Unsafe at Any Speed

What vengeful God decided that age and clumsiness must increase in equal proportions? Why is it that when one gets to the age where a fall has a greater chance of doing harm, one also becomes more likely to fall? This is not just my opinion. I have plenty of anecdotal evidence. I have witnessed an aging coworker pour candy into a bowl and completely miss the bowl. Another coworker fell, and I have to say, not gracefully, into a patient's crotch. My husband recently fell down the stairs. My friend Nancy, who is only a few years older than me, fell out of a chair she was sitting in (She says the chair pushed her, but I suspect she's just trying to save face).
This morning, as I was crossing a parking lot that was nearly empty, I tripped over one of those plastic speed bumps. There was an entire parking lot that was practically obstruction-free, but my aging self, like one of those GPS ''s gone awry, found this speed bump to trip over. My already-bad knees are scraped, throbbing, and swollen. My palms are bleeding. And this causes me to think - "How did I get from the lithe, graceful person I was to this unsteady, accident-prone person? I used to be fairly good on the balance beam (people who know me think I am making this up, but I'm not). Now I can't balance on land. And don't even get me started on the stiff joints or the memory lapses.
I submit that this is a basic design flaw. It's all unfair and I think God needs to rethink the way he chose to divvy up the physical agility. And God, if you're listening, I would really appreciate it if you could take care of this before I have to ambulate over any wide open spaces. I'm an accident waiting to happen.

Quote

"They don't know nothing about redemption. They don't know nothing about recovery."
- Against Me

Quote of the week

In debating the merits between dogs and cats, not having to walk a cat when it's twenty below zero deserves consideration.
- D. Larson

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

Christmas time is here again, bringing with it the smell of pine and gingerbread, twinkling lights, the rustle of wrapping paper, the beauty of newly-fallen snow and the dreaded visit to the post office. Yes, as everyone who has friends or relatives living out of state knows, the post office is not the place one wants to be during the holiday season. It is also the place one can't avoid if one wants to get those Christmas gifts sent on time.
Well, let's just talk about the words "on time". I suspect that "on time" is an abstract concept to the U.S. Postal Service rather than a reachable reality. I base this on an experience I had with a Christmas package that traveled up and down the east coast several times before arriving at its intended destination of Connecticut. On the last swing of this postal pendulum, it took only three days to get from Virginia (I don't know what it was doing in Virginia) to Connecticut, thus being "on time" if one disregards the fact that it had been mailed five weeks earlier from West Palm Beach, Florida. The post office also disregarded the fact that I had mailed it "priority mail". I have since learned that "priority mail" means the customer pays extra for his package to be one of the first to be used to prop open the mail room door and forgotten about.
But I could take the late deliveries. I could ignore the ubiquitous photos of wanted criminals tacked to the wall. I could, possibly, learn to endure those self -stick stamps that stick to everything else on their way to the envelope. I could get used to the absence of any parking spots within a half mile of the post office. All of these things are minor irritations when compared with the lines. The last three times I've walked into the post office (and I'm not making this up), a postal employee working behind the counter has looked at me and put out his little "closed" sign. The last time, as he put out his rotten little sign, he winked at me and said, "Lunch break!" It was 10:15 in the morning. Visions of giving him something to chew on danced through my head.
However, in all due honesty and fairness, I cannot blame the slowness of the lines on the postal employees alone. No, they have help and lots of it from the postal customers. Every drone, every thoughtless imbecile, every mother with three undisciplined kids, every idiot who can't figure out how to write an address on a box - arrives at the post office ten minutes before I do.
Think I'm being paranoid? During my last ill-fated visit to mail a package, a man stepped up to the counter with about twenty-five letters, purchased stamps for them, and proceeded to hold up the entire line while he affixed each stamp neatly and precisely on an envelope. Meanwhile, the person (and I use this term loosely) who had been waiting on him seized the opportunity for a quick "lunch break". As we waited, a mother gazed into space as her darling son detached the chain link line-divider and proceeded to chain whip the legs of the waiting customers. His cries of delight nearly drowned out the sound of an argument occurring at the only other open station where two customers were debating whether or not it should cost $3.59 to mail a book to Kenosha.
But that wait was a piece of cake compared to the traffic jam I experienced last year when a little old woman tried to mail a package which was held together with what appeared to be toilet paper. The counter person had to rewrap the entire package after explaining, in a loud voice, why the toilet paper tape would not suffice. When her package was finally rewrapped and taped, the little old lady decided she would pay her $33.82 shipping charge with change. Exact change. From the bottom of her purse. Which she could not see. Coin by coin. Her quavering hands kept dropping change. "Don't worry, young man," she smiled, "I have plenty of time."
So you can see why I view with aversion the annual mailing of of my Christmas packages to the members of my family who now live in California. Maybe this year I'll bring along a book to read while I wait. Better yet, it might be a good idea to deliver my gifts in person. After all, it only takes five days to drive to California.

The Call of the Mall

At this time of year, as Christmas lists are written and visions of sugarplums dance in other folk's heads, visions of dragging my husband to the mall dance through mine. I don't think it's accurate to say my husband hates shopping. No, "hate" doesn't convey in strong enough terms, his absolute aversion to, break-out-in-hives-from, loathing of shopping in general and malls in particular.
Furthermore, I think a lot of husbands are like this and it stems from basic gender differences in our attitudes towards shopping and dissimilarities concerning what we feel it's necessary to shop for (Yes, I can hear the politically correct screaming in the backround). Men tend to feel that only big things are worth shopping for. Big, mechanical things. Things like cars, boats and high tech sound systems. A man who blanches at the thought of buying his own socks can easily spend an entire morning at a car dealership just browsing. He even has definite opinions concerning Corinthian leather vs cloth seats. But try to explain the nuances between the peach and melon cashmere sweaters, or even why someone would want to spend that much on something to wear, then he is completely out of his element.
Is this nature or nurture? Well, the studies aren't in yet, but I opt for nature. Yes, I believe that if my husband had been raised in a vacuum and released into the world at age 30, he'd still have an avid dislike of shopping. I believe that male babies, if they could only talk, would say, "No, Mommy, not the mall! I'll drink all my bottle. I'll eat strained peas. I'll go to sleep without fussing. I won't grow up to be a sex offender. Just please don't take me to that mall place!" (Baby girls, on the other hand, would be pulling their booties on.) I believe that cave men - well, you get the picture.
Nonetheless, this Christmas season, again, I will drag my husband to the mall. He'll promise not to have a long face. He'll promise to stifle the melodramatic sighs accompanied by a glance at his watch. He'll promise not to ask, several times, "How long is this going to take?" Within fifteen minutes at the mall, he'll have broken every one of these promises. After half an hour, he'll begin dropping bags and dragging his feet. Forty-five minutes brings on the psychosomatic illnesses.
So why do I bring him with me? Do I enjoy making him suffer? Do I believe this is good for his character? Well, no, but hope springs eternal, and each holiday season, I fantasize that once at the mall, he'll have a revelation; that he'll slap his forehead and say, "What was I thinking all those years? Shopping is fun. Shopping is good. Shopping - where have you been all my life?!"
Logically, I know that this is not likely to happen. Statistically, I know the odds are better that I'll see Jimmy Hoffa buying his own socks than I'll see my husband doing so. But hey - this is Christmas! This is a time of giving, a time of good thoughts and good cheer, a time of gifts and buying sprees, a time of romance (Yes! Romance!) And on that note, I think I will go find my husband and tell him we have a date - for the mall.

The Not Ready for Prime Time OB Christmas Carol

The Not Ready for Prime Time OB Christmas Carol
(sung to the tune of Jingle Bells)

Dashing through the halls,

it's been a busy day,

the mom in "B" bed calls -

her baby's turning grey.

The E.R. rolls one in

She's due it's plain to see,

It's too bad we did not know

this patient has TB

Oh-

(chorus) Maternity, maternity, maternity is great.

We'd like to keep our jobs so go home and procreate

Maternity, maternity, we will never quit

And if you don't deliver soon, we'll just turn up the pit.

This mom who's HIV

just had her seventh kid.

She should either tie her tubes

or keep her privates hid.

The girl who just arrived

is screaming at her kin,

I bet she didn't act this way

when the baby got put in!

Oh - (chorus)

The patient's bed's a mess;

she didn't push as planned,

She should have used a Fleets

or some other brand.

This patient screams and kicks.

She's writhing on her back.

We know that she'll deliver soon

because she's high on crack!

Oh - (chorus)

We try to do exams

but sometimes there's a catch,

Before these girls come in,

we wish they'd trim their thatch.

When primips reach the floor

holding their birth plan,

we know who we'll be calling soon -

-the anesthesia man!

Oh - (chorus)

The young teen says to us

"To give birth is not a sin,

especially when I see

those State checks rolling in"!

Our new patient is a pain.

She swears and shakes the bed.

We wish instead of intercourse

she's just given some head!

Oh-

Maternity, maternity, maternity is great

We's like to keep our jobs so go home and procreate.

Maternity, maternity, we will never quit

And if you don't deliver soon, we'll just turn up the pit!

Quote of the week

Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.
- Oscar Wilde

The Stocking

My Christmas stocking was handmade and passed down to me from my mother. Due to the fact that my mother was a child during the depression years, the stocking was small. Everything, including the world, was a lot smaller in those days. Now, this stocking was a green and yellow plaid cotton - nothing like the bright red stockings belonging to my friends.

"You don't need a new stocking." Dad said, "This one is special. It was your mother's when she was a little girl. Appreciate it."

This didn't particularily impress me as it was a lot easier to believe in Santa Claus than to believe that My Mother was ever a little girl. I started to worry. Santa would be looking for a red, Christmasy stocking and wouldn't notice mine, especially in the dark. Or worse, he would notice it and would think, "Well, obviously this little girl doesn't take Christmas seriously." Either way, awful visions of an empty green plaid stocking loomed in my imagination, haunted my childish dreams.

I tried to avert disaster. I regaled every store santa I met with a detailed description: "It doesn't look like a stocking, but it is." I had my mother write letters to the North Pole. I drew a chalk arrow on the floor pointing to where my stocking would hang at the foot of my bed. But, despite all my careful preparations, empty stocking syndrome possessed me that year. It was one worried four year old who went to bed that Christmas Eve in 1958.

The next morning dawned silent as large, fat flakes of snow drifted down outside my window. I snuggled deeper under my blankets until reality hit. Then I peered down to the end of my bed, and saw that my worst nightmare had come true. There hung the green plaid stocking - limp, forlorn - Empty! How could Santa have done this to a little girl, especially to a little girl who had been (mostly) good all year? I crept cautiously out of my bed, fearful that he may have omitted the presents under the tree too. As I grasped my bedroom door knob, I heard the sound of jingle bells. There, on the door knob, hung the most beautiful red stocking I had ever seen. It had a snowy white cuff, bells on the toe, and it bulged with all sorts of mysterious lumps. But best of all was that it was RED. I don't remember much about that Christmas so long ago, but I do remember taking that stocking to bed.

As an adult, I've learned to appreciate and treasure old things. I wish I could tell you I grew to appreciate the uniqueness and history of my mother's well-used green plaid stocking. I wish I could say that I decided to use it after all and passed it on to my son. But childhood is short and children are callous. I never used it again. However, I did try to pass it on to my son, but in the battle of Nostalgia vs The Superheroes, the heroes won. Spiderman hung from my son's bed every year.

Repenting at Leisure

My husband and I, much to our mutual surprise, recently celebrated our 27th wedding anniversary. This accomplishment may not make me an expert on the long-term relationship, but I have picked up a few bits of marital wisdom along the way. So, from the vantage point of 27 years, I strew these pearls of wisdom toward anyone who is contemplating tying the knot.
1.) Don't do it. No matter how good the sex, no matter how nice the husband, for the rest of your life you will never find anything where you put it.
If this doesn't dissuade you:
2.) Ladies, break those bad habits right away. Men are like puppies - If you don't train them as soon as you get them, they'll never be housebroken. If you pick up his dirty socks just once, you've imprinted that action on the male mind. You've become his mother and you will always pick up his socks. And remember, little mannerisms that seemed cute and endearing when you were dating become major irritations in the cold light of everyday life.
3.) Let him have the remote. After all, it could be worse. Some men use their cars as an extension of their penis.
4.) Bear in mind that your significant other, your Honey, Your Sweetie, your Lambiekins, becomes a different person when he's with "the boys". He wants them to think he's the same macho, fun-loving, devil-may-care free spirit taht he was at age 20. He does not want them to think he's the p.w. word. So, if you hear him say, for instance, "I don't have to ask my wife if I can go to the hockey games in Toronto for a week, I tell her I'm going." Don't worry. He's lying. Furthermore, his friends know he's lying because they do the same thing. And that's why male bonding is so great.
5.) When he comes home from work and drops in front of the TV with x's where his eyes should be, this probably isn't a good time to tell him anything you want him to remember. It's also not a good time to tell him you wrecked your car, wrecked his car, threw out his lucky shirt, or had a positive pregnancy test. I'm just saying.
6.) And speaking of that positive pregnancy test - When naming children, stick to your guns. My husband and I, after many...er...discussions, decided that he would name the boys and I would name the girls. We never had a daughter, but we did have a son who was almost named Harley Davidson.
7.) If you think your mother-in-law is a battle axe and his brother is cheap, it's probably better to keep this to yourself.
8.0 Husbands are never sick quietly. They moan. They sigh. They complain. They need maximum attention. Treat him like the child he is. There are some things you cannot change and this is one of them.
9.) Once in a while, let him win. On occasion, let him get his way. For example, if you're arguing about whether you'll put a library or a pool table in the spare room of the house on the Riviera you may someday buy, this is one you may safely, magnanimously, let him win.
10) On the other hand, if you've already bought the house, fight that pool table tooth and nail. 11.) If, during an arguement, he says you're a screaming harridan who would mdrive any man insane and you say he's an unfeeling jerk who should be put away and he says what about that time you gave away his favorite jacket behind his back and you say what about the time he made everyone late for Thanksgiving dinner looking for that jacket and he says that you babble all of our secrets to your mother and she probably knows the size of his penis even and you say he babbles all of our secrets to his best friend because otherwise how would his best friend know that we got poisen ivy down there - This discussion has gone beyond the point of rational give-and-take. It's time for one of you to back off and agree to talk about things later. You've got the rest of your lives to disagree. And that's why marriage is such a great thing.
11.) Accept that he'll never know the difference between mauve, fuschia, and dusty rose. Men are born without that brain chip.
12.) Agree, early on, never to touch each other's razors.
13.) Some husbands, even if you're sick, won't bring you breakfast. Some husbands, even if the kitchen looks like it's been inhabited by a pack of trolls, won't pick up a dish. Some husbands think that if they engage in extrmarital oral sex, it's not really cheating. Try to make sure they're somebody else's husbands.
14.) Do not try to give him directions if you want to get anywhere.
15.) Keep repeating to yourself, "Married people live longer."

Small Craft Warnings

The angry slap of waves against the boat
in a sea both ominous and grey;
my brother, steering, worried and remote
at the helm, his face turned toward the spray.

The sky begins to dim and move in close
I hug myself as damp and chill move in.
We still have miles to go before the coast;
My brother grits his teeth and sets his chin.

A sting of first-blown rain assaults my cheek.
Our boat is sliding in fantastic swells.
My lips are now too cold to move, to speak
as all around I hear the buoy bells.

The waves are beating faster and have grown,
approaching like wet soldiers stern to port.
I close my eyes and try to think of home;
My brother's breath is coming fast and short.

Faint, through shades of rain, I think I see
lights blink off and on from distant land.
But such safe refuge isn't meant to be.
My brother wipes his eyes with trembling hands.

And as he peers into the darkening sky
I feel we have both been here before.
It's not the sky that weeps but he and I
always searching, searching for the shore.

Quote of the week

A woman has to be twice as smart and work twice as hard to go as far as a man. Fortunately, this is not hard.
- Betty Friedan

Fourteen Ways to Tell You're in New England and Not Florida

1. People drive in the correct lanes. Except for the moron in front of us last Tuesday on I84 who apparently assumed that 35MPH was a brisk enough pace for the passing lane.
2. Motels let you mke long distance calls and pay when you leave. Even if you're paying in cash.
3. A gas station attendant washed our windshield when we bought gas.
4. When you see a man walking briskly toward a door you are about to enter, it is likely that he plans to open it for you, not squeeze into the store ahead of you.
5. I heard someone whistling "A Little Night Music".
6. People in the "12 items or less" lane have 12 items or less.
7. When we returned to Connecticut, we dropped our rental truck off and the rental guy said he'd call us if we owed any money.
8. In rental stores, the DVD boxes contain DVDs.
9. Checkout persons speak understandable English. Now don't get me wrong. I have much admiration for anyone who moves to another country and learns the language, and will try to decipher what they're trying to tell me with all the patience and understanding I can muster. What I DO have a problem with is not being able to understand someone who WAS BORN IN THIS COUNTRY.
10. One can walk outside at mid-day and not shrivel and die.
11. The new traffic light in Torrington made the front page.
12. The bugs are civilized, small and know their place.
13. Having 10 children is considered an aberration, not an income.
14. If your car breaks down at the side of the road, the police will stop to assist instead of speeding up when they see you.
15. People use apostrophes in sentences, not their children's names.
16. License plates stay on the cars they were registered to.
17. There are real trees.

Quote of the week

America wasn't founded so that we could all be better. America was founded so that we could be anything we damn well pleased. - P.J.O'Rourke

What Were We Thinking ?

I've been sitting here reflecting upon the wierd and dismaying phenomena of women and their relationships with men. Yeah, I know we've discussed this before. But still. Women - we spend an enormous, disproportionate amount of time, money, thought and personal sacrifice in the pursuit of, of all things - men.
Think of all the hours we've spent since puberty discussing the male species. We probably could have figured out the meaning of life or at least discovered where lost socks go, if we had put our minds to these subjects with the same grit, determination and time we afford men.
I offer, as proof, the cosmetics industry. Millions of dollars are spent on cosmetics. And what about breast implants? Almost every woman who has breast implants tells us, "Oh, I did it for myself. Yes, I underwent potentially dangerous surgery and excruciating pain which uncluded both throwing up and stretching my own skin so that I could carry around two bags of foreign material that may someday leak and kill me. I did it for myself." Right.
There are many reasons why we need to rethink this preoccupation with men, and I, as a kindness, have listed just a few of them:
HUMILIATION. I remember, at one point in my life (I've had several years of therapy and can now talk about this. Really.), I followed the object of my affection around from club to club, alternately crying and taking note of his dance partners. The object of my affection ignored me completely. I'm trying not to live for the day when I can repay him.
LACK OF PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY. This has always, alas, been true. Remember, the first words out of Adam's mouth after that unfortunate apple incident were "Eve did it."
THE SLOB FACTOR. During my first marriage, I grew tired of picking up my husband's dirty socks. I began throwing them into the corner of the bedroom. Sure, it bothered me but I was determined and I did not give in until the dirty sock pile had reached the ceiling and my husband had spent $39.95 on new socks. OK, it was a low ceiling, but it still illustrates my point - men are slobs.
The men who aren't slobs are anal-retentive. You think that character in "Sleeping With the Enemy" was fictional? No, they modeled him after my ex-boyfriend Joseph. I'd like to say I noticed his obsessiveness at the beginning of our relationship and ran like hell. But I didn't leave until he began cross-referencing our desk pencils by color and manufacturer. Then, and only then, did I limp, color-coded, out of the relationship.
THE REMOTE. What is it with men and remotes and why can't they watch an entire program? I think back to the early days of TV when one actually had to get up in order to change the channel. If men changed channels then as often as they do now, we wouldn't have had a fat man in the entire USA. Suffice it to say, I think that such a strong attraction to anything made of plastic should only be encouraged in teething children.
DRIVING WITH A MAN CAN GET YOU KILLED. Men view their car (all men, all cars, no exceptions) as an extension of their penis. For this reason, riding with a man should be avoided at all costs.
UNDRESSING YOU WITH HIS EYES. I have nothing against undressing with the eyes per se. However, when you want a man to undress you with his eyes (ie, your spouse, boyfriend), he's watching ESPN. When you don't want a man to undress you with his eyes (ie, that guy with the hard hat drooling on his lunch), he not only undresses you with his eyes, but tends to add the odd lewd comment as well. This also relates back to men's basic untruthfullness - does he really, at that moment, want you to sit on his face?
FASHION SENSE. Not applicable.
COMMUNICATION SKILLS. At the beginning of a relationship, a man will listen to you raptly, hanging on every word, even when you're talking about that baby shower last Saturday or reciting poetry. He doesn't let you know until later (There's that dishonesty thing again.) what he's really thinking while you recite "...let us go then, you and I.." is "If she stops soon we can get laid and I can still catch the game on ESPN." You think this isn't true? My friend Jane, several years into a relationship, noticed one night that her boyfriend was reciting baseball statistics during sex. I rest my case.
So, fellow women (they've even co-opted the English language), we really must cease and desist from this foolish preoccupation with the male species. This has been handed down from generation to generation but now is the time to stop and think: What do we actually need them for? Sure, they're fun and handy when it comes to conceiving children, but the wisdom of having children is also suspect. Besides, a reputable sperm bank can take care of that. After all, you don't date the chicken just because you crave Cordon Bleu.
Women make better housemates, better friends, better conversationalists and often, better lovers. So next time you find yourself inexplicably thinking about a man, let me remind you of the timeless words of Robin Morgan who said, "Never accept rides from strange men. And remember, all men are strange as hell".

Quote of the week

If freedom is outlawed, only outlaws will be free.

On Worrying

My husband says I worry too much. My husband says there's no sense in worrying because it's not going to change anything. My husband says worrying will give me an ulcer which will give me something else to worry about. I know better. I worry about an almost endless number of things, some trivial, some not so trivial. I worry about money. I worry about not getting enough sleep. I worry about spending too much time charting and neglecting my patients. I worry about spending too much time with my patients and neglecting my charting.I worry about whether or not my son's helmet will really protect him when he gets hit by a car, about unexpected guests finding dust cats under my bed, and about getting an autoimmune disorder that the Drs can't fix. I worry about hurricanes. I worry about checking out at the grocery store and not having enough money and having to put the cookies back. I worry that my diet buddy will see me buying the cookies.
Furthermore, although I'd like to think that we're at least in reach of equality between the sexes, some things will always be unequal and worrying is one of them. Women, at least most women, worry more than men and they worry about more things. As I sit and worry about breast cancer, world peace, over-extending my credit limit, and whether my cat really loves me or is just pretending, my husband's main concern is that they may pre-empt "Lost" for the President's speech.
Another example of the inequality of worrying is vacation. It's always the woman who wonders if she's shut off that stove burner or locked the door. It's always the woman who worries about getting lost. Her husband, on the other hand, is never concerned about getting lost, even though he often does not know where he is.
I'm a Labor and Delivery nurse and I carry in our car, an emergency delivery kit just in case we run into a woman giving birth on the side of the road (Hey, it happens!). The bag contains a clean blanket and towel, a wrapped newspaper, 2 umbilical cord clamps, a suction bulb and sterile gloves. My spouse thinks this is absolutely hysterical.
However, on the way to an important business function last week, my husband somehow ripped open the seam of his jacket when he was getting out of the car. I took those cord clamps and fastened the two seams together on the inside of the jacket.
"You see," I said to him, "and you laughed at me for carrying these".
My husband just smiled and walked into the restaurant. I worried about whether or not the clamps would hold.

Quote of the week

"The Moral Majority is neither. - Tim Russel

You Know You're a Labor and Delivery Nurse When...

1.) ...you've hyperventilated while breathing with a patient.
2.) ...you've told a patient "Don't worry, the Dr will be here in plenty of time." one minute before you deliver the head.
3.) ...you have done a vaginal exam and managed to keep a poker face as you try to figure out which small part of the baby you're touching.
4.) ...you"ve turned up the radio at the nurse's station to drown out a patient screaming.
5.) ...you assume every patient has stopped at Burger King prior to her 8am scheduled c-section.
6.) ...you have wondered how a patient ever got pregnant when she can't tolerate a vag exam.
7.) ...you've not noticed when a prospective dad has fainted and fallen into the bathroom.
8.) ...you have wished you were hanging liquid Valium instead of Ringer's Lactate.
9.) ...you assume that most patients have guessed at the date of their last period.
10.) ...you've mistaken the father of the baby for the father of the laboring patient.
11.) ...you have perfected your "vag exam stare".
12.) ...you have discussed vaginal lacerations and uterine prolapses during lunch without losing your appetite.
13.) ...and you wondered why everyone seated around you has left without finishing their meal.
14.) ...you have secretly wished that the legal age for tubal ligation was fourteen.
15.) ...you've stifled a laugh when a patient tells you "I'm going to have natural childbirth. Don't offer me any drugs."
16.) ...you assume this same patient will be screaming for an epidural at 2 cms.
17.) ...you have had to fish through the trash for a placenta you threw out by mistake.
18.)...You assume that however many centimeters you find your patient dilated, her Dr will tell her she's one less.
19.) ...you've gotten the c-section room ready when you see a patient coming through the door with a birth plan in her hand.
20.) ...you've done a vag exam and realized, when you go to chart, that you forgot to check effacement.
21.) ...you have calmly assured a patient, "Don't worry, your baby just needs a tad more oxygen." as the FHR goes down to 50.
22.) ...you have assured a new father, "Don't worry, his head will go back into a normal shape", as you've thought, "No matter what shape his head's in, this is a really homely baby!"
23.) ...you have hoped that the rude labor check you've just sent home will accidentally deliver there.
24.) ...you have suspected that someone slipped fertility drugs into the high school water supply.
25.) ...and considered slipping birth control pills into same.
26.) ...you have smiled and said, "That's OK", when your just-delivered patient tells you "I'm sorry I hit you, pulled your hair, screamed obscenities, and called you a fat, cruel, sadistic bitch. I was in labor and didn't mean it."
27.) ...you've answered a "Can sex hurt the baby" phone call.
28.) ...you have watched the clock and hoped your patient will deliver fifteen minutes after shift change.
29.) ...you've had to choose between going to the bathroom and eating, and eating won.
30.) ...you've hidden in the bathroom when you've seen a labor patient srriving with six pillows, a birthing ball, a CD case, a rolling pin, a poster of the Sierra Nevadas, and a birth plan in hand.
31.) ...you immediately check the patient's history after she tells you she has no medical problems.
32.) ...you haven't been surprised when a woman's pains that were every two minutes on the phone are every twenty-five minutes when she arrives at the hospital.
33.) ...you prefer your patients to arrive with the baby's head on the perineum so you won't have to chart much.
34.) ...you have dreamed of a world where labor coaches who sit in the lounge chair and watch ESPN while their wife is in labor must undergo immediate vasectomies.
35.) ... you have tripped over a small child during a "family birth experience".
36.) ...you immediately make sure you have plenty of drugs on hand when the primip you're admitting smiles and tells you she's a "10" on the pain scale.
37.) ...you've used an umbilical cord clamp to mend a tear in your scrub jacket.
38.) ...you have idly wondered how housekeeping is going to get that blood off the ceiling.
39.) ...you've considered applying to the E.R. for a job with less stress.
40.) ...you know the words "Don't push!" in five different languages.
41.) ...you actually, in your heart of hearts, agree with people who say, "You're a Labor and Delivery nurse? What a wonderful job!"

Pink Paint

I was painting when I heard the news
of John Lennon's death;
Painting the bedroom of a friend's daughter,
(the mother secretly hoping that the benign pink paint
might mitigate the viiolence in her child).
I paused as I heard the radio broadcast,
pink paint dripping on my shoes,
like blood dripping on a cold Manhatten street
or tears shed at a place called
Strawberry Fields.
And I tried to make this knowledge
seem real, to make it my own.
Failing that,
I stored the moment in that same vault
where we keep the shooting of JFK,
and the explosion of the Challenger,
and that fateful day in September,
to take out at a later date
and examine on all sides
like a doomed relationship;
to play "Imagine"
and finally, to
mourn.

Quote of the week

The mandatory three day wait and background check for firearms should be abolished - and replaced with an IQ test.

Quote of the week

Sometimes, in this life you have to choose between pleasing God and pleasing man. In the long run, it's better to please God - he's more apt to remember.

Queen

I've known many people who felt that they were meant to be born rich and many more who felt they were born to marry rich.I've known others who felt they were born to be treated like royalty or who were royal in the sense of being "a royal pain". I, however, am different. I, however, was born to be a Queen.
This first became evident at my birth when I presented myself, not in the usual face-down position, but with my nose in the air. My first experience at ruling, it is said, was when I came home from the hospital. My siblings tell me that the entire household revolved around my wants and needs. Of course.
My apparent misplacement in a middle class family became more obvious as I learned to sit on the "throne" at an early twelve months of age. Other children wanted dolls or BB guns. I craved a scepter. While kids in the neighborhood lined up their American army men to shoot at and annihilate the "Reds" or the "Japs" (This was back in those old, politically incorrect 50's), my soldiers snubbed the other kid's armies and refused to let them into the Red Cross Ball.
Yes, somewhere, a mistake had been made. Somewhere, a little middle class minded child was worrying my royal parents with her appalling lack of knowledge concerning the use of finger bowls and the management of servants. Somewhere, a little girl sat at her castle window yearning for backyard picnics and public schools.
I continued trying to assert my round-peg self into my parent's square-peg world. After all, who can ever forget the day I came running home with a perfect report card, declaiming to my mother that I had made the "A list"? This trend continued throughout my teenage years where peer approval had an entirely different meaning for me than it did for my classmates.
Undaunted by the distinct lack of obeisance from my subjects, I left school to travel throughout my realm. I held my head high and eventually married a prince of a man.While my neighbors were trying to keep up with the Joneses, I had my eye on the Windsors. I spent my days with a few dear friends, sipping Earl Grey tea and complaining about the servant problem (Regretably, our problem was the lack of them).
How did someone of my obvious royal qualifications end up living on the wrong side of the castle walls? Possibly, it could be traced back to my marriage - when my husband mentioned Riviera, I assumed he meant "French", not "Beach".
So here I wait, always with a queenly mein, a sense of noblesse oblige and an eye for good jewelry. I know in my heart that somewhere I have a long lost relative with royal blood. After all, on several occasions, I have been called a princess - which just goes to show, the truth will out.

Computers Byte

I don't like computers. There - I've said it. Yes, I know computers are the wave of the future. I know they save time. I know every successful business and business person must have one, and I grudgingly grant you that persons who are not computer literate are probably dragging their feet and closing their eyes to the inevitable. Maybe we are stubborn, rigid and behind the times.
I don't like to think I possess those qualities, but, but --- I don't like computers.Correctly speaking, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that computers have never liked me and after years of them not liking me, I've simply reciprocated the emotion.
Don't try to tell me computers are incapable of feeling dislike. I know better. Not only have computers demonstrated that they can dislike a person, but they also seem to possess a spiteful, mean sort of sense of humor. How else does one explain phenomena such as the computer at work refusing to allow me to enter my name - this, in spite of the fact that it knows I'm the charge nurse? If it does let me enter my name, it often refuses to let me go any further.
For example: I will attempt to put in an order for a simple lab test, say, a CBC (complete blood count for those fortunate enough to have avoided the field of medicine). The computer adamantly refuses to execute this order. Our secretary, Janice (whom the computer loves) pushes the exact same sequence of buttons and the computer immediately, slavishly executes the order. I swear, if it had little computer arms and legs, it would have run and drawn the blood itself.
I have even taken a computer class - even though I felt that the computer needed counseling more than I did. Our teacher told us that computers will only do what one tells them to do. The computer operator is in charge at all times. The operator pushes a button, the computer responds. Simple. Then why do I feel that the computer is pushing my buttons rather than vice versa?
Last week, I attempted to order a diet for one of my patients. This, again, is a simple procedure. In order to get to the diet screen, you must type in your employee number and your personal secret code (mine is LBRN if anyone wants it). Next, you enter the patient's account number and then REG for regular diet. Easy, right?
I typed in my employee number and secret code LBRN. The computer replied, "Not a valid code. Please try again."
"Look", I reasoned with it, "you may not like my secret code, but it is valid. Take it!" I typed it in again.
"Please enter code." it said.
"I did." On the third try, the damned computer, as it is affectionately called, finally took my code, and with relief, I typed in my patient's account number. Quickly, a patient's screen came up. Unfortunately, although not unexpectedly, it was not my patient's screen. I tried again.
"This is not a valid account number. Please try again."
Not one to give up easily, I typed in the number again, being very careful to hit the correct keys. Another patient screen came up. Not my patient's, of course. "I will order this diet or die trying." I punched the keys furiously. I think I heard the computer chuckle. In went the 6 digit account number. The screen went blank.
"Janice," I asked the secretary, "Could you please order this diet for me?" Using the same 6 digits, it took Janice about 10 seconds to order the diet.
I sighed in defeat, just another casualty in the war between man and machine.

Quote of the week

"To truly live outside the law, you must be honest." - Dylan

Waitress in a Donut Shop

(For all my waitress friends.)

I'm a waitress in a donut shop
I make the cofee. I stock, I mop.
They make me wear pink which
isn't my color.

"Is the coffee fresh?" they always say.
"Well when was it made, what time today?"
Sometimes I lie.

"This isn't fresh. I only ate half,
you'd better give my money back."
Oh, lady...

They wait in line, I guess they snooze,
when it's their turn they cannot choose
They're only donuts.

I'm just a cipher to you,
a purveyor of Boston Cremes
But I'm a woman too and
I have hopes and dreams.
So give a thought next time you stop,
to me - I'm just your waitress in a donut shop.

June 5, 1972

United States armed forces have invaded Cambodia
as Nixon prattles on about peace with honor.
An eighteen year old boy was killed on the
New York Subway this morning.
Thousands of students are marching to
Washington to protest the draft
as illegal and immoral, and
I had a son today.

Nineteen persent of America's high school students
cannot read.
Footage from the 6 o'clock news shows
boys dead in Viet Nam,
because you don't have to read to be drafted,
just be a red-blooded, all-American boy,
young and scared and
I had a son today.

TIME magazine screams "Is God dead?"
as children's blood is spilled on
our nation's streets.
Big Brother is watching us all
and I think I want to run
far, far away.
I won't stop to pack because
I had a son today.

The Bad Motorcycle Boys and How They Grew

Torrington, Connecticut, circa 1974. The Inferno bar was in its heyday, people coming from all over the state to drink cheap beer and jostle against each other as they danced to "Sympathy For the Devil". We crowded the dance floor - wild, sweaty, frenetic; keeping time to the drum's relentless tatoo. Sex and drugs melded with music and alcohol to make The Inferno a dark question of violence barely suppressed and nirvana just a tequila away.
Outside, leaning against the building, watching the paralell line of their motorcycles parked at the curb, were the toughest of the tough, coolest of the cool, poster boys for alienated and disenfranchised young male adulthood - the bad motorcycle boys. Girls loved them, mothers feared them, and the other guys - well, the other guys just stayed out of their way. This was where you'd find Joey, who'd inherited Mick Jagger's looks but none of his savoir faire. Little Tony would be leaning there, assuring all that "I ain't little where it counts, heh, heh." Next to him stood his pal John who could crush a beer can with one hand (and, I suspect, eat it). Mike usually lounged at the end of the line-up. We called him St Michael of the Motorcycles. Impenetrable dark eyes, auburn hair down to his waist, bearded and booted, he looked as if he may have just stepped out from Dante's Inferno instead of the Torrington location. These were the main players, but various and sundry bikers would come and go throughout the night.
I would go to the bar after my 3 - 11 pm shift at the woolen mill. Those were the days before I had grown into my looks and the infamous line outside the door never gave me a second glance. No one would have been more surprised than I to find that I would, in the future, have a long and not always happy relationship with one of them. But that's another story.
I went there to dance. Afterwards, I would go home and dream of roaring motorcycles and licking flames of fire.
The Inferno attracted its crowds of customers in a way that was as inexplicable as it was successful. In that last, blissfully ignorant era before AIDS, one would have been hard-pressed to find out who was going with whom, who was cheating, who was just looking. I recall overhearing a conversation between two men, one of them insisting, "But it's my week to go out with Lisa!" Dialogues and disagreements would ensue between both the frantically searching and the wearily blase. That's the kind of place it was.
One hot, muggy, Friday night, indistinguishable from any other hot, muggy, Friday night, a stranger entered the bar. Alone, and slightly aloof, he stuck out. Aloofness was only allowed if you were one of the motorcycle boys. He ordered a draft beer and idly watched the couple necking in the corner, several fights being broken up, a woman vomiting into her shoe, and a knife being confiscated from a man who was preparing to hurl it at the band. He nursed his beer. When a woman picked up his elbow, mistaking it for her drink, the young man decided it was time to leave. The band struck up a rousing rendition of "Sympathy For the Devil" as he abandoned his stool.
As he walked down the sidewalk toward his car, through the gauntlet of bad motorcycle boys, one of them stuck out a foot and tripped him. The man turned around, looked at the small knot of us huddled in the doorway, at the scattered patrons who'd drifted out onto the sidewalk, and especially at the motorcycle boys. In a soft, clear voice, he asked, "Why don't you all grow up?"
We were surprisingly stunned, as if the concept had never before occurred to us. The young man walked away from an uneasy silence. We returned to the bar to try to forget what he'd suggested; to drown our fears in the dim lighting, the dance and another beer. Several boys roared off on their bikes, perhaps in a futile attempt to outrun the ageing process.
Most of us, in spite of our aversion to it, did grow up, although not that night. I am a freelance writer and a nurse in an obstetrics unit. Mike had 3 children and 2 divorces, none of them with me. Little Tony is working on his college degree in prison. John took over the family business. Joey had a heart attack, married, and settled down to his factory job, not necessarily in that order.
And the young man who walked away? I married him. After all, who better to marry than a grown-up?We have a happy marriage and a well-ordered life with all the adult responsibilities that jobs, mortgages, and raising children entail.
But sometimes, when my husband is not home, I think of those old days and the bad motorcycle boys. I play "Sympathy For the Devil". I dance.

What I did on my Summer Vacation

I want to talk about motels. The thing about motels is that you have to suspend your analytical nature along with your natural squeamishness about that wonderful, invisible-to-the-naked-eye world of germs and bacteria. You really can't think too hard about who else has used the room, what they've done there, and what bodily fluids they've left behind. But as long as a room looks clean, I'm OK with it. I even managed to cope when I found a black hair in the bathtub (our hair is red or gray, or sometimes, red and gray) of one motel, and another where I had to pick a hunk of unidentifiable food off the front of the microwave. It wasn't easy, but I took deep breaths and got by it.
And this is another thing about motels and hotels that I have always wondered about: Why do they fold the toilet paper into that little point? Sure, it's nice, but wouldn't one feel more reassured about cleanliness if one knew that the maid's hands weren't all over the toilet paper? I'm just saying.....
Anyway, we just got back from Lenox, MA, having gone up there to see the BSO (that's Boston Symphony Orchestra for the culturally deprived), at Tanglewood. As usual, I'd made reservations online at a place we'd stayed at previously and liked. Or so I thought. However, a menopausal mind is a forgetful mind. Sometimes, it is a downright absent mind. Because when we arrived in Lenox, we whizzed right past the motel we'd stayed at before and arrived at The Knight's Inn. I suspected right away that no self-respecting knight had ever stayed there. I realised that I had gotten the motel names mixed up. I had meant to make reservations at the Yankee Inn, and I'm sure it is apparent to all how Yankee and Knights could be mixed up.
Now I love curry (No, this isn't a flight of ideas, I'm going somewhere with this), but I love curry in the context of eating it in a nicely appointed Indian restaurant. To smell curry when one walks into a motel registration office is disconcerting, to say the least. As I waited for the clerk (who also smelled of curry), I noticed the Fruit Loops and corn flakes sitting in partially open bins in the adjacent "Continental Breakfast" nook, and idly wondered how curry-flavor enhanced Fruit Loops might taste. I decided not to find out. I may eat a grape that has fallen briefly onto my kitchen floor. I may eat an unidentified tablet off the windowsill.* But one has to draw the line somewhere.
Things didn't improve when we hit the room.It was a little too small. It was a little too shabby. It was a little too orange. It was a little too not too clean. On the inside of the bathroom door were posted instuctions on how to lock it. However, the bathroom door had no handle on the inside, the management missing the point that if you feel the need to post instructions on how to work the door handle, there should, really, be a door handle. Three lightbulbs were burnt out and there were only four total. We had no view of the pool. Because there was no pool.
I looked longingly down the street at the pool flanking the Yankee Motel. I looked at my curry-scented room. I looked at the Yankee Motel. I looked at my curry-scented room. Throwing monetary caution to the wind, I left Curryland and booked a room at the Yankee. A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do.

* That is another story that will be told, eventually, in The Evil Twins Blog.

Quote of the week

"There is a tragic flaw in our precious constitution, and I don't know what can be done to fix it. This is it: Only nut cases want to be President." -- Kurt Vonnegut

How to be a Charge Nurse

I wrote this while working at a hospital in Florida where the charge nurse had a lot more responsibility. But a lot of it is still pertinent, so here it is.

#1. Make out patient assignments - Do not spend a lot of time on this.No matter what you do, there will always be a better way to do it and someone will be sure to tell you what that way is.
#2. Keep staff awake - Remember, no TV. No videos. No cards. No games. No magazines. That leaves telling embarrassing stories about your sex lives.
#3. Assess staffing needs and cancel someone if neccessary - Don't spend a lot of time on this either. No matter what you do, you'll have called: A) too early B) too late C) the wrong person.
#4. Delegate unit duties as neccessary and appropriate - Get real - no one listens to the charge nurse.
#5. Be a link between the unit manager and the rest of the staff - Staff members should be able to come to you with work-related problems that you can then pass on to the unit manager at which point she A) won't believe you. B) decide that you are the root cause of the problem.
#6. Keep abreast of all unit activities - The charge nurse is always the last to know.
#7. Grow big shoulders and a thick skin - The charge nurse's main duty is to be there to blame when something goes wrong.
#8. If something should go wrong, assess what caused the problem and
how it can be prevented in the future - ie, blame it on A) the night shift. B) the day shift.
#9. Maintain open communication with other hospital employees - This is a good concept, but in reality, when you, for instance, speak to another unit st 9PM and say, "Call us if you need any help", by 9AM, you will be reported as saying "We'll work in hell before we help you." Go figure.
#10. Report incidents, when neccessary, to the unit manager - Let's see, in what country did they say "Kill the messenger"?
#11. On second thought, do not speak to anyone about anything - If you give your fellow workers advice or directions, you're being mean or bossy. If you look the other way when they, for example, leave their labor patient to go shopping, you're ineffective. If you work faster to help everyone when it's busy, you lose your cool under pressure. If you disagree with someone, you have a personality problem. If you write someone up, you're picking on her. If you meet with the unit manager to discuss your shift, you're brown-nosing. If you don't meet with the unit manager, you're not sticking up for your shift. If everyone loves you, you're too soft. And remember, at the end of the day, it's all your fault.

Manifesto

I don't believe in junk mail
low fat
or talk radio.
I don't believe in democracy.
I don't believe in grudges
but I applaud burning bridges.
I don't believe in busing
or forced integration
but I believe in racial harmony.
I don't believe in affirmative action,
an insult to people of color,
and I think the best way to get a job
is through perseverence and education.
I don't believe in networking
bureaucracy
catholicism
jurisdiction
mass production
stipulations
institutions
corporations
sly and covert operations.
I don't believe in the psychic hot line.
I don't believe in the welfare system.
I don't believe in trial by jury.
In these days of exploding populations,
I don't believe it's anyone's right to have as many children as they can bear.
I don't believe in anti-choice.
I don't believe in public schools.
I don't believe in smoke-free anything.
I don't believe country music
should have been allowed to escape from Nashville.
I don't believe in personal violence
but I believe in violent change and violent art.
I don't believe in television or recreational vehicles
or Oprah Winfrey and I believe
that both military intelligence and rap music
are contradictions in terms.
I don't believe in drugs but I do believe in
drug addicts.
I don't believe in marriage and have my doubts about monogamy.
I don't believe in lying, I don't believe in blaming your childhood,
I don't believe in saying "I can't" because I've found that
I can.
I don't believe in Florida or littering,
although littering in Florida isn't quite so bad.
I don't believe we were all created equal
but that doesn't stop me from wishing we were.
I don't believe in Black rage, White supremacy,
or Indian casinos.
I believe in William Burroughs, Hunter Thompson, Allen Ginsberg
and life imitating art.
I believe in rocking the boat
and upsetting the apple cart.
I believe in truth, kindness, books, and
solitude.
I believe in freedom of the press, freedom of speech
and freedom of movement.
I believe our only salvation lies in rock and roll
and a complete change in the way
we view the world.
I believe
in going home.

Guilty Thoughts

I was raised Catholic and I learned early on that guilt is not such a bad thing. Guilt is good. Guilt is natural. Guilt builds character. This view of guilt was reinforced when I became a wife and mother. It is a proven fact that all mothers feel guilty about a huge variety of things. In fact, to encounter the sources of most of my guilty feelings, I don't even have to leave the house. I feel guilty about spending time at work and not with my family, I feel guilty about spending time with my family and taking a day off from work, I feel guilty about housework, about dialing 411 and not looking up the number, about sleeping, not sleeping, throwing that water bottle into the trash instead of recycling, about calling a certain pizza chain known to contribute to the anti-choice movement instead of cooking a healthy, politically correct pizza at home. On a good day, I can get a lot of character built before I even have my second cup of coffee. I feel guilty about having that second cup of coffee.
Now, I don't think I've cornered the market on guilt and its accompanying angst by any means. We have Woody Allen for that. However, I've learned that the joy of motherhood is usually and rather quickly tempered by a load of guilt. Sometimes the guilt even arrives before the baby, as in "Could that second strawberry margarita I drank the night he was conceived cause him to crave alcohol later in life"? But most often, guilt arrives and grows along with one's child.
Furthermore, mother-guilt can cover a multitude of sins. If we slap junior's hands for playing with the stove, are we creating a future axe murderer? Are we thwarting the creative desires of a sensitive child who was destined to become a master chef? Yes, rationally we know that we're probably only saving little fingers from being burnt. But one always wonders - did Jeffrey Dahmer's mother deny him access to the kitchen?
And what about buying things for our children? We want our children to grow up to be content individuals. We want them to understand that richness is not what we have but what we are. However, if everyone else in the third grade has a Hannah Montana backpack and your daughter is telling you that her entire future happiness depends upon the purchase of this item, how many of you could say no?
Another interesting characteristic of mother-guilt is its longevity. My son, Scott, is 35 years old. I remember as if it were yesterday, a winter morning when he was two. I was getting ready for work. He was whining, and had been all morning.Toddling to the foot of the stairs, he began to cry and I snapped "Oh, be quiet Scott!" A few minutes later, I picked him up and discovered he had a fever and a slight cough. By the next day, he was in the hospital with croup. The memory of that little red bunny-suited figure at the bottom of the stairs is burned into my psyche. My son swears he doesn't remember it, but I do. Oh, I do.
I'm not alone in this. Most mothers seem to have these moments, even my own mother. My brother Peter was on the Deans List in college, was president of a company, was, and is, the type of son a mother can be proud of, the type of son that should cause a mother to pat herself on the back and say "Well, I did a good job with this one." Our mother looked at it a little differently though. Like a lot of kids, Peter went through a period in the eighth grade of talking back to his teachers, throwing spitballs and generally being an adolescent boy. After receiving another phone call from his teacher, our mother looked at him and declaimed, "Peter, you are the plague of my life!" Our mother could never tell this story without getting tears in her eyes. Peter insists he doesn't remember it, but that didn't matter to our mother. She felt that her son became a successful, happy adult in spite of that flaw in her mothering.
So, it seems, we'll always be carrying that emotional baggage. But I submit to you, that this maybe makes us better parents, and if not, at least we can experience the pleasure of passing guilt on to our children. A mother's legacy, if you will.

I Saw A Deer

I saw a deer in the yard today
at dawn
She took my breath away
so beautiful,
sniffing at some green mystery
at the edge of the lawn, she looked up.
Our eyes met
for a brief interlude
woman to woman
large brown to large blue.
But the gap between us widened
and she slipped silently
like love lost
into the wood.

Hell No, I Won't Go

Growing old hit me like a ton of vanishing cream one day when I was 50 years, 8 months and 2 days old. It was then that I discovered that I was 50 and everyone else was 19. I knew right away I didn't like it.
Yes, society, against my will and certainly against my better judgement, had suddenly solidified into two distinct segments: people my age (old people) and 19 year olds.
Now, I've read plenty about growing old gracefully; about the depth and wisdom of the older woman; about the "sexy sixties".I listened to Gloria when she told us that a woman is in the prime of her life at age 50. I've witnessed O Magazine's "celebration" of the mature* woman. AARP Magazine tells me that 60 is the age to be.*
Well excuse me O and I beg your pardon Mz Steinam, but what's so wonderful about going to bed in the afternoon when the reason you're meeting there is to nap? What's so thrilling about being called "maam"? What's to celebrate about being complimented for your figure when you can sense the unspoken "for your age"? What, I ask you, is so good about all this acquired wisdom when it includes intimate knowledge of cellulite, wrinkle cream, hot flashes, the ingredients in Metamucil and the phone number of your best friend's plastic surgeon?
Granted, there are parts of my teens and twenties that don't bear repeating - or even close examination. I really don't want to relive all that teenaged angst combined with worries about the opposite sex and searches for who I was and what I wanted to be.** There are a few relationships that, in retrospect, I wish I had skipped (Oh, do I ever wish I had skipped them.), and a few drugs that I wish I hadn't done. Rationally, I know that youth was not the bed of roses I now remember. But I still do not want to grow any older.
Maybe I'm depressing and maybe I'm bitter. Maybe I'm not a good sport. So be it. But while the readers of these magazines that write glowingly about "The Mature Woman" are smiling and celebrating their way into old age, I will be dragging my feet. In fact, I'll be kicking and screaming all the way.

*I hate this term. Let's face it - we're not growing mature. I, for example am probably more childish now than at any other point in my life. I'm growing old, not mature, and really, I don't want either one of these plants in my garden.
**What I wanted to be was a hobo, a job I still believe I'm uniquely suited for.

quote of the week

It's an old one, but I still like it.
"Living well is the best revenge."

Highway 95 Revisited

Recently, my husband and I took a car trip from Connecticut to Florida. He was the driver and I was the navigator - a job that gave me plenty of time to reflect upon the vagaries of travel with one's spouse and upon the nature of travel in general. Furthermore, I have discovered several basic tenets that may help some other hapless navigator. Read and learn:
1.) Now, I have always considered the belief that men don't ask for directions to be nothing more than a humor writer's device at best, or at worst, an unfair generalization. However, I have learned that, not only do men not ask for directions, they also do not take directions - even those directions offered freely, willingly, lovingly, and with the best intentions from his wife/navigator.
2.) Two people, having partaken of sustenance at the same time, traveling at the same rate of speed, in the same vehicle, will never, I repeat, never need to use the bathroom at the same rest stop. It must be a sex thang.
3.) The concept of comfortable bucket seats takes on a whole new meaning after the first 200 miles. And yes, it is possible for one buttock to fall asleep.
4.) All interstate highways have black holes that suck up belongings that the travelers are sure they packed. They never suck up car trash or the soda spilled on the back seat.
5.) If your spouse has been driving for eight hours straight through heavy traffic and is hunched over the steering wheel with that vein throbbing in his temple and while he is doing this, he tells you that after careful consideration, he's decided that George Bush is really a sane and rational human being who has been harshly misjudged by the American public, it's OK to say you couldn't agree with him more.
6.) The importance of trivial details such as who forgot to pack the toothpaste increases proportionately in relation to the length of the trip.
7.) If, when driving on the interstate (a place fraught with curious tourists and children), you're struck with the sudden urge to get romantic, it's probably better to use the motel and not the transportation vehicle. Just take my word for it.
8.) Even scenic little hamlets lose their charm when they have no gas stations open.
9.) Women, when checking into a motel, first inspect the cleanliness of the bathroom, the amenities and the decor. My husband, immediately upon entering said room, hones in on the clicker and checks out what's on TV. He'll sleep on the floor as long as the motel has cable.*
10.) If you are traveling with a trailer and your husband thinks he can back it up around that little round driveway in front of the motel, quickly disabuse him of this notion.
11.) If, when staying at a motel, you happen to see your next-door neighbors carrying out a television set and it's two in the morning, and they're loading it into the trunk of their car, odds are it's not theirs. However, considering the proliferation of guns and bad temper in the U.S. these days, it most likely would not be a good idea to run out there and say, "Don't take that TV. Stealing is wrong!" No, no my dear. Shooting a nosy hotel neighbor is wrong. Stealing, in this case, is merely none of our business.
12.) Yes, the hotel management really does expect two people to dry themselves after a shower with those two little white dishtowels.
13.) In my opinion, "Continental Breakfast" is stretching the definition of breakfast a little too far. I'm just saying.
14.) Road signs are often deceptive. For example, the sign that portrays what I always thought meant "curves ahead", according to my husband, means "go faster". Ditto the signs for "yield", "merge", and "deer crossing".
15.) "Scenic Routes" often have more route than scenic.
16.) Finally, as you drive along America's highways battling traffic, swearing at other, less skillful drivers, and searching, with legs crossed, for a clean restroom, remember - this is your vacation - relax, have fun, and reconsider the benefits of air travel.

*This makes one wonder - are men genetically predisposed to have the ability to not only find, but keep control of the clicker? A sort of electrical survival of the fittest akin to dogs being able to sniff out other dog's shit to roll in? I predict that this clicker ability will become more dominant and more finely honed with each generation.