was greeted once again by the same friendly woman. She set a follow up date for me and said, "Please take a rose; we are celebrating Mother's Day with all of our ladies today!" I smiled and thanked her as I selected one of the blossoms.
Once in my car, I laid the rose down on the seat beside me while I gathered my thoughts. It occurred to me this was the first time anyone had ever given me a rose. Who knew the only thing one had to do was let a total stranger smash the crapola out of your girls while you helped them. If I had know this was the only reason I hadn't been given flowers before, then I might've considered it long before now.
So, just a heads up for all you ladies out there. If you're waiting for your man to give you flowers, then take a tip from me. He is more likely to present you with a big bouquet if you allow his best friend to pull and tug on your girls to his hearts content!
P.S. On second thought Elvira, don't ask if there is a discount for only one boob, they might get the idea like the airlines to charge extra for those of us with breasticles!
Friday, August 9, 2013
Would you like a little bit of cheese with your whine?
One of the things I can honestly say I miss the most about being young is my brain.
It used to be better than a Sham-Wow at absorbing any and all types of information, no matter in what format it was presented in. Going to show me a demonstration, got it; watch it once, I can repeat it. Gonna tell me about it, ok, I used to be able to see the final outcome or predict the next step before you said it. I would read and read and read, hours on end. Even to this day I am surrounded by books, some still in hard copy, a lot in the electronic version. But somewhere between the ages of 45 and 46, something changed.
Before I considered myself a multi-tasker because while someone could be telling me a story, I could walk off, perform a task, and come back to ask them an appropriate question about what they were informing me of. I was particularly good at honing this skill since Scooter was diagnosed as ADHD at an early age. So, with him, one need to master this ability quite quickly if you were to prevent a disaster from occurring.
Yet, there was one habit that followed me through all the years of my life: unfinished projects. I could get my interest peaked about learning something, say, crocheting. I got some yarn, watch my Granny as she showed me the stitches, and I would practice. I perfected a single chain, double chain, etc. But somewhere in the throes of the back and forth repetition, I lost interest. Eventually I ended up with lots and lots of long, thin, scarves consisting of about 10 crocheted rows. Next, I tried making granny squares and that kept me going for a little while; trying to perfect those square corners always seemed to elude me. But soon, the oddly shaped squares I could never seem to get to match up just right, ended up tossed in a box.
One day I visited a cousin, she was cross-stitching. She had made me a piece with a girl in a graduation cap and gown. She told me all about it and gave me a copy of a pattern for a castle. She would be thrilled to know, I still have that pattern, some 30 years later, and the castle still isn't done.
But it seemed to me, that throughout my life, I have had various "unfinished" things. Those which, if I wasn't required by law to do, then my attention was lost and the project/learning/job went by the wayside. Heck, I didn't even finish either of my pregnancies by going through labor of my own accord: Zex, refused to exit the womb despite massive doses of Pitocin, so, he was a C-section, and well, Scooter, he tried to and successfully refused to stay in the womb, so, he was a 6-week preemie.
Now, that I am at the age where it is wise for one to reflect back on her successes and failures, I am forcing myself to accept that I am definitely in reverse mode. Somewhere around the age of 30, I was able to conquer the inability to finish a task by completing my first degree. I was able to harness whatever it is that is hiding itself from me now and use it to forge out a career. But it took me another 10 years to decide to do the second degree and once again, I was able to corral my brain into behaving and staying on task. I completed that when I was 45.
Yet, it's only 2 years later and whatever the magical cure was seems to have left. I still have the desire to learn, but I can't sit still long enough to concentrate. I'm interested in all kinds of information but I hate to have to sort through bloated amounts of material to try to glean the pertinent facts from it. I have videos, I have webcasts/podcasts, I have books, I have schedules, and I have Adderall; all of which I have tried in vain to find what is the missing piece.
Was it a chemical change? Did the part of my brain which I so desperately need to use finally decide it had had enough abuse and has now vacated my skull? Is this a normal part of the aging process? Is it due to too many artificial sweeteners, carbs, pesticides, etc?
Or have I simply lost my mojo? Have I gone the way of Austin Powers in "The Spy Who Shagged Me"? If so, then I definitely need a time machine to go back and find it.
It used to be better than a Sham-Wow at absorbing any and all types of information, no matter in what format it was presented in. Going to show me a demonstration, got it; watch it once, I can repeat it. Gonna tell me about it, ok, I used to be able to see the final outcome or predict the next step before you said it. I would read and read and read, hours on end. Even to this day I am surrounded by books, some still in hard copy, a lot in the electronic version. But somewhere between the ages of 45 and 46, something changed.
Before I considered myself a multi-tasker because while someone could be telling me a story, I could walk off, perform a task, and come back to ask them an appropriate question about what they were informing me of. I was particularly good at honing this skill since Scooter was diagnosed as ADHD at an early age. So, with him, one need to master this ability quite quickly if you were to prevent a disaster from occurring.
Yet, there was one habit that followed me through all the years of my life: unfinished projects. I could get my interest peaked about learning something, say, crocheting. I got some yarn, watch my Granny as she showed me the stitches, and I would practice. I perfected a single chain, double chain, etc. But somewhere in the throes of the back and forth repetition, I lost interest. Eventually I ended up with lots and lots of long, thin, scarves consisting of about 10 crocheted rows. Next, I tried making granny squares and that kept me going for a little while; trying to perfect those square corners always seemed to elude me. But soon, the oddly shaped squares I could never seem to get to match up just right, ended up tossed in a box.
One day I visited a cousin, she was cross-stitching. She had made me a piece with a girl in a graduation cap and gown. She told me all about it and gave me a copy of a pattern for a castle. She would be thrilled to know, I still have that pattern, some 30 years later, and the castle still isn't done.
But it seemed to me, that throughout my life, I have had various "unfinished" things. Those which, if I wasn't required by law to do, then my attention was lost and the project/learning/job went by the wayside. Heck, I didn't even finish either of my pregnancies by going through labor of my own accord: Zex, refused to exit the womb despite massive doses of Pitocin, so, he was a C-section, and well, Scooter, he tried to and successfully refused to stay in the womb, so, he was a 6-week preemie.
Now, that I am at the age where it is wise for one to reflect back on her successes and failures, I am forcing myself to accept that I am definitely in reverse mode. Somewhere around the age of 30, I was able to conquer the inability to finish a task by completing my first degree. I was able to harness whatever it is that is hiding itself from me now and use it to forge out a career. But it took me another 10 years to decide to do the second degree and once again, I was able to corral my brain into behaving and staying on task. I completed that when I was 45.
Yet, it's only 2 years later and whatever the magical cure was seems to have left. I still have the desire to learn, but I can't sit still long enough to concentrate. I'm interested in all kinds of information but I hate to have to sort through bloated amounts of material to try to glean the pertinent facts from it. I have videos, I have webcasts/podcasts, I have books, I have schedules, and I have Adderall; all of which I have tried in vain to find what is the missing piece.
Was it a chemical change? Did the part of my brain which I so desperately need to use finally decide it had had enough abuse and has now vacated my skull? Is this a normal part of the aging process? Is it due to too many artificial sweeteners, carbs, pesticides, etc?
Or have I simply lost my mojo? Have I gone the way of Austin Powers in "The Spy Who Shagged Me"? If so, then I definitely need a time machine to go back and find it.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Why is the rum gone?
I believe Jack Sparrow was right to be irritated that the pesky Elizabeth Swann had used all the rum hidden on the island to build a fire to attract a ship to rescue them. Elizabeth, obviously, did NOT understand the important function rum has.
For instance, in a pinch, should one need to do emergency surgery, one may ply the patient with a lovely mix of Barcardi 151, approximately half a pint, and within 10 minutes the patient could care less about what kind of procedure you were about to perform on him within the privacy of, oh, I don't know, say, one's backyard?!
Rum's thought shifting properties are also highly overlooked. Why just a couple of shots of 151 and I promise you can dance W-A-Y better than those over paid individuals on "Dancing with the Stars"! In my own experience, I discovered I am much more accurate when playing 'Dance, Dance Revolution' on the Wii, if I have, in fact, had just a smidgin of rum. The only problem seems to be that pesky mat that has a way of moving around on me, but as long as it holds steady its position, things are A-OK!!
Barcardi also seems to hold the corner market when it comes to being able to tolerate people one would most likely deem unbearable. There is one particular individual who believes that he is the authority on everything (and NO, it's not me). He will argue and explain numerous times why he is, in fact, the expert on whatever subject that is being discussed despite the fact the person who he maybe debating actually holds a PhD and has won a Nobel Prize for his work in a particular area. It has been documented time and again, Rum, in moderate sips while in the presence of one of these annoying individuals will make the listener less likely to be arrested for a domestic episode.
The only drawback I have found is that Barcardi has not figured out a way to make their product available in Jelly Belly Jellybeans. If that day ever comes, then Ms. Pippi may set sail for the high seas.
This has been an advertisement by Pippi. The previous post has no affiliation with the Barcardi Rum manufacturers and the reviewer, Pippi, was not compensated for her time or testimony. We here at Barcardi believe in honesty in advertising unlike the government which prefers just to scan everyone's internet and phone records to find out their preferences for alcoholic beverages.
For instance, in a pinch, should one need to do emergency surgery, one may ply the patient with a lovely mix of Barcardi 151, approximately half a pint, and within 10 minutes the patient could care less about what kind of procedure you were about to perform on him within the privacy of, oh, I don't know, say, one's backyard?!
Rum's thought shifting properties are also highly overlooked. Why just a couple of shots of 151 and I promise you can dance W-A-Y better than those over paid individuals on "Dancing with the Stars"! In my own experience, I discovered I am much more accurate when playing 'Dance, Dance Revolution' on the Wii, if I have, in fact, had just a smidgin of rum. The only problem seems to be that pesky mat that has a way of moving around on me, but as long as it holds steady its position, things are A-OK!!
Barcardi also seems to hold the corner market when it comes to being able to tolerate people one would most likely deem unbearable. There is one particular individual who believes that he is the authority on everything (and NO, it's not me). He will argue and explain numerous times why he is, in fact, the expert on whatever subject that is being discussed despite the fact the person who he maybe debating actually holds a PhD and has won a Nobel Prize for his work in a particular area. It has been documented time and again, Rum, in moderate sips while in the presence of one of these annoying individuals will make the listener less likely to be arrested for a domestic episode.
The only drawback I have found is that Barcardi has not figured out a way to make their product available in Jelly Belly Jellybeans. If that day ever comes, then Ms. Pippi may set sail for the high seas.
This has been an advertisement by Pippi. The previous post has no affiliation with the Barcardi Rum manufacturers and the reviewer, Pippi, was not compensated for her time or testimony. We here at Barcardi believe in honesty in advertising unlike the government which prefers just to scan everyone's internet and phone records to find out their preferences for alcoholic beverages.
Monday, August 5, 2013
What's in a name?
I think the person who described the animal that is advertising was best described by George Carlin. Had a very large, mature audience spiel in which he would talk about verbiage and such big corporations use to get our attention, stoke our desires, and ultimately rob us of our money in the never ending pursuit to have the newest, latest-greatest gizmo. But the thing that really bugs me, I wanna know who is in charge of naming these products?
How many of you can remember the flack Apple got over the name for their electronic portable tablet, iPad, when it was first announced? To this day pictures show up in random internet feeds displaying word play on the product name.
Today, as I was shopping at Food City, the closest thing we have to a true grocery food chain store, I was browsing near the mexican food aisle when my eyes came across a can. At first I thought I read the label wrong, so, I looked again. Nope, I got it right the first time.
I would like to know W-H-O came up with this name let alone the picture of what appears to be shredded flesh! I was left shocked and appalled because the first image that popped into my mind was of person named "Dick", namely, Richard Nixon. The whole product presentation resonated with me as promoting cannibalism. Yikes! (Turns out it's a dessert popular in the UK)
Aside from food, the manufacturers of women's products are typically as bad. Summer's Eve while designed to provide additional female cleansing the name alludes to the feeling of using this product will be warm and pleasant like a summer's evening. This could be further from the truth. It's more like Iceland in the worst ice storm in history. Nothing pleasant about it.
Always touts the ability of the product to provide protection for all areas of the wearer at all times. It especially highlights the "wings" which are responsible for this added security. What they fail to mention in any of their ads is that these items are not recommended for wearing during sleep, particularly if you are a restless sleeper. See those lovely little wings, which work magically during the day, at night tend to disengage from the assigned area and migrate up into the female neither regions. This typically isn't noticed until the woman wakes to go to the bathroom and has to, usually while still in some part of REM sleep, perform a Brazilian bikini wax on herself before she may use the toilet. This little nugget of info might be something the company may wish to make the consumer aware of with regards to those who suffer from bladder control issues.
There is a product used in hospitals to prepare patients for GI procedures, particularly colonoscopies; it is called Go-Lytely. I believe Jeff Foxworthy mentioned coming in contact with this substance and was left with the distinct impression the given name for the item is very misleading. There is nothing "lightly" about it. By the time the patient has finished the allotted dose, he is usually perched on a toilet, with his thigh muscles locked in the evacuation position while his hands grip the side of the seat as the contents which have occupied his body for the last week are violently emptied via his colon. I have yet to have anyone ever claim to not feel that he wasn't completely evacuated if he completed the dose, some women are even thrilled to have lost that final 5-10 pounds of "water weight".
These are just a few things I thought about after I laughed myself silly while I finished grocery shopping. But seriously, it would be nice if advertisers named a product a truthful name.
How many of you can remember the flack Apple got over the name for their electronic portable tablet, iPad, when it was first announced? To this day pictures show up in random internet feeds displaying word play on the product name.
Today, as I was shopping at Food City, the closest thing we have to a true grocery food chain store, I was browsing near the mexican food aisle when my eyes came across a can. At first I thought I read the label wrong, so, I looked again. Nope, I got it right the first time.
I would like to know W-H-O came up with this name let alone the picture of what appears to be shredded flesh! I was left shocked and appalled because the first image that popped into my mind was of person named "Dick", namely, Richard Nixon. The whole product presentation resonated with me as promoting cannibalism. Yikes! (Turns out it's a dessert popular in the UK)
Aside from food, the manufacturers of women's products are typically as bad. Summer's Eve while designed to provide additional female cleansing the name alludes to the feeling of using this product will be warm and pleasant like a summer's evening. This could be further from the truth. It's more like Iceland in the worst ice storm in history. Nothing pleasant about it.
Always touts the ability of the product to provide protection for all areas of the wearer at all times. It especially highlights the "wings" which are responsible for this added security. What they fail to mention in any of their ads is that these items are not recommended for wearing during sleep, particularly if you are a restless sleeper. See those lovely little wings, which work magically during the day, at night tend to disengage from the assigned area and migrate up into the female neither regions. This typically isn't noticed until the woman wakes to go to the bathroom and has to, usually while still in some part of REM sleep, perform a Brazilian bikini wax on herself before she may use the toilet. This little nugget of info might be something the company may wish to make the consumer aware of with regards to those who suffer from bladder control issues.
There is a product used in hospitals to prepare patients for GI procedures, particularly colonoscopies; it is called Go-Lytely. I believe Jeff Foxworthy mentioned coming in contact with this substance and was left with the distinct impression the given name for the item is very misleading. There is nothing "lightly" about it. By the time the patient has finished the allotted dose, he is usually perched on a toilet, with his thigh muscles locked in the evacuation position while his hands grip the side of the seat as the contents which have occupied his body for the last week are violently emptied via his colon. I have yet to have anyone ever claim to not feel that he wasn't completely evacuated if he completed the dose, some women are even thrilled to have lost that final 5-10 pounds of "water weight".
These are just a few things I thought about after I laughed myself silly while I finished grocery shopping. But seriously, it would be nice if advertisers named a product a truthful name.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
In our house there's never gonna be a gas shortage
As I was in the bathroom this afternoon trying to do something with the gosh awful bird's nest known as my hair, Scooter came running into the room, turned so that his back side was facing me, bent over, and proceeded to emit the loudest example of flatulence I have heard yet while screaming, "Incoming!"
Why, are we, as a species so fascinated with the expulsion of gas from our rear ends? Is it because it sounds funny, it gives the "gunman" a means of clearing an entire room in one foul swoop, or is it because when one is sitting just right, a fart, instead of coming out straight into the environment can, in fact, travel frontward up between the legs thusly causing one's pants to blouson while the expelled air heats the neither regions?
I'm curious really at what point over the decades did the fart go from being taboo to a source of entertainment? I can remember back in the 70s being told I should not pass gas in front of a list of certain people or in certain places such as: church, a member of the opposite sex (unless that person was a member of one's household), or basically anywhere in public where the emission of this natural phenomena would lead to the embarrassment of my Mother.
However, my Mom's rules pertaining the regulation of gas passing evidently didn't apply to my father, especially on particularly long car drives. When I wasn't being subjected to second hand smoke, a fact I complained about non-stop which if I whined loudly enough resulted in the window being rolled down 1/8 inch, then when my Father felt "a good one coming on" it was usually when he had the heat up as high as it would go, chain smoking Marlboro's like there was no tomorrow. He would let it rip.
The fart would elicit a string of curse words from my Mom's mouth while my sister and I sat in the back seat trying not to throw up. That has to be one of the worse feelings ever for a little kid who gets motion sick easily. The combo of the car movement, cigarette smoke, and noxious butt fumes tended to overwhelm me and I would end up dry heaving. The entire time my Father continued to "laugh his a$$ off", so to speak.
Fast forward to the '90s and all of a sudden it seems that the ability to fart has been brought out of the closet into the public acceptance arena. There are shows with young men who attempt to light their farts, farting contests, etc. Now, here in the 21st century, everyone farts everywhere without regard for any of their fellow planet inhabitants.
From the recovery areas of the colonoscopy clinics to the aisles of Wal-Mart, the ability to fart is being heralded as perfectly acceptable public behavior. As a matter of fact, there is nothing I enjoy more while grocery shopping than to turn down an aisle only to enter the unseen death zone. I tell ya, nothing can clear an aisle like the lingering fragrance of a nasty broccoli fart. The smell does wonders for cutting short one's shopping trip thereby allowing the shopper to keep their purchases within their budget. The scent of a fart is particularly effective when left in the baking/sweet aisle for those of us trying to control our consumption of those carbs.
I knew when I had boys that sooner or later I was to be tormented by their farting antics; little did I know this behaviour, even with them being taught good manners, would persist well into their adulthood where they still like to torment their Mom with their gas passing abilities.
So, in such a case, what's a Mother to do? Why she loads herself up with soup beans and Mexican cornbread. She is in no hurry, she has all day. Everything is in there churning and she can feel the rumblings from down below, but she must wait until the time is right.
When does one know the time is right? Why the right time happens to coincide with the scheduled visit of my future-daughter-in-law! What's that sound? I believe I hear the back door opening. "Hi Ziggy and Zex, why don't you all come in and have a seat in the living room? I'll be right in", I say as a evil smile crosses my lips.
Why, are we, as a species so fascinated with the expulsion of gas from our rear ends? Is it because it sounds funny, it gives the "gunman" a means of clearing an entire room in one foul swoop, or is it because when one is sitting just right, a fart, instead of coming out straight into the environment can, in fact, travel frontward up between the legs thusly causing one's pants to blouson while the expelled air heats the neither regions?
I'm curious really at what point over the decades did the fart go from being taboo to a source of entertainment? I can remember back in the 70s being told I should not pass gas in front of a list of certain people or in certain places such as: church, a member of the opposite sex (unless that person was a member of one's household), or basically anywhere in public where the emission of this natural phenomena would lead to the embarrassment of my Mother.
However, my Mom's rules pertaining the regulation of gas passing evidently didn't apply to my father, especially on particularly long car drives. When I wasn't being subjected to second hand smoke, a fact I complained about non-stop which if I whined loudly enough resulted in the window being rolled down 1/8 inch, then when my Father felt "a good one coming on" it was usually when he had the heat up as high as it would go, chain smoking Marlboro's like there was no tomorrow. He would let it rip.
The fart would elicit a string of curse words from my Mom's mouth while my sister and I sat in the back seat trying not to throw up. That has to be one of the worse feelings ever for a little kid who gets motion sick easily. The combo of the car movement, cigarette smoke, and noxious butt fumes tended to overwhelm me and I would end up dry heaving. The entire time my Father continued to "laugh his a$$ off", so to speak.
Fast forward to the '90s and all of a sudden it seems that the ability to fart has been brought out of the closet into the public acceptance arena. There are shows with young men who attempt to light their farts, farting contests, etc. Now, here in the 21st century, everyone farts everywhere without regard for any of their fellow planet inhabitants.
From the recovery areas of the colonoscopy clinics to the aisles of Wal-Mart, the ability to fart is being heralded as perfectly acceptable public behavior. As a matter of fact, there is nothing I enjoy more while grocery shopping than to turn down an aisle only to enter the unseen death zone. I tell ya, nothing can clear an aisle like the lingering fragrance of a nasty broccoli fart. The smell does wonders for cutting short one's shopping trip thereby allowing the shopper to keep their purchases within their budget. The scent of a fart is particularly effective when left in the baking/sweet aisle for those of us trying to control our consumption of those carbs.
I knew when I had boys that sooner or later I was to be tormented by their farting antics; little did I know this behaviour, even with them being taught good manners, would persist well into their adulthood where they still like to torment their Mom with their gas passing abilities.
So, in such a case, what's a Mother to do? Why she loads herself up with soup beans and Mexican cornbread. She is in no hurry, she has all day. Everything is in there churning and she can feel the rumblings from down below, but she must wait until the time is right.
When does one know the time is right? Why the right time happens to coincide with the scheduled visit of my future-daughter-in-law! What's that sound? I believe I hear the back door opening. "Hi Ziggy and Zex, why don't you all come in and have a seat in the living room? I'll be right in", I say as a evil smile crosses my lips.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Pippi's version of the People of Wal-Mart
Today, upon exiting the Wal-Mart, a bright yellow sign pasted across the automatic doors caught my eye. Upon the glaring background there was a picture of a child and a vehicle with the message: "Think, have you forgotten anything?" The sign went on to remind people of the fact that they can't, no matter how much more pleasant their shopping experience may in fact be, leave their children unattended in a car.
I stopped dead in my tracks and stared. I couldn't believe my eyes as I read and reread the sign. Then I thought to myself when in the world did we become a nation of morons and who in their right mind could possibly forget their child? (No comments from the peanut gallery concerning previous memory posts) I am completely bumfuzzled by the fact that a sign reminding people they need to care for the life (lives) they have brought into this world is necessary. Where on earth did we go wrong or was there something I missed when I was raising my children?
As I continued my journey to the car I thought back to the days of my Wal-Mart shopping adventures; there are so many events I can't really decided where to begin. Should it be the most embarrassing, the funniest, or the most scandalous story??? Hmmm.
Let's start with the most scandalous. I can't believe I'm about to post this; this is something only a few people know. Anyhoo, it was not one of my finer moments as a parent/shopper but alas it is true. When Zex and Scooter were growing up there was a show called the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. It was a group of nerdy kids who fought off the criminal element (mostly in some strange shape or form) while wearing brightly colored jumpsuits and motorcycle helmets. There was a pink, green, blue, yellow, red, black, and white ranger.
The white power ranger was actually the green ranger who during a fierce battle between good and evil forces spent the last of his powers to help the remaining rangers defeat the enemy. The green ranger, having lost all of his abilities also went into a depression and hid himself away in a cabin in the woods.
While green ranger was under his self imposed exile, the evil Lord Zed unleashed his most powerful beast aptly named Nimrod, who in turned spawned other monsters such as AC and DC. Havoc was everywhere. So, taking matters into their own hands, Zordon and Alpha, the keepers of the secret powers bestowed upon the rangers, concocted new powers for the green ranger. These new powers bestowed the ability to be a fierce fighter and powerful leader of the rangers: THE WHITE RANGER!
I have bored you with these details so, maybe, somewhere in the midst of impending events I'm about to unveil to you I can garner some sympathy. The White Ranger was the coveted toy at Christmas time. I had drove to every Wal-Mart around. I had duplicates of the other rangers but had yet to find a single white ranger. In desperation I drove to Mt. Sterling to try their Wal-Mart.
As I shut the door and clambered inside (no the boys weren't with me) I made haste to the toy aisle after securing a buggy. Up and down the aisles I looked. Among the Barbies, the Hot Wheel cars, and among the baby toys. No power ranger in site. Dejected I headed back to the area where the Power Rangers would have been displayed to try to brain storm on what to do next.
I made my way down the aisle, passing another panicked Mother who was looking for some other toy. Making my way past her cart my eye caught a glimpse of something white. I stopped and looked into the cart, sure enough, it was THE White Power Ranger!!! The owner of the cart had left it unattended, albeit momentarily, while she and her friend scoured the shelves. It took me about 5 seconds to make a decision and before I knew what had happened my hand shot out, reached over into her buggy, snatched the ranger, flipped him over into my cart, and I rapidly beat a retreat down the aisle away from my poor unsuspecting victim.
I justified my conscience by saying, just shut up. It's not stealing she hadn't even bought it yet. Besides SHE left her cart unattended so you snooze, you lose. Like I said, not one of my finer moments but by golly I had at least one of those little sacred beings!
Now, to offset my bad behaviour as a Mommy, I will relate to you how karma made its way back around to me.
One day after I had left church service I went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few items. My aunt and uncle had took the boys with them, so, I was able to make a quick trip in and out. But first stop was gonna have to be the bathroom as I really had to go. Of course I hit the restroom at a time when an apparent flood had recently been cleaned up leaving the floor slightly moist. I carefully made my way to the last stall, the fat people stall as I so like to call it, and pulled the door closed behind me. Or rather I tried to.
As the door was swinging closed, I began to lose my footing and instead of grabbing the safety rails, like a fool, I reached for the door. Well, the door continued on its arc-like path not caring that I had a death grip on it at this point. To this day I'm still not sure how I managed to reach the top of that door but I did. So, together, the door and I swung in and out a few times until I was able to secure a grip on the safety rails and plop down on the toilet.
From the safety of the commode, I pulled the door closed, and turned the lock. I had to take a couple minutes to recompose myself before I could manage to complete nature's call. Once done I was able to leave the stall without any further problems. I washed my hands in the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and made my way to the door where I retrieved my cart and headed off to shop.
I was walking down an aisle in the home good section looking at towels when I ran into a childhood friend of mine, Jeff, who happened to work at Wal-Mart. I stood there a good 5 minutes just chatting away, talking about my boys, my family, his family, etc. After we said our goodbyes, I turned the corner and walked up the next aisle where I came upon the display of full length mirrors.
Back in the day, Wal-Mart only had the small bathroom mirrors, not the full length ones they boast today. You can imagine my surprise when I looked at myself in one of them and there, hanging out of the back waistband of my skirt, was a wad of toilet paper complete with a long streamer. I was mortified. I grabbed the paper from my backside, left the cart in the aisle, and made haste to the door to leave. I couldn't chance meeting up with Jeff again knowing he was probably laughing his a$$ off at me!
Now, the piece de resistance; the crowning touch, if you will. I needed to go to Wal-Mart for a few items (I know, I made a lot of trips to Wal-mart, don't judge me). Zex and Scooter couldn't have been more than 6 and 4 respectively. Upon entering the store, the greeter helped me to secure a shopping cart and steadied it while I attempted to put Scooter in the seat. It was always a production to get Scooter in the cart because he didn't like being confined in one spot so he would stiffen out his legs and refuse to bend them.
I'm wrestling with Scooter, the greeter tries to bribe him with a sticker if he would just "sit down in the buggy like a good little boy he is", and Zex was hanging off the other end of the cart saying, "Hurry up, hurry up!" Now mind you, all this hoopla is taking place in the main entry way lots of people around witnessing what I'm sure society today would consider "child abuse" as I told Scooter if he didn't sit in the buggy, then he wouldn't be playing Power Rangers when he got home, or for the next week.
Finally, Scooter caved. As he got settled in he crossed his arms over his chest and began to frown at me. The store greeter, true to her word, brought Scooter a smiley face sticker and put it on his shirt. Scooter looked down at the big yellow face, took his hand and smoothed it out flat against his shirt, and announced in a loud, clear voice for all shoppers to hear: "Mom, my **insert appropriate medical term for the male anatomy here** is standing up and it won't go down!"
My eyes got big and round but I remained calm as I leaned in and whispered, "Just ignore it and it will go away". So what does Scooter do? He promptly starts slapping at himself while yelling, "down, down!"
And so, this ends my demented trip down memory lane. Since the whole remembrance was brought on by my questioning of the sanity of the individuals who could possibly "forget" their child in a car, a little evil thought occurred to me. I could almost see myself declaring a defendant "not guilty" if they were ever tried for this crime. Almost...
P.S. There was also a Code Adam called one day concerning Scooter who had escaped the cart; after that the management seemed to always know when we entered the store. I wonder why?
I stopped dead in my tracks and stared. I couldn't believe my eyes as I read and reread the sign. Then I thought to myself when in the world did we become a nation of morons and who in their right mind could possibly forget their child? (No comments from the peanut gallery concerning previous memory posts) I am completely bumfuzzled by the fact that a sign reminding people they need to care for the life (lives) they have brought into this world is necessary. Where on earth did we go wrong or was there something I missed when I was raising my children?
As I continued my journey to the car I thought back to the days of my Wal-Mart shopping adventures; there are so many events I can't really decided where to begin. Should it be the most embarrassing, the funniest, or the most scandalous story??? Hmmm.
Let's start with the most scandalous. I can't believe I'm about to post this; this is something only a few people know. Anyhoo, it was not one of my finer moments as a parent/shopper but alas it is true. When Zex and Scooter were growing up there was a show called the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. It was a group of nerdy kids who fought off the criminal element (mostly in some strange shape or form) while wearing brightly colored jumpsuits and motorcycle helmets. There was a pink, green, blue, yellow, red, black, and white ranger.
The white power ranger was actually the green ranger who during a fierce battle between good and evil forces spent the last of his powers to help the remaining rangers defeat the enemy. The green ranger, having lost all of his abilities also went into a depression and hid himself away in a cabin in the woods.
While green ranger was under his self imposed exile, the evil Lord Zed unleashed his most powerful beast aptly named Nimrod, who in turned spawned other monsters such as AC and DC. Havoc was everywhere. So, taking matters into their own hands, Zordon and Alpha, the keepers of the secret powers bestowed upon the rangers, concocted new powers for the green ranger. These new powers bestowed the ability to be a fierce fighter and powerful leader of the rangers: THE WHITE RANGER!
I have bored you with these details so, maybe, somewhere in the midst of impending events I'm about to unveil to you I can garner some sympathy. The White Ranger was the coveted toy at Christmas time. I had drove to every Wal-Mart around. I had duplicates of the other rangers but had yet to find a single white ranger. In desperation I drove to Mt. Sterling to try their Wal-Mart.
As I shut the door and clambered inside (no the boys weren't with me) I made haste to the toy aisle after securing a buggy. Up and down the aisles I looked. Among the Barbies, the Hot Wheel cars, and among the baby toys. No power ranger in site. Dejected I headed back to the area where the Power Rangers would have been displayed to try to brain storm on what to do next.
I made my way down the aisle, passing another panicked Mother who was looking for some other toy. Making my way past her cart my eye caught a glimpse of something white. I stopped and looked into the cart, sure enough, it was THE White Power Ranger!!! The owner of the cart had left it unattended, albeit momentarily, while she and her friend scoured the shelves. It took me about 5 seconds to make a decision and before I knew what had happened my hand shot out, reached over into her buggy, snatched the ranger, flipped him over into my cart, and I rapidly beat a retreat down the aisle away from my poor unsuspecting victim.
I justified my conscience by saying, just shut up. It's not stealing she hadn't even bought it yet. Besides SHE left her cart unattended so you snooze, you lose. Like I said, not one of my finer moments but by golly I had at least one of those little sacred beings!
Now, to offset my bad behaviour as a Mommy, I will relate to you how karma made its way back around to me.
One day after I had left church service I went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few items. My aunt and uncle had took the boys with them, so, I was able to make a quick trip in and out. But first stop was gonna have to be the bathroom as I really had to go. Of course I hit the restroom at a time when an apparent flood had recently been cleaned up leaving the floor slightly moist. I carefully made my way to the last stall, the fat people stall as I so like to call it, and pulled the door closed behind me. Or rather I tried to.
As the door was swinging closed, I began to lose my footing and instead of grabbing the safety rails, like a fool, I reached for the door. Well, the door continued on its arc-like path not caring that I had a death grip on it at this point. To this day I'm still not sure how I managed to reach the top of that door but I did. So, together, the door and I swung in and out a few times until I was able to secure a grip on the safety rails and plop down on the toilet.
From the safety of the commode, I pulled the door closed, and turned the lock. I had to take a couple minutes to recompose myself before I could manage to complete nature's call. Once done I was able to leave the stall without any further problems. I washed my hands in the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and made my way to the door where I retrieved my cart and headed off to shop.
I was walking down an aisle in the home good section looking at towels when I ran into a childhood friend of mine, Jeff, who happened to work at Wal-Mart. I stood there a good 5 minutes just chatting away, talking about my boys, my family, his family, etc. After we said our goodbyes, I turned the corner and walked up the next aisle where I came upon the display of full length mirrors.
Back in the day, Wal-Mart only had the small bathroom mirrors, not the full length ones they boast today. You can imagine my surprise when I looked at myself in one of them and there, hanging out of the back waistband of my skirt, was a wad of toilet paper complete with a long streamer. I was mortified. I grabbed the paper from my backside, left the cart in the aisle, and made haste to the door to leave. I couldn't chance meeting up with Jeff again knowing he was probably laughing his a$$ off at me!
Now, the piece de resistance; the crowning touch, if you will. I needed to go to Wal-Mart for a few items (I know, I made a lot of trips to Wal-mart, don't judge me). Zex and Scooter couldn't have been more than 6 and 4 respectively. Upon entering the store, the greeter helped me to secure a shopping cart and steadied it while I attempted to put Scooter in the seat. It was always a production to get Scooter in the cart because he didn't like being confined in one spot so he would stiffen out his legs and refuse to bend them.
I'm wrestling with Scooter, the greeter tries to bribe him with a sticker if he would just "sit down in the buggy like a good little boy he is", and Zex was hanging off the other end of the cart saying, "Hurry up, hurry up!" Now mind you, all this hoopla is taking place in the main entry way lots of people around witnessing what I'm sure society today would consider "child abuse" as I told Scooter if he didn't sit in the buggy, then he wouldn't be playing Power Rangers when he got home, or for the next week.
Finally, Scooter caved. As he got settled in he crossed his arms over his chest and began to frown at me. The store greeter, true to her word, brought Scooter a smiley face sticker and put it on his shirt. Scooter looked down at the big yellow face, took his hand and smoothed it out flat against his shirt, and announced in a loud, clear voice for all shoppers to hear: "Mom, my **insert appropriate medical term for the male anatomy here** is standing up and it won't go down!"
My eyes got big and round but I remained calm as I leaned in and whispered, "Just ignore it and it will go away". So what does Scooter do? He promptly starts slapping at himself while yelling, "down, down!"
And so, this ends my demented trip down memory lane. Since the whole remembrance was brought on by my questioning of the sanity of the individuals who could possibly "forget" their child in a car, a little evil thought occurred to me. I could almost see myself declaring a defendant "not guilty" if they were ever tried for this crime. Almost...
P.S. There was also a Code Adam called one day concerning Scooter who had escaped the cart; after that the management seemed to always know when we entered the store. I wonder why?
"911-What's your emergency?"
Last week on my great road trip adventure I visited a half price book store. On the shelves in the back covered in dust I came across a copy of Bill Cosby's "Time Flies", its price $1.00. I am a lover of "The Cos" since "hey, hey, hey, it's Fat Albert" and the book was well within my budget so I snatched it up. I have only had time to read bits and pieces because there always seems to be something else demanding my attention (that, and the fact that it has taken the place of honor in the bathroom as reading material for all who enter). The gist of the book talks about Bill adjusting to the changes occurring within himself, at that time, as he has entered middle age. I found I can completely empathise with the fellow.
Take yesterday, for example, I got up, hopped in the shower, put on my shorts/t-shirt I wear when facing the dreaded treadmill, and exited the bathroom. I went from the bathroom to the kitchen to put the dishes into soak when the thought came to me, did you apply deodorant? Hmm, I don't think so, so I trotted back into the bathroom, whipped out my Secret Summer Breeze stick and applied.
Back to the kitchen, turn off the water, which has now reached the top of the sink basin, and notice the food/water dishes for the animals need attending to. Somewhere in the middle of this, the buzzer sounded on the dryer in the basement so I stopped mid activity and went off to the basement.
Climbing back up the stairs I noticed I felt a hint of moisture under my arms. Did you put on deodorant? I don't think so, I say to myself. I drop the dish towels into their designated kitchen drawer and march off to the bathroom where I whip out my trusty Secret Summer Breeze stick and liberally applied to my arm pits of hell.
As I placed it back in the drawer I paused trying to think if there was something I wanted to do before I got on the treadmill. Yeah, it may have been procrastination, but I had a nagging feeling there was something...I began to retrace my steps and found myself back in the kitchen. There I was greeted by Jinx who immediately attacked my feet and when I looked down I spotted her bowl was still empty. Ah, yes, I meant to feed them and I fill up the bowls.
By this time Pooper and Poopster have joined the party by doing the "I gotta pee" shimmy, so away we go. We hadn't been outside very long when I noted that despite the gloomy overcast appearance of the day I felt quite warm. Ten minutes later Pooper and Poopster were finally through with their outside activities and we headed in.
As I opened the door the cool air from the air condition hit me. Thank you God!! I can't believe I forgot my deodorant this morning. No wonder I'm sweating like a cow, I think to myself as I walk to the bathroom, dig through the sink drawer mess to find my Secret Summer Breeze stick. I quickly make a few swipes in the ole pits and head back out the door. I immediately run into Scooter, who was standing in the doorway.
"Mom, what are you doing?", Scooter asks. I give him one of my "duh" looks. "If you must know I forgot my deodorant so I came in here to put some on." Scooter looks at me, staring straight into my eyes while placing the back of his hand to my forehead. I brushed his hand off in frustration and told him, "Scooter, stop it! I don't have time for your foolishness; I've got things to do!" "Like what Mom? Reapply your deodorant?" "What are you babbling about Scooter?! I just told you I went outside and remembered I hadn't put any on yet today, so when I came in I went straight to the bathroom to do so." Scooter drops his head and shakes it back and forth, "Mom, you have put deodorant on three times." I looked at him as if he had lost his mind, "I have not!!!" "Yes, Mom, you have. My room is right there and I have watched you do the same thing 3 times in a period of 30 minutes."
I frowned and squinted my eyebrows together while trying to determine if Scooter was trying to pull a fast one on me. He didn't look like he was joking, he actually looked kinda concerned. "Did I really?" "Yes, Mom." Wow! That blew my mind. I walked over to the couch and sat down to think back over the things I had done this morning to see if indeed this was true.
With a few minutes of extra concentration I came to the realisation Scooter was right. Then I began to panic. Could one possibly overdose on deodorant? I truly hope not; that would be extremely embarrassing to explain. But of course, my self reassurance wasn't enough I had to scour the internet concerning the possible ramifications of my actions. I even pondered calling Poison Control but then I thought better; they may feel the need to notify those special people who like to invoke 5150s on people who may be a hazard to themselves or others.
I leaned back on the couch and sighed. Yes, Mr. Cosby, I feel your pain. It sucks getting older and I'm sure the years of numerous Diet Cokes with the sugar alternatives haven't helped my cause. But it seems to me that with all the advances in pharmaceuticals today, someone could have come up with a solution to slow the progression of short term memory loss which seems to the initiation ritual one must go through when they reach a certain age.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I am following down that fateful road of my grandmother and aunt before me. The road which leaves those who come in contact with us wondering how we would survive if our heads were not attached to our bodies. I'm slowly becoming the little woman who will receive those special smiles and pats on the hand with false reassurances of, "it's ok, it'll come to you in a moment".
Yeah, well, I wish it would hurry up because now I can't remember if I have already been on the treadmill or not! Sigh!!!
Take yesterday, for example, I got up, hopped in the shower, put on my shorts/t-shirt I wear when facing the dreaded treadmill, and exited the bathroom. I went from the bathroom to the kitchen to put the dishes into soak when the thought came to me, did you apply deodorant? Hmm, I don't think so, so I trotted back into the bathroom, whipped out my Secret Summer Breeze stick and applied.
Back to the kitchen, turn off the water, which has now reached the top of the sink basin, and notice the food/water dishes for the animals need attending to. Somewhere in the middle of this, the buzzer sounded on the dryer in the basement so I stopped mid activity and went off to the basement.
Climbing back up the stairs I noticed I felt a hint of moisture under my arms. Did you put on deodorant? I don't think so, I say to myself. I drop the dish towels into their designated kitchen drawer and march off to the bathroom where I whip out my trusty Secret Summer Breeze stick and liberally applied to my arm pits of hell.
As I placed it back in the drawer I paused trying to think if there was something I wanted to do before I got on the treadmill. Yeah, it may have been procrastination, but I had a nagging feeling there was something...I began to retrace my steps and found myself back in the kitchen. There I was greeted by Jinx who immediately attacked my feet and when I looked down I spotted her bowl was still empty. Ah, yes, I meant to feed them and I fill up the bowls.
By this time Pooper and Poopster have joined the party by doing the "I gotta pee" shimmy, so away we go. We hadn't been outside very long when I noted that despite the gloomy overcast appearance of the day I felt quite warm. Ten minutes later Pooper and Poopster were finally through with their outside activities and we headed in.
As I opened the door the cool air from the air condition hit me. Thank you God!! I can't believe I forgot my deodorant this morning. No wonder I'm sweating like a cow, I think to myself as I walk to the bathroom, dig through the sink drawer mess to find my Secret Summer Breeze stick. I quickly make a few swipes in the ole pits and head back out the door. I immediately run into Scooter, who was standing in the doorway.
"Mom, what are you doing?", Scooter asks. I give him one of my "duh" looks. "If you must know I forgot my deodorant so I came in here to put some on." Scooter looks at me, staring straight into my eyes while placing the back of his hand to my forehead. I brushed his hand off in frustration and told him, "Scooter, stop it! I don't have time for your foolishness; I've got things to do!" "Like what Mom? Reapply your deodorant?" "What are you babbling about Scooter?! I just told you I went outside and remembered I hadn't put any on yet today, so when I came in I went straight to the bathroom to do so." Scooter drops his head and shakes it back and forth, "Mom, you have put deodorant on three times." I looked at him as if he had lost his mind, "I have not!!!" "Yes, Mom, you have. My room is right there and I have watched you do the same thing 3 times in a period of 30 minutes."
I frowned and squinted my eyebrows together while trying to determine if Scooter was trying to pull a fast one on me. He didn't look like he was joking, he actually looked kinda concerned. "Did I really?" "Yes, Mom." Wow! That blew my mind. I walked over to the couch and sat down to think back over the things I had done this morning to see if indeed this was true.
With a few minutes of extra concentration I came to the realisation Scooter was right. Then I began to panic. Could one possibly overdose on deodorant? I truly hope not; that would be extremely embarrassing to explain. But of course, my self reassurance wasn't enough I had to scour the internet concerning the possible ramifications of my actions. I even pondered calling Poison Control but then I thought better; they may feel the need to notify those special people who like to invoke 5150s on people who may be a hazard to themselves or others.
I leaned back on the couch and sighed. Yes, Mr. Cosby, I feel your pain. It sucks getting older and I'm sure the years of numerous Diet Cokes with the sugar alternatives haven't helped my cause. But it seems to me that with all the advances in pharmaceuticals today, someone could have come up with a solution to slow the progression of short term memory loss which seems to the initiation ritual one must go through when they reach a certain age.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I am following down that fateful road of my grandmother and aunt before me. The road which leaves those who come in contact with us wondering how we would survive if our heads were not attached to our bodies. I'm slowly becoming the little woman who will receive those special smiles and pats on the hand with false reassurances of, "it's ok, it'll come to you in a moment".
Yeah, well, I wish it would hurry up because now I can't remember if I have already been on the treadmill or not! Sigh!!!
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Suicide mission
One of the things I noticed on my last trip to Florida, y'all remember the one where I decided to brave the experience of getting on a boat and taking a "little trip around the bay", is that there is an abundance of new dance moves involving something similar to the line dances from the '70s. And lucky me, the boat I was on was loaded with a bunch of these thrill seeking dancing fools.
First of all, let me announce for everyone's concern, the crew had a designated couple who were responsible for minding the kiddies while their parents "unwound". So, there is no need to worry that any child was exposed to inappropriate behaviour by influential adults.
Next thing I noticed about this cruise was that since it was a sunset cruise, not only did they supply the regular beer and wine (along with the responsible adult drinks of coke, sprite, etc.), but there was also champagne. Now mind you I'm not a connoisseur of any beverage if it doesn't involve Barcardi and Diet Coke, so, the quality of provided alcohol was anyone's guess.
Being as how I am fully aware of my phobia of all things involving the ocean (eg. water, fish, sharks, etc.) I had already pre-loaded myself with a Xanax. But as soon as I stepped on the boat, the effect that single action had left me feeling as if I might as well have ate a bag of Pixie Sticks. I started shaking, panting, and generally feeling a little lightheaded. I started to re-think this adventure I had gotten myself into when a well meaning crew member noticed me clutching the railing of the ship for all it was worth.
Of course, I must confess that I had stupidly chosen the highest platform short of the crow's nest in hopes I could secure pictures. That was my plan to help take my mind off what was going on. Anyhoo, a crew member came up to the level where I was seated to check on everyone's beverage level. I had polished off my Diet Coke in no time flat so, naturally, I was left holding a glass which apparently sends out unseen signals to the dealers of liquor.
The lady, armed with her tray and a nice selection of beverages, none of which I noted didn't not contain any ethanol, approached me. After a short exchange of small talk, she had the nerve to mention the death grip I had on the railing. Embarrassed and not really wishing to expose my insecurities for the remaining members of my group, I whispered, "I don't do boats but lucky you, I decided that I'm going to try to overcome this". Why she smiled even bigger, "Well, honey, I've got just the thing for you", taking my glass and disappeared back to one of the lower decks.
As our voyage began the musical selection was the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. I thoroughly enjoyed the little ditty all the while in the back of my mind one of the little voices which resides in my head was singing the theme from Gilligan's Island:
First of all, let me announce for everyone's concern, the crew had a designated couple who were responsible for minding the kiddies while their parents "unwound". So, there is no need to worry that any child was exposed to inappropriate behaviour by influential adults.
Next thing I noticed about this cruise was that since it was a sunset cruise, not only did they supply the regular beer and wine (along with the responsible adult drinks of coke, sprite, etc.), but there was also champagne. Now mind you I'm not a connoisseur of any beverage if it doesn't involve Barcardi and Diet Coke, so, the quality of provided alcohol was anyone's guess.
Being as how I am fully aware of my phobia of all things involving the ocean (eg. water, fish, sharks, etc.) I had already pre-loaded myself with a Xanax. But as soon as I stepped on the boat, the effect that single action had left me feeling as if I might as well have ate a bag of Pixie Sticks. I started shaking, panting, and generally feeling a little lightheaded. I started to re-think this adventure I had gotten myself into when a well meaning crew member noticed me clutching the railing of the ship for all it was worth.
Of course, I must confess that I had stupidly chosen the highest platform short of the crow's nest in hopes I could secure pictures. That was my plan to help take my mind off what was going on. Anyhoo, a crew member came up to the level where I was seated to check on everyone's beverage level. I had polished off my Diet Coke in no time flat so, naturally, I was left holding a glass which apparently sends out unseen signals to the dealers of liquor.
The lady, armed with her tray and a nice selection of beverages, none of which I noted didn't not contain any ethanol, approached me. After a short exchange of small talk, she had the nerve to mention the death grip I had on the railing. Embarrassed and not really wishing to expose my insecurities for the remaining members of my group, I whispered, "I don't do boats but lucky you, I decided that I'm going to try to overcome this". Why she smiled even bigger, "Well, honey, I've got just the thing for you", taking my glass and disappeared back to one of the lower decks.
As our voyage began the musical selection was the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. I thoroughly enjoyed the little ditty all the while in the back of my mind one of the little voices which resides in my head was singing the theme from Gilligan's Island:
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny ship
Within a short time, the friendly pirate who had kidnapped my glass returned. "Here ya go honey, drink this here blend. The captain highly recommends it and as a matter of fact he's enjoying one right now". With those words, my personal alarm began to go off. Unwillingly my eyes made their way to the captain's deck where I saw the scraggly fellow look at me, raise his glass, gave me a wink, and downed his drink. He completed the task with an exaggerated flourish of wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
Great, I think. Now not only have I taken a Xanax but now apparently I'm about to escalate my use of inappropriate substances to help me. Actually, it was really kinda of important I relax as one of my hands had the post where the anchor was secured, so, they really needed me to move it. So, I downed the drink.
The nastiness of it leaves me without words to describe it. To say it was akin to a glass of diarrhea would be putting it mildly. But in, oh, I don't know, maybe five minutes I had the effects hit me. I began to relax. The racing of my heart slowed to a trot and I was able to begin to use my camera to snap some pictures.
Everything was going along swimmingly until the sound track switched to Apache by the Sugarland Gang. At this point the remaining adults on my level decided to hop up and begin to dance wildly. Now mind you, this area we were seated in was approximately 5 feet in diameter and within the space there was one of the sail mast poles. As they gyrated, hopped, and flung their arms, I watched mentally taking bets among the dwellers of my mind as to which one was going to make the unfortunate step and end up tumbling down the steep stairs to the lower deck. But alas, somehow, these women were able to continue shimmying and shaking completely in time with the music without a single disaster.
The adventure continued. I was enjoying whatever kind of buzz the cap'n had kindly plied me with and became a picture snapping fool. At one moment I fancied myself to be the next Annie Leibovitz as I was able to capture several dolphins with a single shot. With each new song that came across the sound system I found myself progressing from foot tapping to a full dancing in my seat fool. Until....
I looked back behind us and saw how far away the shore was! I noticed several flashing lights of the red, blue, and white color which caused my preset program of panic to take back over. Well, the rest of my fellow passengers was having none of this nonsense of me gripping the rail again. It was at this time the sound track switched to a song called Wobble.
The other women shrieked and grabbed me by the arm and said, "Come on, dance". "I don't know what a wobble is!!". They laughed. I guess they didn't take me seriously as they began to do some sort of line dance. Having no clue and still under the influence of Xanax plus the captain's magic potion, I didn't trust myself to follow all the back and forth movement. So instead, I grabbed the mast pole and essentially pole danced in my own fashion for the song. Evidently I was really getting my groove on because everyone was laughing and pointing at me.
Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble (yeah) [x4]
Get in there, yeah, yeah [x4]
Ey big girl make em' back it up, make em' back it up [x4a
Get in there, yeah, yeah [x4]
Ey big girl make em' back it up, make em' back it up [x4a
Yeah, I had the big girl thing down pat and I was going to town; just me and the mast pole. When the song ended we were almost back to port. I was sad because I had just started letting down my hair. The same female crew mate climbed back up to the level I was on in preparation of dropping anchor. I said, "I don't know what was in that drink, but it really helped. Thank you!" "No problem", she said giving me a wink.
As I disembarked from the ship, I paused to take a few additional pictures of the ship. While doing so one of the young men who was also a crew member came walking down the plank carrying the "treasure chest" they had used for the kiddie games. I reached out, touched his arm, and said, "I've gotta know, the captain's favorite drink for sailing. That was the nastiest tasting thing I ever had. What on earth is in that thing?"
The young fellow began to grin from ear to ear. He flipped up his eye patch and leaned in close to me as if to make sure no one else could know about the "precious secret". "Madam, there's nothing special about it. We just mix all of the sodas we have together. I think back in the 70s the drink was called a suicide". With that, he patted me on the shoulder and continued walking.
I had been had. I should demand a refund as they did not offer full disclosure as to what kind of "magical spell" they were to weave on me!! How dare they!! What do they think I am, some sort of lunatic? Don't they know I'm an educated woman?!!
About that time one of the little voices of reason which pops in and out of my mind from time to time said, "You fool. You're just mad cuz you've been had. Now you don't have an excuse." I sat down on the bench at the dock for a few minutes contemplating the ramifications of my recently acquired knowledge. After a few minutes I came to one conclusion.
Damnit. Now I have no excuse not to go on a family cruise. Time to find another phobia. What about the fear of enclosed spaces? That might work, right?
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