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.