Two small children were standing impatiently in front of the living room window, staring into the night. Their eyes were dancing with excitement, for today was Christmas Eve and tonight, Santa would come.
The day had been so long and for sure, this was the longest day of the year. Even their mother was impatient as she repeated the same words; be quiet, be good, find something to do! And they had tried all those things. Now they were just looking out the window trying to catch a glimpse of their father. He would be coming home soon.
They stood, side by side, little faces pressed against the cold window pane. They waited and waited!
Tonight was special! Their father was bringing home the tree to be decorated for Christmas. There weren't many lights and only a few fragile balls. Always, at least one ball, it seemed would slip through the tiny eager fingers that wanted to help.
At last, they saw him, dragging a cedar tree with one arm up the steps to their back door. They rushed to open the door for him so he could take the tree to the usual corner in the living room. there was a single hook in the wall always used to secure the Christmas tree.
Their father was very particular about the tree. He had to center it with the fullest section showing. This year, he took more time than usual, but he finished the task. The large multi-colored lights went on first, then the tiny balls and last, a million shining icicles, The lights in the house were turned off and the tree plugged in. It was magnificent! The children were finally still as they sat on the floor staring at the tree.
They were not ready to go to bed, but their parents warned them that Santa might come and shouldn't find them awake. With that thought in their little minds, they turned to run upstairs to their cold bedrooms. Their parents tucked them in under so many covers that they couldn't even turn over. But they didn't care.
They tried so hard to stay awake, just to see Santa, but every year, he came and went and they never saw him. It was all magical!
Christmas morning dawned at last and the two little kids ran down stairs to see what Santa put under the tree for them.
There weren't many toys, but they don't seem to notice. Their stockings are stuffed full, not with watches and diamonds, but hard candy, tangerines, and a box of life savers. But they are content. They don't seem to notice that their parents have no gifts for themselves under the tree. This year, they had no need for gifts.
The children were too young to know the hardships their parents had endured earlier that year. Their father had an accident on a dredge boat that almost completely severed his left arm. Initially, the doctors doubted if they could save the arm. But their father was a strong, determined, man. After numerous surgeries and months of rehab in Fort Howard, a 3 1/2 hr bus ride, he proved the doctors were wrong.
His arm had been saved, but he could no longer work on a dredge boat. In fact, he couldn't work at all. He had a wife, 2 small children and an infant son to feed.
With no income, the little family had to leave their home and move in with the children's grandparents. In those days, families were there for each other. That's what family is all about.
Their father spent the last few months accepting any odd job, nothing was too menial for him. He worked all day with his left arm in a sling, but he never lost hope or complained. He prayed everyday for God to strengthen his arm and He did!
When the new baby had arrived, the need to go back to their home was apparent. The parents prayed every night for a miracle.
With a few dollars saved, they were able to move back just before Christmas 1954. They had a miracle!
And Christmas had come indeed! Their parents sat together on the worn sofa, holding hands, smiling, as they watched the excitement on their children's faces.
After the children opened their toys, their parents gathered them around the tree and their father read the Christmas story from the Bible. Then the family got on their knees and thanked God for their blessings that year.
Christmas came to a poor family with no income, no bathroom, and no car. For you see, Christmas is not what you find under a tree. You have to look around you to find Christmas.
This was the Christmas for us in 1954, my brother Neil was 8 years old, I was 4 years old and my baby brother Wally was an infant.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Body Abuse
Having been a nurse for 38 years, I have to say that I have seen all kinds of body abuse. With the passing of time, the various abuse has taken on a new diagnosis that requires a pill and before you know it, your medication list is longer than your grocery list.
Our bodies are equipped with finely tuned sensors that can detect early body trashing. They send us all kinds of warnings, but we don't listen. Soon our list of doctors is longer than the medication list.
For example: When we smoke our first cigarette, we begin to cough and our alarm says, "Whoa baby, I don't think so !" But we smoke some more and get addicted and before you know it, you are traveling around with a green o2 tank strapped to your shoulder to help you walk from your recliner to the bathroom. We now have COPD and have to see a pulmonologist.
When we over eat, our stomach bloat, we burp and become socially unacceptable, our pants get too tight, but later on, we over eat again. Then we are hit with that annoying gastric reflux, so we go to a gastroenterologist, who prescribes a pill which we pop before our meal, making us oblivious to the gas.
The eating gets a little out of hand and we pack on a few extra pounds to the already too many pounds and our blood pressure shoots up, threatening to blow a gasket, so we go see our internist, who prescribes another pill, tells us to exercise, which we don't have to do and wouldn't do even if we had time. He tells us to lay off the salt. So while we are in the pharmacy waiting for our new pill, we eat a bag of pretzels and a 16 ounce soda to kill some time.
Somehow our cholesterol gets out of control, threatening to clog our arteries. So we have to take another pill prescribed by a cardiologist to prevent a stoke or heart attack. But we are not too concerned, at least not enough to change out eating habits. So we take our new pill and then eat 3 large scoops of ice cream with chocolate cookies for a side dish.
The increasing weight thing gets a little troublesome to our knees and hips, that are buckling under the stress. So off we go to the orthopedic and become candidates for joint replacements. This pain brings on a pain pill and now we have opened another can of worms.
As our need for pain pills increases we are sent to pain management to see another doctor. After a time, we create an amazing tolerance to pain pills that has a bad sluggish affect on our bowels, so we head to the pharmacy to get a laxative, adding another pill to our medicine bin.
Eventually, the laxatives don't even work and our bowels go into a total rebellion and we develop a bowel obstruction which creates more pain. Sometimes only surgery can fix that problem and our pain score is a 10 the whole post op experience due to our high tolerance for narcotics.
As we are recuperating from surgery, our eating habits get even worse causing our pancreas to work over time to secrete enough insulin to bread down all that sugar we ingest. The job is too big and the excess sugar spills over into our blood and urine and bingo- we are diabetic. We are off to the endocrinoligist, who prescribes a pill if we are lucky or insulin. We are taught not to trim our own toenails because this may cause an injury to a "diabetic foot" that will refuse to heal, so we have to see a podiatrist on a regular basis.
We are taught that diet control will help prevent losing our limbs, but we don't like that strict regime. Before you know it we are seeing a vascular surgeon to schedule a few toe amputations, later a foot and then the lower leg. The fear of these loses sends us to more comfort food.
Our gallbladder gets agitated by the over flow of fat and the ducts get filled with sludge. We are diagnosed with cholecystitis, which causes serious painful attacks and we have to see a surgeon. Don't they have a pill for that yet?
All these physical ailments have a weird affect on our mental health and we find that can't sleep. Not sleeping makes us tired and irritable and we get stressed after being diagnosed with anxiety and depression. We can't battle these two, so off we go to a psychologist who sends us to a psychiatrist who prescribes a few more pills.
Our new mental health disorder causes us to eat more comfort food, because this is all we have to look forward to. Our added weight causes more depression and as a last resort we think a gastric bypass will put a smile back on our face, but we wait in the long line for the surgery.
While we wait, we look for a quick fix, like alcohol, which becomes a calming pacifier. Even though we wake up the next day feeling like our head is the size of a watermelon, we drink again.
Our liver can not figure out what we are doing and gets a major attitude by refusing to accomodate the alcohol and we develop cirrhosis of the liver. Our skin soon becomes yellow, called jaundice and our belly swells to the size of a 12 month pregnant lady. We start to look like a pumpkin. We are told we need a liver transplant, but alcohol abusers will be the last to receive one a long waiting list.
Needless to say, all these factors have affected our sex life and wouldn't you know it, there is another pill to take, so we add it to our other skittles in the medicine bin.
We are a country of body abusers, but our body will only take so much and one day, we will be knocked down, flat on our backs. Good health does not come in a pill, it is not a mystery, it's a job and we have to work at it.
When the alarms sound in our bodies, we need to pay attention. Sometimes there is no second warning.
And we wonder why health costs are so high ????
Our bodies are equipped with finely tuned sensors that can detect early body trashing. They send us all kinds of warnings, but we don't listen. Soon our list of doctors is longer than the medication list.
For example: When we smoke our first cigarette, we begin to cough and our alarm says, "Whoa baby, I don't think so !" But we smoke some more and get addicted and before you know it, you are traveling around with a green o2 tank strapped to your shoulder to help you walk from your recliner to the bathroom. We now have COPD and have to see a pulmonologist.
When we over eat, our stomach bloat, we burp and become socially unacceptable, our pants get too tight, but later on, we over eat again. Then we are hit with that annoying gastric reflux, so we go to a gastroenterologist, who prescribes a pill which we pop before our meal, making us oblivious to the gas.
The eating gets a little out of hand and we pack on a few extra pounds to the already too many pounds and our blood pressure shoots up, threatening to blow a gasket, so we go see our internist, who prescribes another pill, tells us to exercise, which we don't have to do and wouldn't do even if we had time. He tells us to lay off the salt. So while we are in the pharmacy waiting for our new pill, we eat a bag of pretzels and a 16 ounce soda to kill some time.
Somehow our cholesterol gets out of control, threatening to clog our arteries. So we have to take another pill prescribed by a cardiologist to prevent a stoke or heart attack. But we are not too concerned, at least not enough to change out eating habits. So we take our new pill and then eat 3 large scoops of ice cream with chocolate cookies for a side dish.
The increasing weight thing gets a little troublesome to our knees and hips, that are buckling under the stress. So off we go to the orthopedic and become candidates for joint replacements. This pain brings on a pain pill and now we have opened another can of worms.
As our need for pain pills increases we are sent to pain management to see another doctor. After a time, we create an amazing tolerance to pain pills that has a bad sluggish affect on our bowels, so we head to the pharmacy to get a laxative, adding another pill to our medicine bin.
Eventually, the laxatives don't even work and our bowels go into a total rebellion and we develop a bowel obstruction which creates more pain. Sometimes only surgery can fix that problem and our pain score is a 10 the whole post op experience due to our high tolerance for narcotics.
As we are recuperating from surgery, our eating habits get even worse causing our pancreas to work over time to secrete enough insulin to bread down all that sugar we ingest. The job is too big and the excess sugar spills over into our blood and urine and bingo- we are diabetic. We are off to the endocrinoligist, who prescribes a pill if we are lucky or insulin. We are taught not to trim our own toenails because this may cause an injury to a "diabetic foot" that will refuse to heal, so we have to see a podiatrist on a regular basis.
We are taught that diet control will help prevent losing our limbs, but we don't like that strict regime. Before you know it we are seeing a vascular surgeon to schedule a few toe amputations, later a foot and then the lower leg. The fear of these loses sends us to more comfort food.
Our gallbladder gets agitated by the over flow of fat and the ducts get filled with sludge. We are diagnosed with cholecystitis, which causes serious painful attacks and we have to see a surgeon. Don't they have a pill for that yet?
All these physical ailments have a weird affect on our mental health and we find that can't sleep. Not sleeping makes us tired and irritable and we get stressed after being diagnosed with anxiety and depression. We can't battle these two, so off we go to a psychologist who sends us to a psychiatrist who prescribes a few more pills.
Our new mental health disorder causes us to eat more comfort food, because this is all we have to look forward to. Our added weight causes more depression and as a last resort we think a gastric bypass will put a smile back on our face, but we wait in the long line for the surgery.
While we wait, we look for a quick fix, like alcohol, which becomes a calming pacifier. Even though we wake up the next day feeling like our head is the size of a watermelon, we drink again.
Our liver can not figure out what we are doing and gets a major attitude by refusing to accomodate the alcohol and we develop cirrhosis of the liver. Our skin soon becomes yellow, called jaundice and our belly swells to the size of a 12 month pregnant lady. We start to look like a pumpkin. We are told we need a liver transplant, but alcohol abusers will be the last to receive one a long waiting list.
Needless to say, all these factors have affected our sex life and wouldn't you know it, there is another pill to take, so we add it to our other skittles in the medicine bin.
We are a country of body abusers, but our body will only take so much and one day, we will be knocked down, flat on our backs. Good health does not come in a pill, it is not a mystery, it's a job and we have to work at it.
When the alarms sound in our bodies, we need to pay attention. Sometimes there is no second warning.
And we wonder why health costs are so high ????
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Christmas of 1943
From my Dad's journal of WWII:
On December 15th, 1943, the war was still raging. With the snow four inches deep, accumulating an inch an hour and temperatures in the twenties, we were told to pull out of the forest. It didn't look like a forest with tree tops blow off and dead bodies laying face down in the white snow.
We were given orders to move in on a small town in Germany. I walked along the path to the company tent for further instuctions. It was then that I heard the loud engine of a fast approaching German plane just 100 yards ahead of me. I dove into the nearest hole. I could hear bullets from the plane's machine gun as they bounced off the trees and hit the ground around me. But I was safe in the fox hole. When I felt it was safe, I got up and joined the other soldiers.
I was shaken up that day and kept wondering to myself- Why was I here hiding in fox holes, fighting for my life on foreign soil in freezng weather instead of being home for Christmas in my warm little house. I began to wonder if I would see another Christmas, but I had to serve my country. I had a job to do.
As we were packing to leave, rations of liquor were brought to us. I hated the sight of the stuff and knew this was no time for a soldier to be filled with booze. A soldier was trigger happy before he got that stuff in him. I left my ration on the ground. I don't know if someone picked it up or not. I only knew that I didn't want a soldier firing live ammunition behind me with that stuff in his body, that would make him do foolish things.
We marched on in the freezing cold to our next assignment. There was a duel on our left by the Germans and the Americans. The smell of burning flesh was nauseating. Once again, the shells were bursting around me, hitting the frozen ground and bouncing off my helmet. It was getting dark and we couldn't tell that our own men were marching out in front. Someone in our squad opened fire on them. It was a miracle that our own men weren't killed by our squad that snowy night.
We were ordered to take shelter in a deserted building to wait for daylight. It was one of the worse nights of my life. My canteen had water that was not safe to drink. I came down with dysentery that lasted until morning. The city was shelled all night, we couldn't sleep. It was so cold.
By morning, we were exhausted and hungry, but we had orders to march to the 'Hill'. Once we got there, we had to dig fox holes. We were told to dig in pairs, but one soldier a few feet ahead of me decided to dig alone. I heard a shell come screaming in and we all fell down, the lone soldier was a direct hit. I got up to see if he was still alive. All that was left of him was his shoe.
I still say that War is a small taste of the tortures of Hell, but God was protecting me.
By December 18th, we had taken the Hill. Finally it was night fall and I sat down to rest. When I took off my boots and my feet felt like they were on fire. When morning came, I could barely get my boots back on. The pain lasted all day. A few men were sent out to scout the area and I was asked to go, but I chose to stay back and help my men dig more holes. I learned later that the soldiers scouting walked right into a mine field. One soldier lost his leg, one lost his sight, some had minor injuries and others, well, they didn't come back. God protected me again,
The next day, December 19th, I could hardly walk. I was sent to an Aide Station, where they soaked my feet, but the pain stayed with me. I lay in my bed a week without treatment.
On December 23rd, I was ordered back to the front lines. I waited for my uniform and my boots, but I never got my old boots back. They gave me a new stiff pair of boots. My feet were swollen and it took me some time to get them on, the pain was almost unbearable. When I stood to walk, I had to use my rifle for a cane. I tried limping to the transport jeep and finally had to crawl.
The jeep was transporting us one mile from the front lines, then we had to walk the rest of the way. I began the walk with a limp as the pain in my feet was so bad. The Lieutenant saw me and was appalled that I had been released to fight. The Colonel was arguing with him about soldiers who lied about their injuries, saying they were 'Gold Bricking'. I was in too much pain to care what he thought by then.
I tried to continue my walk, but I fell to my knees. It was almost Christmas Eve, I was thousands of miles away from home and heading to the front lines to fight for my life. If crying would have helped, then I would have. Had God forsaken me?
The Medic saw me fall on my knees again and he stopped me to examine my feet. I was then put on a stretch and put in an ambulance and taken to a hospital in Belgium. I had frost bite, but I was one of the lucky ones, I didn't lose a limb.
I lay there all day and night. It was warm, but I couldn't stand a sheet to touch my feet. I realized it was Christmas Eve. In just this one week, I had escaped death three times. I stared out the window and thought of home so far away and my wife that I loved so much. I hid my face and cried in my pillow.
In the near distance, I heard soft voices singing, like angels. There was a soft glow coming down the hall. It was the nurses, carrying candles and singing carols to us.
Their music brought peace to my aching heart and soul. I will never forget that night, No I didn't get home for Christmas, but I thanked God for keeping me safe. God had not forsaken me, but was beside me all the time. I knew then that I would make it home someday.
On December 15th, 1943, the war was still raging. With the snow four inches deep, accumulating an inch an hour and temperatures in the twenties, we were told to pull out of the forest. It didn't look like a forest with tree tops blow off and dead bodies laying face down in the white snow.
We were given orders to move in on a small town in Germany. I walked along the path to the company tent for further instuctions. It was then that I heard the loud engine of a fast approaching German plane just 100 yards ahead of me. I dove into the nearest hole. I could hear bullets from the plane's machine gun as they bounced off the trees and hit the ground around me. But I was safe in the fox hole. When I felt it was safe, I got up and joined the other soldiers.
I was shaken up that day and kept wondering to myself- Why was I here hiding in fox holes, fighting for my life on foreign soil in freezng weather instead of being home for Christmas in my warm little house. I began to wonder if I would see another Christmas, but I had to serve my country. I had a job to do.
As we were packing to leave, rations of liquor were brought to us. I hated the sight of the stuff and knew this was no time for a soldier to be filled with booze. A soldier was trigger happy before he got that stuff in him. I left my ration on the ground. I don't know if someone picked it up or not. I only knew that I didn't want a soldier firing live ammunition behind me with that stuff in his body, that would make him do foolish things.
We marched on in the freezing cold to our next assignment. There was a duel on our left by the Germans and the Americans. The smell of burning flesh was nauseating. Once again, the shells were bursting around me, hitting the frozen ground and bouncing off my helmet. It was getting dark and we couldn't tell that our own men were marching out in front. Someone in our squad opened fire on them. It was a miracle that our own men weren't killed by our squad that snowy night.
We were ordered to take shelter in a deserted building to wait for daylight. It was one of the worse nights of my life. My canteen had water that was not safe to drink. I came down with dysentery that lasted until morning. The city was shelled all night, we couldn't sleep. It was so cold.
By morning, we were exhausted and hungry, but we had orders to march to the 'Hill'. Once we got there, we had to dig fox holes. We were told to dig in pairs, but one soldier a few feet ahead of me decided to dig alone. I heard a shell come screaming in and we all fell down, the lone soldier was a direct hit. I got up to see if he was still alive. All that was left of him was his shoe.
I still say that War is a small taste of the tortures of Hell, but God was protecting me.
By December 18th, we had taken the Hill. Finally it was night fall and I sat down to rest. When I took off my boots and my feet felt like they were on fire. When morning came, I could barely get my boots back on. The pain lasted all day. A few men were sent out to scout the area and I was asked to go, but I chose to stay back and help my men dig more holes. I learned later that the soldiers scouting walked right into a mine field. One soldier lost his leg, one lost his sight, some had minor injuries and others, well, they didn't come back. God protected me again,
The next day, December 19th, I could hardly walk. I was sent to an Aide Station, where they soaked my feet, but the pain stayed with me. I lay in my bed a week without treatment.
On December 23rd, I was ordered back to the front lines. I waited for my uniform and my boots, but I never got my old boots back. They gave me a new stiff pair of boots. My feet were swollen and it took me some time to get them on, the pain was almost unbearable. When I stood to walk, I had to use my rifle for a cane. I tried limping to the transport jeep and finally had to crawl.
The jeep was transporting us one mile from the front lines, then we had to walk the rest of the way. I began the walk with a limp as the pain in my feet was so bad. The Lieutenant saw me and was appalled that I had been released to fight. The Colonel was arguing with him about soldiers who lied about their injuries, saying they were 'Gold Bricking'. I was in too much pain to care what he thought by then.
I tried to continue my walk, but I fell to my knees. It was almost Christmas Eve, I was thousands of miles away from home and heading to the front lines to fight for my life. If crying would have helped, then I would have. Had God forsaken me?
The Medic saw me fall on my knees again and he stopped me to examine my feet. I was then put on a stretch and put in an ambulance and taken to a hospital in Belgium. I had frost bite, but I was one of the lucky ones, I didn't lose a limb.
I lay there all day and night. It was warm, but I couldn't stand a sheet to touch my feet. I realized it was Christmas Eve. In just this one week, I had escaped death three times. I stared out the window and thought of home so far away and my wife that I loved so much. I hid my face and cried in my pillow.
In the near distance, I heard soft voices singing, like angels. There was a soft glow coming down the hall. It was the nurses, carrying candles and singing carols to us.
Their music brought peace to my aching heart and soul. I will never forget that night, No I didn't get home for Christmas, but I thanked God for keeping me safe. God had not forsaken me, but was beside me all the time. I knew then that I would make it home someday.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Birthing Babies
I guess you are wondering why I use the phrase birthing a baby instead of delivery a baby. I learned this back in the day when my own Mother was 7 months pregnant with my little brother. She did at that time tell me about it, only because her stomach was bulging and she couldn't hide it anymore. I have to assume that she told my Dad.
The question is this-why all the secrecy? Expectant mothers of the 50's and 60's just didn't feel the need to share the news. I think this may be why their months of pregnancy seemed so short, like 2 months. Maybe they didn't want a baby shower.
Pregnant women of today, run immediately to a Rite Aide and get the kit the day after ovulation and the night after you know what. By telling everyone early, they are in line for 2 or more baby showers and are in a race to see whose pregnancy lasts the longest.
We have to assume that even though God blessed marriages with a green light for sex, couples back then didn't want anyone to know that they did it. How strange was that? Didn't everyone know even back then how a pregnancy happened? Times have changed but not that.
What should have been a beautiful, sanctioned bedroom encounter, became something else- a secret ! Why? Was it dirty?
I never got the "talk" before getting married, but I am guessing in thinking back to the menstuation story, it may have gone like this:
"On your wedding night, your husband expects you to give him something." End of discussion. You have no idea what to give him and spend alot of time shopping to find the right thing.
Or maybe, the "talk" would go like this:
"Marriage is for getting pregnant. That's why God made men, so women could have babies. Everytime you have sex, you risk the chance of getting pregnant. You could end up with 20 children, so you may have to use the headache story to keep that number down!"
I would innocently ask," What headache?"
The answer, "You will know when the time is right for a headache to come. Yes, you will know!"
End of discussion.
Pregnancy is a beautiful gift from God. You can never imagine what having a life inside of you is like. It wouldn't matter what your mother told you, it is something you could never prepare for.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had the good fortune of working in a Catholic hospital, where a pregnant woman is held in high esteem. Even though I wasn't Catholic, the nuns were ecstatic and didn't even care if I was Baptist. All that mattered was that I was going to have a baby. They knew how the baby got there and it didn't bother them a bit. Maybe they considered it a necessary evil!
A friend of mine (a good Catholic girl) was pregnant about the same time as me. She loved being pregnant and told tales of how her husband loved to see her belly. She loved to show anyone her belly. Her navel was totally gone with brown stretch marks all over her abdomen which looked alot like an oversized beach ball.
So what in the name of Sam Hill was wrong with me? I was not a happy pregnant woman. I didn't want my navel to disappear. I never showed my belly to the father of my beach ball.
I think I got traumatized way back in my early nursing days. A co-worker became pregnant with triplets. Our hospital had a family Christmas party and she wore a huge, brown, maternity dress that looked like a tent. How in the name of Heaven were those babies going to get out of that "special place?" If a tampon could get stuck, then so could a baby or three babies. I made a decision back then to never get pregnant. Of course you know I didn't stick to that thought.
During my pregnancy I heard all kinds of horror stories about labor and delivery. I was scared too death. I had the misfortune of going into early labor and was put on the maternity ward. Boy was that a bad idea. I heard all kinds of screams, so bad that I had the nurse shut my door. I turned on the TV and watched 12 hours of sitcoms to drown out the noise. But I still heard it, yes I did.
Then at last, my time to deliver came and I was pretty sure that I was going to die. So I lay in my misery for 6 hrs with my eyes shut while everyone in this universe kept staring at my "special place!" I heard them say things like this:
"I see the head." Yeah, that's nice!
"You are in transition now." Yeah, that's nice!
"You can do it," came the encouraging words from the father of my beach ball. It was then that I snapped," Shut-up!" And I am sure the whole hospital heard me.
So I didnt' die after all. I was the proud mother of a son with a lop-sided head, since he got stuck in that "special place" for what seemed like days. The nurse plopped a hat on his head so I wouldn't notice, but I did.
Wouldn't you think that the "special place" would be more resilient, so women could go down by the river, like the Indian women did? They gave birth, alone, cleaned the baby, and went back to work. The Indian women must have had some kind of secret drug that they smoked in a peace pipe.
I was given tylenol for my sore "special place". Was that supposed to help? It didn't.
Now mothers get IV pain pumps with morphine or dilaudid which is probably the same stuff that was in those peace pipes. What's with that?
The question is this-why all the secrecy? Expectant mothers of the 50's and 60's just didn't feel the need to share the news. I think this may be why their months of pregnancy seemed so short, like 2 months. Maybe they didn't want a baby shower.
Pregnant women of today, run immediately to a Rite Aide and get the kit the day after ovulation and the night after you know what. By telling everyone early, they are in line for 2 or more baby showers and are in a race to see whose pregnancy lasts the longest.
We have to assume that even though God blessed marriages with a green light for sex, couples back then didn't want anyone to know that they did it. How strange was that? Didn't everyone know even back then how a pregnancy happened? Times have changed but not that.
What should have been a beautiful, sanctioned bedroom encounter, became something else- a secret ! Why? Was it dirty?
I never got the "talk" before getting married, but I am guessing in thinking back to the menstuation story, it may have gone like this:
"On your wedding night, your husband expects you to give him something." End of discussion. You have no idea what to give him and spend alot of time shopping to find the right thing.
Or maybe, the "talk" would go like this:
"Marriage is for getting pregnant. That's why God made men, so women could have babies. Everytime you have sex, you risk the chance of getting pregnant. You could end up with 20 children, so you may have to use the headache story to keep that number down!"
I would innocently ask," What headache?"
The answer, "You will know when the time is right for a headache to come. Yes, you will know!"
End of discussion.
Pregnancy is a beautiful gift from God. You can never imagine what having a life inside of you is like. It wouldn't matter what your mother told you, it is something you could never prepare for.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had the good fortune of working in a Catholic hospital, where a pregnant woman is held in high esteem. Even though I wasn't Catholic, the nuns were ecstatic and didn't even care if I was Baptist. All that mattered was that I was going to have a baby. They knew how the baby got there and it didn't bother them a bit. Maybe they considered it a necessary evil!
A friend of mine (a good Catholic girl) was pregnant about the same time as me. She loved being pregnant and told tales of how her husband loved to see her belly. She loved to show anyone her belly. Her navel was totally gone with brown stretch marks all over her abdomen which looked alot like an oversized beach ball.
So what in the name of Sam Hill was wrong with me? I was not a happy pregnant woman. I didn't want my navel to disappear. I never showed my belly to the father of my beach ball.
I think I got traumatized way back in my early nursing days. A co-worker became pregnant with triplets. Our hospital had a family Christmas party and she wore a huge, brown, maternity dress that looked like a tent. How in the name of Heaven were those babies going to get out of that "special place?" If a tampon could get stuck, then so could a baby or three babies. I made a decision back then to never get pregnant. Of course you know I didn't stick to that thought.
During my pregnancy I heard all kinds of horror stories about labor and delivery. I was scared too death. I had the misfortune of going into early labor and was put on the maternity ward. Boy was that a bad idea. I heard all kinds of screams, so bad that I had the nurse shut my door. I turned on the TV and watched 12 hours of sitcoms to drown out the noise. But I still heard it, yes I did.
Then at last, my time to deliver came and I was pretty sure that I was going to die. So I lay in my misery for 6 hrs with my eyes shut while everyone in this universe kept staring at my "special place!" I heard them say things like this:
"I see the head." Yeah, that's nice!
"You are in transition now." Yeah, that's nice!
"You can do it," came the encouraging words from the father of my beach ball. It was then that I snapped," Shut-up!" And I am sure the whole hospital heard me.
So I didnt' die after all. I was the proud mother of a son with a lop-sided head, since he got stuck in that "special place" for what seemed like days. The nurse plopped a hat on his head so I wouldn't notice, but I did.
Wouldn't you think that the "special place" would be more resilient, so women could go down by the river, like the Indian women did? They gave birth, alone, cleaned the baby, and went back to work. The Indian women must have had some kind of secret drug that they smoked in a peace pipe.
I was given tylenol for my sore "special place". Was that supposed to help? It didn't.
Now mothers get IV pain pumps with morphine or dilaudid which is probably the same stuff that was in those peace pipes. What's with that?
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Love of Being a Woman
I have to take you back in time, so bear with me for a little bit. I was 16 yrs old when I had a sad day-I found out that I wasn't a boy, if you know what I mean.
Parents of the 60's were quite different. By that I mean, certain things were not up for discussion, such things as: menstruation, virgin, sex, and pregnancy, to name a few. I calll them the big 4. How odd that they are all related! I wonder if our parents even knew that then.
My first experience of womanhood, began in the 7th grade of school, at which time I am pretty sure that I still believed in Santa Claus. Apparently 99% of the so called girls were now women, but not me. These women wore bras and had something to put into the bra, but not me. I could see their boobs bounce and I wanted a pair. Boys were chasing after them all the time, but not me. What was with that?
One day, one such woman in my class named Ellen walked up front of the class to whisper something to the teacher. As she walked by my desk, it appeared that she had the misfortune of sitting on fudge popscicle that left chocolate stains on her skirt. She was mysteriously sent home that day. Wow, that was harsh punishment for sitting on chocolate!
As soon as I got home that day, I told my mother about Ellen and she got a very, strange look on her face. She sat me down and told me the most ridiculous explanation that could ever be and worse yet, I believed her.
She began like this, "Every woman has to go through this. This is the bodies way of getting rid of waste from a special place, once a month." So that was it, the stains weren't chocolate after all, end of discussion. I got one thing out of that conversation, that someday, soon, I would have something very nasty escaping from my body from somewhere, that was not poop. I could hardly wait.
Sure enough, the day came. I woke one morning feeling as if someone had kicked me in the lower part of my stomach. I crept to the bathroom to pee and the water was red. What was with the red pee? So I worried that I was going to bled to death and had no idea what was going on.
This prompted some serious mirror peering, and then I saw it, the special place, that I never knew existed was leaking blood.
Somehow, I got the nerve to tell my mother, after scrubbing 10 pairs of underwear that day. Then she gave me a special gift- a Kotex pad that was so big, it went from just below my navel in front and totally covered the crack of my butt in the back. Then she presented me with a little belt that had teeth to grasp the huge pad so it wouldn't escape from my drawers and go flying off into the sunset. These same pads were used for maternity pads as well-one size fits all. How sad for me that I was a skinny girl and the pad was as thick as I was and I am sure that everyone knew I was wearing one. Keep in mind that Tampons were a big secret especially for girls like me who nothing about the big 4.
Did I forget to mention the rubber pants? These were just like the ones used on infants back in the cloth diaper days, only much larger. These rubber pants had cloth on the inside and plastic on the outside, so that if you sat on chocolate, you were safe!!!
Then the day came when I played sports and discovered that blood and sweat are not a good mix, giving off a strange aroma. My friend Sharon was well experienced in the new fad of Tampon use and filled me in on how to use one.
It sounded easy, but let me tell you about the first Tampon in history. It was a large, cardboard white rat with a tail. And believe me, it did not glide in, as a matter of fact, it refused to go in that special place.
For 4 hrs, I sat in the bathroom trying to achieve the impossible. Finally, I got the rat-thing partially inserted, so that it was still mostly hanging out. Talking about a bad feeling! How could a woman endure such misery. I walked out of the bathroom looking like I had been riding a horse for a week. I was so miserable I walked back in the bathroom to take it out, but it was stuck fast. I think this is when I got traumatized.
Many years later, the cardboard rat was replaced by some pretty, pink, plastic, easy-glide corks. Even though there was a warning about the possiblity of a deadly toxic shock, the business of the plastic rat boomed. Some women would rather die that be humiliated.
Let me tell you of my first woman shopping trip with my mother. First we shopped for a bra, which I didn't need, but I got a 28AA. The first time that I wore it to school, it almost cut off my breath and kept creeping up my neck instead of supporting my two pancakes with raisins in the middle. The shoulder straps rubbed blisters on my skin.
We also shopped for hose that day, not panty hose. These were thigh high nylons that required a garter belt, which was a wide elastic belt that fit around my hips with 4 long garter things that had the capacity of latching onto your hose, front and back. I do believe that garter belts are still around, since I saw a model in the Victoria Secret shore wearing a bright red one. She looked like a woman of ill-repute, if you know what I mean? (not that I ever shop there)
So I was a woman. How come the boys weren't chasing after me? Maybe it was because I looked like a boy wearing a teeny little bra that served no purpose at all, who had a triple layer cottonball stuffed between my legs, and wearing all kinds of miserable stuff, all in the name of being a "woman".
I soon concluded that being a woman was not all it was cracked up to be. I threw my bra away and asked for some knee high socks. Maybe Santa would bring me a pair.
I recall, crying to my dad on several occasions about me not having any boobs. He told me, " You will get them when you are 18." It didn't happen. Then he told me that I would "get them when you got pregnant." It didn't happen. Then he told me that I "would get them when you nurse your babies." When I found out that postpartum breasts and nipples resembled two huge pacemakers that soon became 2 bulging, painful rocks, I knew that nursing was not for me. There was no way in Sam Hill that a baby who had the sucking compacity of a huge toilet plunger, was going to try to get milk out of them. That is why formula was invented.
I have to admit that my breasts did get larger just after the birth of my boys , from a AA to a BB, and they stayed that way for a whole week. Then they shrank and I think they got smaller than before.
The last encouraging words came from my mother, "you will get breasts when you go through menopause,"- like who could believe her. Well its been 15 years now and I do a daily check. It ain't happened yet.
It makes you kind of wonder if parents just tell you what they think you need to hear, doesn't it? I don't think they intend to lie, they just don't know the truth.
Be looking for next article on birthing babies. Have a nice day!!
Parents of the 60's were quite different. By that I mean, certain things were not up for discussion, such things as: menstruation, virgin, sex, and pregnancy, to name a few. I calll them the big 4. How odd that they are all related! I wonder if our parents even knew that then.
My first experience of womanhood, began in the 7th grade of school, at which time I am pretty sure that I still believed in Santa Claus. Apparently 99% of the so called girls were now women, but not me. These women wore bras and had something to put into the bra, but not me. I could see their boobs bounce and I wanted a pair. Boys were chasing after them all the time, but not me. What was with that?
One day, one such woman in my class named Ellen walked up front of the class to whisper something to the teacher. As she walked by my desk, it appeared that she had the misfortune of sitting on fudge popscicle that left chocolate stains on her skirt. She was mysteriously sent home that day. Wow, that was harsh punishment for sitting on chocolate!
As soon as I got home that day, I told my mother about Ellen and she got a very, strange look on her face. She sat me down and told me the most ridiculous explanation that could ever be and worse yet, I believed her.
She began like this, "Every woman has to go through this. This is the bodies way of getting rid of waste from a special place, once a month." So that was it, the stains weren't chocolate after all, end of discussion. I got one thing out of that conversation, that someday, soon, I would have something very nasty escaping from my body from somewhere, that was not poop. I could hardly wait.
Sure enough, the day came. I woke one morning feeling as if someone had kicked me in the lower part of my stomach. I crept to the bathroom to pee and the water was red. What was with the red pee? So I worried that I was going to bled to death and had no idea what was going on.
This prompted some serious mirror peering, and then I saw it, the special place, that I never knew existed was leaking blood.
Somehow, I got the nerve to tell my mother, after scrubbing 10 pairs of underwear that day. Then she gave me a special gift- a Kotex pad that was so big, it went from just below my navel in front and totally covered the crack of my butt in the back. Then she presented me with a little belt that had teeth to grasp the huge pad so it wouldn't escape from my drawers and go flying off into the sunset. These same pads were used for maternity pads as well-one size fits all. How sad for me that I was a skinny girl and the pad was as thick as I was and I am sure that everyone knew I was wearing one. Keep in mind that Tampons were a big secret especially for girls like me who nothing about the big 4.
Did I forget to mention the rubber pants? These were just like the ones used on infants back in the cloth diaper days, only much larger. These rubber pants had cloth on the inside and plastic on the outside, so that if you sat on chocolate, you were safe!!!
Then the day came when I played sports and discovered that blood and sweat are not a good mix, giving off a strange aroma. My friend Sharon was well experienced in the new fad of Tampon use and filled me in on how to use one.
It sounded easy, but let me tell you about the first Tampon in history. It was a large, cardboard white rat with a tail. And believe me, it did not glide in, as a matter of fact, it refused to go in that special place.
For 4 hrs, I sat in the bathroom trying to achieve the impossible. Finally, I got the rat-thing partially inserted, so that it was still mostly hanging out. Talking about a bad feeling! How could a woman endure such misery. I walked out of the bathroom looking like I had been riding a horse for a week. I was so miserable I walked back in the bathroom to take it out, but it was stuck fast. I think this is when I got traumatized.
Many years later, the cardboard rat was replaced by some pretty, pink, plastic, easy-glide corks. Even though there was a warning about the possiblity of a deadly toxic shock, the business of the plastic rat boomed. Some women would rather die that be humiliated.
Let me tell you of my first woman shopping trip with my mother. First we shopped for a bra, which I didn't need, but I got a 28AA. The first time that I wore it to school, it almost cut off my breath and kept creeping up my neck instead of supporting my two pancakes with raisins in the middle. The shoulder straps rubbed blisters on my skin.
We also shopped for hose that day, not panty hose. These were thigh high nylons that required a garter belt, which was a wide elastic belt that fit around my hips with 4 long garter things that had the capacity of latching onto your hose, front and back. I do believe that garter belts are still around, since I saw a model in the Victoria Secret shore wearing a bright red one. She looked like a woman of ill-repute, if you know what I mean? (not that I ever shop there)
So I was a woman. How come the boys weren't chasing after me? Maybe it was because I looked like a boy wearing a teeny little bra that served no purpose at all, who had a triple layer cottonball stuffed between my legs, and wearing all kinds of miserable stuff, all in the name of being a "woman".
I soon concluded that being a woman was not all it was cracked up to be. I threw my bra away and asked for some knee high socks. Maybe Santa would bring me a pair.
I recall, crying to my dad on several occasions about me not having any boobs. He told me, " You will get them when you are 18." It didn't happen. Then he told me that I would "get them when you got pregnant." It didn't happen. Then he told me that I "would get them when you nurse your babies." When I found out that postpartum breasts and nipples resembled two huge pacemakers that soon became 2 bulging, painful rocks, I knew that nursing was not for me. There was no way in Sam Hill that a baby who had the sucking compacity of a huge toilet plunger, was going to try to get milk out of them. That is why formula was invented.
I have to admit that my breasts did get larger just after the birth of my boys , from a AA to a BB, and they stayed that way for a whole week. Then they shrank and I think they got smaller than before.
The last encouraging words came from my mother, "you will get breasts when you go through menopause,"- like who could believe her. Well its been 15 years now and I do a daily check. It ain't happened yet.
It makes you kind of wonder if parents just tell you what they think you need to hear, doesn't it? I don't think they intend to lie, they just don't know the truth.
Be looking for next article on birthing babies. Have a nice day!!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Let The Blame Fall
Having a nursing career of 38 yrs, I actually thought I had a job of importance. I have to blame this delusion of mine on the media and the government who have done extensive surveys on the nursing shortage.
Several articles in nursing magazines have documented facts that supported the idea of a potential healthcare hazard due to this shortage. It seems that the public is starting to feel that that the quality of care is threatened by the nurse-patient ratio. So you see, I have grown accustomed to the idea that I am entitled to be called essential personnel permitted to travel on the snow emergency routes.
Neither sleet, hail, or snow excuses me from reporting for duty. I go prepared to spend the night with a bag of clean underwear and a toothbrush. One never knows when a flake of snow may fall and cause sudden illnesses to befall my co-workers, who call out, causing the night shift to do mandatory over-time. Such was the case of the blizzard in '02, with 1.6 inches of snow.
So I travel the busy beltways and expressways at 6 am in the morning. The traffic is already jamming and hostile. Now these folks have the real important jobs. I have to wonder what could be the force that drives them to such aggressive behavior that arriving to work in a tow truck or a body bag won't slow them down. Can you imagine the risk of going into another dimension?
Why just one single car accident, a poor daring Frogger player, causes thousands of us to be late for work. So I keep snacks, a cassette player and my cell phone handy in case I have to wait for hours. I only use my cell phone if I am caught in traffic, only then. YOU heard me. So I sit back and watch the crazy game of lane changing, blinking brake lights, and squealing tires trying to advance in a game without rules. Can the blame be on the drivers or their cars?
Some cars are just plain aggressive, came right off the car lot, brand new with an attitude, just looking for the right moment to push your buttons or cause your heart to skip a beat with the nasty, loud honking, demanding your attention.
I once was the proud owner of such a car, a 1976 midnight blue firebird. Was I cool or what?
This car, however, had some serious issues. There were times when she purred like a kitten and then, she would shift into a racing mode at the traffic lights, leaving tire marks, squealing with delight. I felt so overwhelmed by her mood swings that I invested in a CB radio (remember those?) just to hear the comments from some of my "buddies" and to keep my back covered. God bless those truckers!
Later in life, married with children, I purchased the only vehicle of its time, a minivan. This was a real family car, dependable, comfortable, but not flawless. The minivan secretly enjoyed road-kill. She destroyed a whole family of deer, who were out on a leisurely walk across the highway (at Christmas time, no less). She was unmoved by the deer blood on the windshield. She managed to feather a chicken clean, scattered several squirrels into their next life, knocked out a few birds, and tried to run over our neighbor's dog. She was a serial killer!
Later on in, we purchased a second car, a SUV. She was a rugged car. She took me through snow and ice storms and never showed any fear. She thrilled with the pleasure of taking good care of me by getting me safely to my very important job. She was happiest in four-wheel drive when her tires had hidden claws that adhered to the road like gum on the bottom of your shoe. One snowy day, she brought me home when the snow covered her tires. It was as if she was waltzing on a white cloud. Sadly we had to put her down due to her age.
I hate to speak evil of her now that she has passed on, but she was a speed demon, getting pleasure from exceeding the speed limit whenever she felt the urge. OK, you have probably assumed that she and I got pulled over by the watchful eye of a trooper who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time, several times as a matter of fact. You see, the police have a keen eye for this type of vehicle, the type that just doesn't get it. Try blaming your speeding on your car and see if that won't get you some serious walking time.
We live in a society that puts blame anywhere. We blame the school lunches and vending machines for contributing to our over weight children. We blame the fast food chains for our elevated cholesterol- they do have salads you know?
Don't forget the biggest blame belongs to stress. Stress causes road rage and Froggers driving without manners. Stress destroys our sleep. Stress makes us sick and contrary and the circle goes on and on.
Today, I got home safely, but will I tomorrow? Will You?
Several articles in nursing magazines have documented facts that supported the idea of a potential healthcare hazard due to this shortage. It seems that the public is starting to feel that that the quality of care is threatened by the nurse-patient ratio. So you see, I have grown accustomed to the idea that I am entitled to be called essential personnel permitted to travel on the snow emergency routes.
Neither sleet, hail, or snow excuses me from reporting for duty. I go prepared to spend the night with a bag of clean underwear and a toothbrush. One never knows when a flake of snow may fall and cause sudden illnesses to befall my co-workers, who call out, causing the night shift to do mandatory over-time. Such was the case of the blizzard in '02, with 1.6 inches of snow.
So I travel the busy beltways and expressways at 6 am in the morning. The traffic is already jamming and hostile. Now these folks have the real important jobs. I have to wonder what could be the force that drives them to such aggressive behavior that arriving to work in a tow truck or a body bag won't slow them down. Can you imagine the risk of going into another dimension?
Why just one single car accident, a poor daring Frogger player, causes thousands of us to be late for work. So I keep snacks, a cassette player and my cell phone handy in case I have to wait for hours. I only use my cell phone if I am caught in traffic, only then. YOU heard me. So I sit back and watch the crazy game of lane changing, blinking brake lights, and squealing tires trying to advance in a game without rules. Can the blame be on the drivers or their cars?
Some cars are just plain aggressive, came right off the car lot, brand new with an attitude, just looking for the right moment to push your buttons or cause your heart to skip a beat with the nasty, loud honking, demanding your attention.
I once was the proud owner of such a car, a 1976 midnight blue firebird. Was I cool or what?
This car, however, had some serious issues. There were times when she purred like a kitten and then, she would shift into a racing mode at the traffic lights, leaving tire marks, squealing with delight. I felt so overwhelmed by her mood swings that I invested in a CB radio (remember those?) just to hear the comments from some of my "buddies" and to keep my back covered. God bless those truckers!
Later in life, married with children, I purchased the only vehicle of its time, a minivan. This was a real family car, dependable, comfortable, but not flawless. The minivan secretly enjoyed road-kill. She destroyed a whole family of deer, who were out on a leisurely walk across the highway (at Christmas time, no less). She was unmoved by the deer blood on the windshield. She managed to feather a chicken clean, scattered several squirrels into their next life, knocked out a few birds, and tried to run over our neighbor's dog. She was a serial killer!
Later on in, we purchased a second car, a SUV. She was a rugged car. She took me through snow and ice storms and never showed any fear. She thrilled with the pleasure of taking good care of me by getting me safely to my very important job. She was happiest in four-wheel drive when her tires had hidden claws that adhered to the road like gum on the bottom of your shoe. One snowy day, she brought me home when the snow covered her tires. It was as if she was waltzing on a white cloud. Sadly we had to put her down due to her age.
I hate to speak evil of her now that she has passed on, but she was a speed demon, getting pleasure from exceeding the speed limit whenever she felt the urge. OK, you have probably assumed that she and I got pulled over by the watchful eye of a trooper who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time, several times as a matter of fact. You see, the police have a keen eye for this type of vehicle, the type that just doesn't get it. Try blaming your speeding on your car and see if that won't get you some serious walking time.
We live in a society that puts blame anywhere. We blame the school lunches and vending machines for contributing to our over weight children. We blame the fast food chains for our elevated cholesterol- they do have salads you know?
Don't forget the biggest blame belongs to stress. Stress causes road rage and Froggers driving without manners. Stress destroys our sleep. Stress makes us sick and contrary and the circle goes on and on.
Today, I got home safely, but will I tomorrow? Will You?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Soul Mates
Since my articles about love-making have reached an all time high in popularity, I thought I would send out another one. One never tires of the love-making theme.
I was the admitting nurse on my unit a few years ago. For 12 hrs straight, except for the mandatory pee break to keep my drawers dry, I admit patients and collect their history data. In a way, the questions have become downright nosey and yet I think this might have been a perk of the job.
One night, I got to admit a patient named Dorothy, an 84 yr old woman with vaginal bleeding. She was accompanied to her room by her devoted husband of 60+ years. Devoted is not the word I need to use here, let's just say that Dorothy and John were the same person.
This is how the question time moved along:
"How tall are you?"
"John, how tall am I?" Ok, I sense a problem here, but I move on.
"When was your last BM?" She immediately looked at John, who was starting to get on my nerves with his prancing about the room with the rat-a-tat of an annoying cane.
"Yesterday honey," he said and then felt like he needed to elaborate.
"We are on a 3- hr schedule and have been for years. We have a BM every morning and have for years. We get up and go to bed together for years!" Yeah, yeah!!
"We get up at night and wait outside the bathroom door," he added. I guess this made him think of the bathroom as he asked where one was? I happily steered him in the right direction and was glad to be rid of him for awhile so I could zero in on poor ole Dorothy.
"How long have you had vaginal bleeding?" I asked.
"John? John? Where is John? He will know dear," she answered.
"John went to the bathroom," I told her , which immediately gave her a need to go. After all, they were on the same schedule.
I walked her in and asked, " Are you two still having love-making stuff?"
"Of course dear," she said as she blushed.
Just at that time, I heard the over head page that an old man was lost. I knew it was John. So I had to hurry with my questions.
"When was the last time you did?"
She smiled and said," Last year, I think!" She remembered that! Wow!
John eventually showed up and when I told him that he couldn't spend the night, and that it was against hospital rules, he shook his cane at me and I went out to get him a lounger, pillow and blanket. They were soul mates and there was no way he would leave her alone.
I tried to think how my own hospital admission would go with my husband at my side:
"When did your bowels move last?" would ask the disinterested nurse.
"I can't remember. Do you honey?' I would ask my husband who would be playing with the TV remote.
"Remember what?" he would ask.
"She asked about the last BM honey," I would explain to him.
"I went this morning at 7 am," he would say.
He always remembers my birthday, which is close to his own. And our anniversary date is on a large clock by his desk in 6 inch letters.
So we are not perfect soul mates as Dorothy and John, but we do plan on taking a vacation and surprise the kids by leaving them home as we disappear for a whole week. We are planning to take our lap tops, which is what real couples do. This is oneness. Does life get any better than that?
I was the admitting nurse on my unit a few years ago. For 12 hrs straight, except for the mandatory pee break to keep my drawers dry, I admit patients and collect their history data. In a way, the questions have become downright nosey and yet I think this might have been a perk of the job.
One night, I got to admit a patient named Dorothy, an 84 yr old woman with vaginal bleeding. She was accompanied to her room by her devoted husband of 60+ years. Devoted is not the word I need to use here, let's just say that Dorothy and John were the same person.
This is how the question time moved along:
"How tall are you?"
"John, how tall am I?" Ok, I sense a problem here, but I move on.
"When was your last BM?" She immediately looked at John, who was starting to get on my nerves with his prancing about the room with the rat-a-tat of an annoying cane.
"Yesterday honey," he said and then felt like he needed to elaborate.
"We are on a 3- hr schedule and have been for years. We have a BM every morning and have for years. We get up and go to bed together for years!" Yeah, yeah!!
"We get up at night and wait outside the bathroom door," he added. I guess this made him think of the bathroom as he asked where one was? I happily steered him in the right direction and was glad to be rid of him for awhile so I could zero in on poor ole Dorothy.
"How long have you had vaginal bleeding?" I asked.
"John? John? Where is John? He will know dear," she answered.
"John went to the bathroom," I told her , which immediately gave her a need to go. After all, they were on the same schedule.
I walked her in and asked, " Are you two still having love-making stuff?"
"Of course dear," she said as she blushed.
Just at that time, I heard the over head page that an old man was lost. I knew it was John. So I had to hurry with my questions.
"When was the last time you did?"
She smiled and said," Last year, I think!" She remembered that! Wow!
John eventually showed up and when I told him that he couldn't spend the night, and that it was against hospital rules, he shook his cane at me and I went out to get him a lounger, pillow and blanket. They were soul mates and there was no way he would leave her alone.
I tried to think how my own hospital admission would go with my husband at my side:
"When did your bowels move last?" would ask the disinterested nurse.
"I can't remember. Do you honey?' I would ask my husband who would be playing with the TV remote.
"Remember what?" he would ask.
"She asked about the last BM honey," I would explain to him.
"I went this morning at 7 am," he would say.
He always remembers my birthday, which is close to his own. And our anniversary date is on a large clock by his desk in 6 inch letters.
So we are not perfect soul mates as Dorothy and John, but we do plan on taking a vacation and surprise the kids by leaving them home as we disappear for a whole week. We are planning to take our lap tops, which is what real couples do. This is oneness. Does life get any better than that?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
And the Sexy Get Sexier
Welcome to my first sermon and probably my last! Did you ever wonder that maybe God made a slight miscalculation when he installed the sex drive in men and women?
I have decided to use the Bible as my reference to this question. You recall the story of Sarah and Abraham. Sarah is hiding outside their tent eavesdropping on a conversation between the Lord and Abraham. The Lord tells Abraham that Sarah will bear a son. The story continues with Sarah laughing within herself, not out loud for anyone to hear except the Lord. Why was she laughing? It wasn't just because she and Abraham were so old, it was because she knew that there was no way Abraham was going to get "lucky!" It had to be a laughter about sex, because she said to herself, "After I am waxed old, shall I have pleasure?" All women know that there is no pleasure in pregnancy or birthing a baby, so she had to be thinking of a roll in the hay with Abraham. The waxed old part was a nice way of letting us know that her love-making tool was as dry as a bone and not even a toothpick could penetrate it, let alone the love-making tool of an old man, which was probably at half mast at best.
And so she laughed to herself. Who could blame her? But later in the chapter, Sarah did conceive, so we have to assume that Abraham did perform and that Sarah had a large tube of K-Y jelly under her bed, saving it for a special occasion. And with Abraham being 99 years old and actually surviving the encounter, you have to know that it was a work of the Lord.
This is where your faith comes in. You know that they had some love-making without the help of a loud TV, a minivan in the woods, soft porno, or rub on peanut butter. They just got it done. We have no choice but to believe that he did it, she liked it, and 9 months later, Isaac was born.
I recently had the opportunity of caring for a patient in her late 80's. Her husband was so attentive to her that I took notice. Well actually, it kind of hit me in the face. I walked into her room and I should have knocked, but thats neither here or there. I found her husband bent over her with almost full body contact, giving her a passionate kiss good-night. I wanted to apologize for walking in on them, but I couldn't talk. I just stood there with my mouth open. He stood up, looked at me, and walked out of the room
But the good nurse that I am, I couldn't let it go. I offered to walk her to the bathroom as I sought some needed information. So I asked her," Are you two still so close?" What I meant was,"Are you two still doing it?"
She smiled at me and replied, "Yes we are close !" I realized I had to dig a little deeper, so I asked,"Are you two still physical?" She looked confused and I thought to myself-good grief, must I use the S word? So I continued, "You know, intimate?"
She laughed, probably the same laugh as Sarah and told me that "that hasn't happened for a long time and I don't remember the last time." But I bet her husband knew. And if the truth be known, he was trying to make advances right in her sick bed.
I walked out to the nurses station and mentioned the loving couple. Do you think anyone was interested? Yes, they all were. We were all distracted by our busy hospital nursing and even though we rarely had time for lunch, we found time to chat about this. Here are a few of the comments:
"Wow, can you imagine love-making for 40 more years?"
"Why that old man can hardly walk !" But this ain't about walking my friends, this is about the motion of the ocean and we all know that the ocean is never still.
The daily life of a woman is quite different than a man. Men retire and women keep right on working. This is why poor ole Sarah was outside the tent in the heat of the day. She was probably scrubbing Abraham's underwear due to his incontinence, while he relaxed with the Lord sipping that fermented wine. There was no mention that Abraham laughed, just Sara, when she realized she had to add love-making to her long to-do list and if the scripture was more explicit, it would tell us that she slept throught the whole ordeal.
Men in the Bible had all kinds of women, besides their wife. Did you ever read about a woman who had a bucket load of men just waiting for her to call them for a roll in the hay? I do wonder why at times. It doesn't seem fair. Does it to you??
I have decided to use the Bible as my reference to this question. You recall the story of Sarah and Abraham. Sarah is hiding outside their tent eavesdropping on a conversation between the Lord and Abraham. The Lord tells Abraham that Sarah will bear a son. The story continues with Sarah laughing within herself, not out loud for anyone to hear except the Lord. Why was she laughing? It wasn't just because she and Abraham were so old, it was because she knew that there was no way Abraham was going to get "lucky!" It had to be a laughter about sex, because she said to herself, "After I am waxed old, shall I have pleasure?" All women know that there is no pleasure in pregnancy or birthing a baby, so she had to be thinking of a roll in the hay with Abraham. The waxed old part was a nice way of letting us know that her love-making tool was as dry as a bone and not even a toothpick could penetrate it, let alone the love-making tool of an old man, which was probably at half mast at best.
And so she laughed to herself. Who could blame her? But later in the chapter, Sarah did conceive, so we have to assume that Abraham did perform and that Sarah had a large tube of K-Y jelly under her bed, saving it for a special occasion. And with Abraham being 99 years old and actually surviving the encounter, you have to know that it was a work of the Lord.
This is where your faith comes in. You know that they had some love-making without the help of a loud TV, a minivan in the woods, soft porno, or rub on peanut butter. They just got it done. We have no choice but to believe that he did it, she liked it, and 9 months later, Isaac was born.
I recently had the opportunity of caring for a patient in her late 80's. Her husband was so attentive to her that I took notice. Well actually, it kind of hit me in the face. I walked into her room and I should have knocked, but thats neither here or there. I found her husband bent over her with almost full body contact, giving her a passionate kiss good-night. I wanted to apologize for walking in on them, but I couldn't talk. I just stood there with my mouth open. He stood up, looked at me, and walked out of the room
But the good nurse that I am, I couldn't let it go. I offered to walk her to the bathroom as I sought some needed information. So I asked her," Are you two still so close?" What I meant was,"Are you two still doing it?"
She smiled at me and replied, "Yes we are close !" I realized I had to dig a little deeper, so I asked,"Are you two still physical?" She looked confused and I thought to myself-good grief, must I use the S word? So I continued, "You know, intimate?"
She laughed, probably the same laugh as Sarah and told me that "that hasn't happened for a long time and I don't remember the last time." But I bet her husband knew. And if the truth be known, he was trying to make advances right in her sick bed.
I walked out to the nurses station and mentioned the loving couple. Do you think anyone was interested? Yes, they all were. We were all distracted by our busy hospital nursing and even though we rarely had time for lunch, we found time to chat about this. Here are a few of the comments:
"Wow, can you imagine love-making for 40 more years?"
"Why that old man can hardly walk !" But this ain't about walking my friends, this is about the motion of the ocean and we all know that the ocean is never still.
The daily life of a woman is quite different than a man. Men retire and women keep right on working. This is why poor ole Sarah was outside the tent in the heat of the day. She was probably scrubbing Abraham's underwear due to his incontinence, while he relaxed with the Lord sipping that fermented wine. There was no mention that Abraham laughed, just Sara, when she realized she had to add love-making to her long to-do list and if the scripture was more explicit, it would tell us that she slept throught the whole ordeal.
Men in the Bible had all kinds of women, besides their wife. Did you ever read about a woman who had a bucket load of men just waiting for her to call them for a roll in the hay? I do wonder why at times. It doesn't seem fair. Does it to you??
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Why Women Work So Hard
So, why do we? We are going to do a little Bible research and see a pattern and this is what I do best, interpreting the stories in the Bible. Sit back as I do my review.
I will start with Eve, who else? If she hadn't been working in the garden, she probably wouldn't have seen the apple, which explains why Adam never saw it. Can you imagine all that weeding poor Eve had to do? And on top of that, she forgot to pack a lunch causing her to have a huge hypoglycemic attack and boom-there was the apple. And oh how we all have suffered for that indulgence, which stemmed from her taking a break during her work day.
Look at Ruth, she had to work her way into Boaz's bed. What did they call it-gleaning the field? Then she had to sneak into his tent and cover his feet, since he was too lazy to get up and put on a pair of socks!
How about the work-a-holic Martha? She was totally stressed out as she prepared a meal that looked Christmas Eve dinner. It probably took her days to prepare the meal, while Mary sat and relaxed. Mary didn't see what Martha saw. Just like there are women that do tons of housework and laundry, while others just step over the mess. Personally, I hate those women who are not bothered by their own mess. Who do they think is going to get their house in order? Don't they know that a good fairy is not going to appear and that it is a woman's destiny to just plain, ole work?
And you know, if Cain and Abel had been working instead of standing around like road construction workers, they wouldn't have had time to fight. It's all about managing your time.
As you can see, the pattern for women from the beginning of time was to work all day long, then take a break and die. I have not been able to move on since I came to realize that women do not get to retire. How can we, when we have to take care of our retired spouse. Suppose the couple retired at the same time? I guess the woman would have to depend on Merrymaids and Meals on Wheels.
Several couples we have known have moved into a 55+ retirement village. The sole purpose of doing so was out of necessity due to the bucket loads of lawn work. So the man thinks it is just too much for him to ride a lawnmower once a week over dead grass while he smokes a cigar? HUH???
So they sell their home and move to the village where there are all kinds of recreation; a pool, a golf course, bowling alley, and bus trips, etc. If this sounds like a man vacation then it must be. Who cleans the village place and cooks the meals? Who buys the groceries and does the laundry?
I became aware this week, that if I worked in this house for 2 months without taking a day off and allowed 20 minutes for lunch, I would get this place in order.
First I have to go to Good Will. Every closet and every drawer and one whole room in the basement is packed to the top with clothes that no one wears. 90% of them don't fit, are out of style, or turned yellow. I will be the one to go through the stash.
Secondly, I needed to put a second coat of paint on the garage door, which will take an entire day. I have put that chore off, because I stuck all the windows shut when I put the second coat on them. What if the garage door gets stuck? What then?
I decided to turn my little bathroom into a white and orchid cloud. The oak cabinet looked out of place, so I slapped 3 coats of white paint on it. When I walked back in to inspect my work, the paint was dripping like tear drops. I had to chisel the paint from the floor with a screwdriver.
It took me 3 days to get the bathroom close to being done and I was too tired to finish the job. With close inspection I saw hairs growing out of the woodwork. The vent and shower bar were rusted. How could one little room be so annoying? Then I had to paint behind the commode to areas where only a midget could reach. It was plain torture.
Then I realized that the wall stenciling I did 20 yrs ago did not match the color theme. So I plastered paint all over them. After the paint dried, I could still see the stencil.
At first, I didn't see the old stencil, but my dear husband did, probably because he is at eye level with those blasted flower stencils. He did tell me that I looked tired, but he didn't offer to paint, so I guess this is woman-work.
Women should not have to work outside their home. Keeping a house in order is a full-time job and any woman that doesn't keep her house clean should get a job outside the home so she will have an excuse for ignoring the filth. HUH???
I will start with Eve, who else? If she hadn't been working in the garden, she probably wouldn't have seen the apple, which explains why Adam never saw it. Can you imagine all that weeding poor Eve had to do? And on top of that, she forgot to pack a lunch causing her to have a huge hypoglycemic attack and boom-there was the apple. And oh how we all have suffered for that indulgence, which stemmed from her taking a break during her work day.
Look at Ruth, she had to work her way into Boaz's bed. What did they call it-gleaning the field? Then she had to sneak into his tent and cover his feet, since he was too lazy to get up and put on a pair of socks!
How about the work-a-holic Martha? She was totally stressed out as she prepared a meal that looked Christmas Eve dinner. It probably took her days to prepare the meal, while Mary sat and relaxed. Mary didn't see what Martha saw. Just like there are women that do tons of housework and laundry, while others just step over the mess. Personally, I hate those women who are not bothered by their own mess. Who do they think is going to get their house in order? Don't they know that a good fairy is not going to appear and that it is a woman's destiny to just plain, ole work?
And you know, if Cain and Abel had been working instead of standing around like road construction workers, they wouldn't have had time to fight. It's all about managing your time.
As you can see, the pattern for women from the beginning of time was to work all day long, then take a break and die. I have not been able to move on since I came to realize that women do not get to retire. How can we, when we have to take care of our retired spouse. Suppose the couple retired at the same time? I guess the woman would have to depend on Merrymaids and Meals on Wheels.
Several couples we have known have moved into a 55+ retirement village. The sole purpose of doing so was out of necessity due to the bucket loads of lawn work. So the man thinks it is just too much for him to ride a lawnmower once a week over dead grass while he smokes a cigar? HUH???
So they sell their home and move to the village where there are all kinds of recreation; a pool, a golf course, bowling alley, and bus trips, etc. If this sounds like a man vacation then it must be. Who cleans the village place and cooks the meals? Who buys the groceries and does the laundry?
I became aware this week, that if I worked in this house for 2 months without taking a day off and allowed 20 minutes for lunch, I would get this place in order.
First I have to go to Good Will. Every closet and every drawer and one whole room in the basement is packed to the top with clothes that no one wears. 90% of them don't fit, are out of style, or turned yellow. I will be the one to go through the stash.
Secondly, I needed to put a second coat of paint on the garage door, which will take an entire day. I have put that chore off, because I stuck all the windows shut when I put the second coat on them. What if the garage door gets stuck? What then?
I decided to turn my little bathroom into a white and orchid cloud. The oak cabinet looked out of place, so I slapped 3 coats of white paint on it. When I walked back in to inspect my work, the paint was dripping like tear drops. I had to chisel the paint from the floor with a screwdriver.
It took me 3 days to get the bathroom close to being done and I was too tired to finish the job. With close inspection I saw hairs growing out of the woodwork. The vent and shower bar were rusted. How could one little room be so annoying? Then I had to paint behind the commode to areas where only a midget could reach. It was plain torture.
Then I realized that the wall stenciling I did 20 yrs ago did not match the color theme. So I plastered paint all over them. After the paint dried, I could still see the stencil.
At first, I didn't see the old stencil, but my dear husband did, probably because he is at eye level with those blasted flower stencils. He did tell me that I looked tired, but he didn't offer to paint, so I guess this is woman-work.
Women should not have to work outside their home. Keeping a house in order is a full-time job and any woman that doesn't keep her house clean should get a job outside the home so she will have an excuse for ignoring the filth. HUH???
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Love Before Football
Truthfully, I never knew how much my husband loved football. When we dated, I never saw him watch a game. I think maybe that football wasn't invented back then.
I have to ask now- How much 'foolsball' is too much? Take today for instance, my son and husband traveled on a bus to Raven's stadium. They left at 11am and returned at 6pm. As soon as we had dinner, they were perched in front of another football game. This must be an escape for men. I wish I had someplace to go in the peace and quiet, where I could threaten a life if anyone bothered me. WOW !
I lucked out today, because my husband wanted me to go with him to the game, since his other options were falling through and I was his last attempt to not lose a $ 65 ticket. I kind of got ugly and told him flat out "no", that I wouldn't walk down the street to watch 55 huge men jump on top of each other. He then informed me that football was a great crowd pleaser and people in Baltimore loved the game. I hope there is football in Heaven, because he is going to be hard-pressed for something to do. I am pretty sure that there won't be any football in Hell, unless there is a big screen the size of the moon that poor wives who hated rabbit- love-making had to watch 24-7.
Have you ever watched a football game? You can never imagine the rules of this sport. Sometimes the men can attack in vicious droves and this is ok. Sometimes, the referee stops the game for "unnecessary roughness". Any fool knows that the game is all unnecessary roughness and they should call it unnecessary violence. Then there are times if a man lightly touches the mask of his opponent, there is a penalty. And why is it, when the poor man is finally down, that 18 more pile on top of him trying to stampede him to death? At any other place than a football stadium, this would be a felony with assault and battery charges.
Then the touch down comes, which is greater than an orgasm. The guy with the ball struts over the line walking like a proud chicken and 50,000 people go absolutely insane with joy. Does beer make people that happy? If it does, then I think I should drink something stronger than milk.
And how long should a game last anyway? Who ever heard of watching the same old stuff for more than 4 hrs? It sort of resembles a war with fighting, bloodshed, and stretchers carrying off the wounded.
Is this game really skill? How much talent does it take to trample someone or grab a ball in mid-air, or strut like a chicken? I think that they are just over-paid bullies.
On the weekends, we eat at half time and football is on TV the entire weekend. Of course the recliner where my husband is very territorial about is situated between the TV and the laundry room. So I have learned to wait for commercials or totally detour around to the dining room to get through the kitchen to get to the laundry room. All of this takes me longer to get my work done and I think I may go on strike, not to hold out for more pay, because I work for free.
My husband can't understand what I have against football, so I have given him a list-game is too long, too rough, too loud, too boring, too confusing and too distracting when I am trying to write.
The only thing that I do for 4 straight hours is work. When I hear what one football player gets paid, I feel like going nuts. Do they call football work? I'd like to take them through one of my 12 hr shifts at the hospital and I would show them work. I feel as if I am in a football game. Family members are writing down all my moves. Pts quiz me on all their medications, all 15 of them, like I am a pharmacist or something. The doctors play keep away from me by sneaking in and out without my knowledge. There is mass confusion with 6 phones ringing, 38 call lights going off like blinking lights on a Christmas tree and all kinds of mechanical alarms are sounding. There are bed alarms and chair alarms for the old and squirrelly. IV pumps have alarms and the medication infusion pumps do as well. There is constant chatter and escalating stress levels, just in time for a smoke alarm to sound. Dear foot ball players, this is work.
I have to ask now- How much 'foolsball' is too much? Take today for instance, my son and husband traveled on a bus to Raven's stadium. They left at 11am and returned at 6pm. As soon as we had dinner, they were perched in front of another football game. This must be an escape for men. I wish I had someplace to go in the peace and quiet, where I could threaten a life if anyone bothered me. WOW !
I lucked out today, because my husband wanted me to go with him to the game, since his other options were falling through and I was his last attempt to not lose a $ 65 ticket. I kind of got ugly and told him flat out "no", that I wouldn't walk down the street to watch 55 huge men jump on top of each other. He then informed me that football was a great crowd pleaser and people in Baltimore loved the game. I hope there is football in Heaven, because he is going to be hard-pressed for something to do. I am pretty sure that there won't be any football in Hell, unless there is a big screen the size of the moon that poor wives who hated rabbit- love-making had to watch 24-7.
Have you ever watched a football game? You can never imagine the rules of this sport. Sometimes the men can attack in vicious droves and this is ok. Sometimes, the referee stops the game for "unnecessary roughness". Any fool knows that the game is all unnecessary roughness and they should call it unnecessary violence. Then there are times if a man lightly touches the mask of his opponent, there is a penalty. And why is it, when the poor man is finally down, that 18 more pile on top of him trying to stampede him to death? At any other place than a football stadium, this would be a felony with assault and battery charges.
Then the touch down comes, which is greater than an orgasm. The guy with the ball struts over the line walking like a proud chicken and 50,000 people go absolutely insane with joy. Does beer make people that happy? If it does, then I think I should drink something stronger than milk.
And how long should a game last anyway? Who ever heard of watching the same old stuff for more than 4 hrs? It sort of resembles a war with fighting, bloodshed, and stretchers carrying off the wounded.
Is this game really skill? How much talent does it take to trample someone or grab a ball in mid-air, or strut like a chicken? I think that they are just over-paid bullies.
On the weekends, we eat at half time and football is on TV the entire weekend. Of course the recliner where my husband is very territorial about is situated between the TV and the laundry room. So I have learned to wait for commercials or totally detour around to the dining room to get through the kitchen to get to the laundry room. All of this takes me longer to get my work done and I think I may go on strike, not to hold out for more pay, because I work for free.
My husband can't understand what I have against football, so I have given him a list-game is too long, too rough, too loud, too boring, too confusing and too distracting when I am trying to write.
The only thing that I do for 4 straight hours is work. When I hear what one football player gets paid, I feel like going nuts. Do they call football work? I'd like to take them through one of my 12 hr shifts at the hospital and I would show them work. I feel as if I am in a football game. Family members are writing down all my moves. Pts quiz me on all their medications, all 15 of them, like I am a pharmacist or something. The doctors play keep away from me by sneaking in and out without my knowledge. There is mass confusion with 6 phones ringing, 38 call lights going off like blinking lights on a Christmas tree and all kinds of mechanical alarms are sounding. There are bed alarms and chair alarms for the old and squirrelly. IV pumps have alarms and the medication infusion pumps do as well. There is constant chatter and escalating stress levels, just in time for a smoke alarm to sound. Dear foot ball players, this is work.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Time Zone People
Somebody, somewhere, wasted alot of time coming up with the theory that men and women are from different planets. A whole book was written on the subject and it was a huge seller. I think men and women are just in different time zones and they complicate matters by not adhering to their proper zone, whatever that may be.
Another author spent years convincing all of us that we have personality types, like A or B. Folks there are no types, just time zones, being type A-zone or type B-zone. And sadly, most of us do not know that we are even in a zone at all, we just linger around, always late with time running away from us. We go on our whole lives and can't figure it out.
Let's mention type B-zone people first and I must say that they annoy me. I have no use for them. They do not remember if they brushed their teeth that morning unless they check the bristles for wetness. They are late for all events and I think that they plan it this way, after all, it is near impossible to be late all the time. They glance at their clock when they should be in their car ready to go, but they can't find their keys or their shoes, or even their clothes. The outfit they wanted to wear is in the dirty laundry, which they didn't have time to do. Come on now, there is always time for laundry!
These same people drive on the beltway like they are being chased by the police, just trying to make up for the time they spent trying to find their wallet. I call them froggers, as I watch them switch lanes to shave a few seconds off their commute. They hang on their horns and want everyone to clear the way just for them. Well, too bad, you love being late, so be late and stop trying to kill the rest of us.
They have no idea what they are having for supper that night and of course when they try to throw something together, ingredients are missing, or hiding in a cluttered cupboard, so packed with stuff that when they open the door, most of the items fall out. They can't find the time to straighten the mess and the mess multiplies as the years tick by.
I am sure that you have guessed by now, I am a type A-zone person with lots of time-saver ideas. Not that I am a clean woman, but I am the only one who knows the truth and that's all that matters.
The first huge time saver is spring and fall cleaning. If you reduce this to annual cleaning and stretch it out to every other year, you could have a whole week of vacation time somewhere alone, living in an emaculate hut with no one to clutter the joint. Food could be delivered to the door and a kitchen would be a useless room.
Second, those blasted windows. I can see how the outside gets dirty, but what about the inside?
How do finger prints get all over them? Are there little bugs with hands flying all around or what? And believe me, just as soon as you wash your windows, a hurricane will brew in Bermuda and it will eventually land right over your house. I clean my windows when I can longer see out of them, since this is a huge waste of time. Whoever walks in your house and says," Wow, what clean windows you have!" Cleaning windows is an all day event and if you don't bother, you can use the time sleeping in late or doing your laundry.
Third, the shower curtains. Why a full-time maid couldn't keep all that white stuff from caking on the liners. You should just throw it away and buy a new one. I figure it takes 15 minutes a week to clean the liner. If you multiply that by 52 weeks, you get 780 minutes or 13 hrs, which is a whole day of sunlight. You just added almost a whole day to your life.
Speaking of bathrooms, the time spent cleaning them is the fourth waste of time. When you have 3 men over 6ft 3in tall, spraying urine all over the toilet in super sonic jet stream fashion, the ammonia will make your eyes water when you walk in the room. Sadly, bathroom cleaning must be done, but I did buy one of those candle heaters so now the bathroom smells like a hot cup of hazelnut cappuccino with a dash of ammonia.
Scrubbing the kitchen floor is probably my biggest waste of time since no one takes off their shoes. When I fry chicken the grease splatters straight for my eyes and so I have to duck and it lands on the floor to be tracked all over the house.
I think I forgot the type C-zone people. I know someone like it, but I can't disclose this information. Going to church is timed down to the minute so that we are late. People in this zone have a time frame of their own. A church service should never take longer than an hour, a baseball game (which we are never late for ) should take as long as ever, and football should last all day long.
I have also discovered that I can save time by not looking for coupons, usually they expire by the time I remember that I have one. Then in the fine print, which no one can see, is a tiny expiration date that could be 2003.
Someone dear to me (that I will not mention) is a coupon clipper and saver. He shops at BJ"s. Right now we have 20 rolls of toilet paper, 2 gallons of Scope, one gallon of mustard and ketchup, and 2 - 8 packs of peas or green beans. We have 2 large jars of Peanut Butter and a 6 pack of toothbrushes that will out last our teeth. He comes back from his weekly shopping and boasts of his savings. Last week, there was a little argument over which store has the best deals- BJ's or Walmart? Then I was asked if I used my coupons at Walmart, I smiled and said, "Of course silly, that's what coupons are for!"
Another author spent years convincing all of us that we have personality types, like A or B. Folks there are no types, just time zones, being type A-zone or type B-zone. And sadly, most of us do not know that we are even in a zone at all, we just linger around, always late with time running away from us. We go on our whole lives and can't figure it out.
Let's mention type B-zone people first and I must say that they annoy me. I have no use for them. They do not remember if they brushed their teeth that morning unless they check the bristles for wetness. They are late for all events and I think that they plan it this way, after all, it is near impossible to be late all the time. They glance at their clock when they should be in their car ready to go, but they can't find their keys or their shoes, or even their clothes. The outfit they wanted to wear is in the dirty laundry, which they didn't have time to do. Come on now, there is always time for laundry!
These same people drive on the beltway like they are being chased by the police, just trying to make up for the time they spent trying to find their wallet. I call them froggers, as I watch them switch lanes to shave a few seconds off their commute. They hang on their horns and want everyone to clear the way just for them. Well, too bad, you love being late, so be late and stop trying to kill the rest of us.
They have no idea what they are having for supper that night and of course when they try to throw something together, ingredients are missing, or hiding in a cluttered cupboard, so packed with stuff that when they open the door, most of the items fall out. They can't find the time to straighten the mess and the mess multiplies as the years tick by.
I am sure that you have guessed by now, I am a type A-zone person with lots of time-saver ideas. Not that I am a clean woman, but I am the only one who knows the truth and that's all that matters.
The first huge time saver is spring and fall cleaning. If you reduce this to annual cleaning and stretch it out to every other year, you could have a whole week of vacation time somewhere alone, living in an emaculate hut with no one to clutter the joint. Food could be delivered to the door and a kitchen would be a useless room.
Second, those blasted windows. I can see how the outside gets dirty, but what about the inside?
How do finger prints get all over them? Are there little bugs with hands flying all around or what? And believe me, just as soon as you wash your windows, a hurricane will brew in Bermuda and it will eventually land right over your house. I clean my windows when I can longer see out of them, since this is a huge waste of time. Whoever walks in your house and says," Wow, what clean windows you have!" Cleaning windows is an all day event and if you don't bother, you can use the time sleeping in late or doing your laundry.
Third, the shower curtains. Why a full-time maid couldn't keep all that white stuff from caking on the liners. You should just throw it away and buy a new one. I figure it takes 15 minutes a week to clean the liner. If you multiply that by 52 weeks, you get 780 minutes or 13 hrs, which is a whole day of sunlight. You just added almost a whole day to your life.
Speaking of bathrooms, the time spent cleaning them is the fourth waste of time. When you have 3 men over 6ft 3in tall, spraying urine all over the toilet in super sonic jet stream fashion, the ammonia will make your eyes water when you walk in the room. Sadly, bathroom cleaning must be done, but I did buy one of those candle heaters so now the bathroom smells like a hot cup of hazelnut cappuccino with a dash of ammonia.
Scrubbing the kitchen floor is probably my biggest waste of time since no one takes off their shoes. When I fry chicken the grease splatters straight for my eyes and so I have to duck and it lands on the floor to be tracked all over the house.
I think I forgot the type C-zone people. I know someone like it, but I can't disclose this information. Going to church is timed down to the minute so that we are late. People in this zone have a time frame of their own. A church service should never take longer than an hour, a baseball game (which we are never late for ) should take as long as ever, and football should last all day long.
I have also discovered that I can save time by not looking for coupons, usually they expire by the time I remember that I have one. Then in the fine print, which no one can see, is a tiny expiration date that could be 2003.
Someone dear to me (that I will not mention) is a coupon clipper and saver. He shops at BJ"s. Right now we have 20 rolls of toilet paper, 2 gallons of Scope, one gallon of mustard and ketchup, and 2 - 8 packs of peas or green beans. We have 2 large jars of Peanut Butter and a 6 pack of toothbrushes that will out last our teeth. He comes back from his weekly shopping and boasts of his savings. Last week, there was a little argument over which store has the best deals- BJ's or Walmart? Then I was asked if I used my coupons at Walmart, I smiled and said, "Of course silly, that's what coupons are for!"
Monday, November 2, 2009
Public Parenting
I read somewhere that a good test of how good a parent you are would be to see if your child would obey you, when you bark out commands while you stretch out on the sofa. In other words, you don't get up and stand tall, while you threaten to get the fly swatter off the fridge, not that I ever hit my kids with one, but I am pretty sure that I didn't kill flies with it either.
Allow me to go over the anatomy of the fly swatter with you. The netted swatter part is quite flimsy and was originally designed to trap a fly while it was still alive, so you could squash it with your feet. The swatter is attached by a criss-cross wire with a long handle, so that you could stand 10 feet away from the fly and still hit it. The swatter gained significant popularity with the parents of the 50's. They used the swatter to discipline their children and noticed that with repeated swatting, the swatter part would fly off and the wire part could rip the skin off the legs of any kid.
I got the idea about public parenting, which should not be confused with in-house parenting, while my husband and I were out dining in the luxury of Cactus Willies. Even though this is a family place and I knew it would be invaded with kids, I still managed to get annoyed by just one kid. It only takes one kid you know.
I think now that my children are the size of huge men, I don't think of myself as a parent anymore. I single-handedly managed to screw them up, which is a done deal as I can't turn back the hands of time. So now, I just sit back and watch other parents do the same thing. I can't tell you what joy it gives me.
I think that maybe the rules of parenting have changed, since it is socially acceptable for a little one to run or scream whenever they feel the urge. They don't have to sit and they will be seen and heard.
I saw one such kid today at Cactus Willies. He was between 2-3 yrs old and he was on a mission to disrupt the entire large room full of hungry people and he was quite successful. His poor mother would get up and run after him and hold him close to her as she whispered in his ear. This was her way of letting us know that she was in control, at least for the few seconds that she had an iron grip on the toddler.
I found myself wondering what she must be saying, maybe something like this-"Mommy is not happy, you have upset Mommy. Do you want to upset Mommy? Of course you don't, now be a good boy and quiet down a litte. Could you do that for Mommy?" Sure lady, when he turns 40.
I thought of a few lines that may have helped her and they were swirling around in my head as I watched her get up for the 5th time. Something like this-"Do you want Mommy to kill you in front of all these nice, fat, people? Of course you don't, but you know that I will. Look into my eyes, see how dark they are? Be very, very careful, because Mommy is going to snap and think of how awful that would be for you. Now be a good boy and if you say another word or run under the tables again, your life will end, right here and now!!!"
The father of the toddler was totally focused on the massive amounts of food on his platter and was not the least bit concerned that his child was using the restaurant for a playground. After all, this is a family place and people who don't like kids should eat elsewhere.
I ask you this-where can you go when kids are not around? Years ago, an adult could venture out in public in the afternoon, which was nap time for all kids under the age of 6. But not anymore, the kids don't have a schedule and they sure don't nap. There is no safe place anymore.
Even though the churches now have nurseries, there are screaming kids, talking kids, jumping kids, and babies being breastfed. Breast feeding is natural, so why does it look so out of place in church? Those mothers usually work outside the home and have a trillion bottles of frozen breast milk in their freezer, yet during church, it has to be the hot real nipple. And I think that this bothers me because breast feeding is not in the same league with the other church foreplay that I have been privileged to see, not even close.
Even though the hospital has strict rules about bringing kids under age 12 into the hospital, people do it everyday and get really upset if you ask them to leave. So their little one comes to visit grandma and upsets the whole unit as they squeal and crawl around on the filthy hospital floor and jump in bed with their hospital acquired-diseased grandma, who has a diaper full of C-Diff stool.
But be it far from me to give any parenting advice. I have one child that I could discipline from the sofa. He knew that a fly swatter was for killing flies. But not the other child. Just last week, I chased his 6ft 5in, body all through the house, waving the swatter over my head, yelling empty threats as he roared in laughter. He was always aware that once he was in public, he could do whatever he wanted to, because people watched to see if I would spank him so they could call SS and have me put behind bars.
I have concluded that the parenting thing can only be successful if both parents think alike. They have to believe that it is ok to keep swinging the swatter, even when the swatter part has sailed into the air. After all, that's what bandaides are for, to cover up things that a social worker would never see.
When I was a child, I feared my parents. Fear and respect, can they be separated?
Allow me to go over the anatomy of the fly swatter with you. The netted swatter part is quite flimsy and was originally designed to trap a fly while it was still alive, so you could squash it with your feet. The swatter is attached by a criss-cross wire with a long handle, so that you could stand 10 feet away from the fly and still hit it. The swatter gained significant popularity with the parents of the 50's. They used the swatter to discipline their children and noticed that with repeated swatting, the swatter part would fly off and the wire part could rip the skin off the legs of any kid.
I got the idea about public parenting, which should not be confused with in-house parenting, while my husband and I were out dining in the luxury of Cactus Willies. Even though this is a family place and I knew it would be invaded with kids, I still managed to get annoyed by just one kid. It only takes one kid you know.
I think now that my children are the size of huge men, I don't think of myself as a parent anymore. I single-handedly managed to screw them up, which is a done deal as I can't turn back the hands of time. So now, I just sit back and watch other parents do the same thing. I can't tell you what joy it gives me.
I think that maybe the rules of parenting have changed, since it is socially acceptable for a little one to run or scream whenever they feel the urge. They don't have to sit and they will be seen and heard.
I saw one such kid today at Cactus Willies. He was between 2-3 yrs old and he was on a mission to disrupt the entire large room full of hungry people and he was quite successful. His poor mother would get up and run after him and hold him close to her as she whispered in his ear. This was her way of letting us know that she was in control, at least for the few seconds that she had an iron grip on the toddler.
I found myself wondering what she must be saying, maybe something like this-"Mommy is not happy, you have upset Mommy. Do you want to upset Mommy? Of course you don't, now be a good boy and quiet down a litte. Could you do that for Mommy?" Sure lady, when he turns 40.
I thought of a few lines that may have helped her and they were swirling around in my head as I watched her get up for the 5th time. Something like this-"Do you want Mommy to kill you in front of all these nice, fat, people? Of course you don't, but you know that I will. Look into my eyes, see how dark they are? Be very, very careful, because Mommy is going to snap and think of how awful that would be for you. Now be a good boy and if you say another word or run under the tables again, your life will end, right here and now!!!"
The father of the toddler was totally focused on the massive amounts of food on his platter and was not the least bit concerned that his child was using the restaurant for a playground. After all, this is a family place and people who don't like kids should eat elsewhere.
I ask you this-where can you go when kids are not around? Years ago, an adult could venture out in public in the afternoon, which was nap time for all kids under the age of 6. But not anymore, the kids don't have a schedule and they sure don't nap. There is no safe place anymore.
Even though the churches now have nurseries, there are screaming kids, talking kids, jumping kids, and babies being breastfed. Breast feeding is natural, so why does it look so out of place in church? Those mothers usually work outside the home and have a trillion bottles of frozen breast milk in their freezer, yet during church, it has to be the hot real nipple. And I think that this bothers me because breast feeding is not in the same league with the other church foreplay that I have been privileged to see, not even close.
Even though the hospital has strict rules about bringing kids under age 12 into the hospital, people do it everyday and get really upset if you ask them to leave. So their little one comes to visit grandma and upsets the whole unit as they squeal and crawl around on the filthy hospital floor and jump in bed with their hospital acquired-diseased grandma, who has a diaper full of C-Diff stool.
But be it far from me to give any parenting advice. I have one child that I could discipline from the sofa. He knew that a fly swatter was for killing flies. But not the other child. Just last week, I chased his 6ft 5in, body all through the house, waving the swatter over my head, yelling empty threats as he roared in laughter. He was always aware that once he was in public, he could do whatever he wanted to, because people watched to see if I would spank him so they could call SS and have me put behind bars.
I have concluded that the parenting thing can only be successful if both parents think alike. They have to believe that it is ok to keep swinging the swatter, even when the swatter part has sailed into the air. After all, that's what bandaides are for, to cover up things that a social worker would never see.
When I was a child, I feared my parents. Fear and respect, can they be separated?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
