Stitched Digits

I remarked to my Emergency Room doctor last night that it had only taken me 49 years to successfully injure all my BIG digits. She laughed. She said “Well, at least you had a goal and saw it through”. This evolved into a conversation about Buffalo and Road Kill, but that’s another story.

My plan was simple. Get home early. Do 15 plus loads of laundry, clean the kitchen before things evolved in it and began to take over mankind, reorganize the Smurf’s bedroom so she could actually get around in it and write a wonderful paper for school on the differences between individual and cultural prejudice. All while wearing my “Howie” jammies and snacking on something completely unhealthy. One load of laundry made it to the washer, 3 plates, 2 bowls, and a broken glass latter, I was camped out in the local emergency room.

The Smurf offered to drive me (any excuse to get out of the cemetery (again another story) and onto a real road), but I opted for having her shift while I steered. I must admit I love our hospital. They valet park. That may be something done everywhere now, but I like to think it makes me special. We walked into the ER to find over thirty people swarming around in the waiting room. My first inclination was to go home and break out the dental floss and do it myself. Instead I took the opportunity to do a little people watching, mostly because I didn’t know where the needles where.

I walked away from my people watching experience with a few questions. First, why do Latino families bring Granma, Neighbor Jose and everyone they have ever been related to with them to the Dr? I’m not judging, but really people, there are only so many seats and the sick people need one too. While I pondered this I noticed the twenty-something year old guy across from me began cleaning his toes with his fingers and then yes, seriously, no kidding, licking them off. (We moved chairs at this point). He was of course seated next to his friend who apparently was the actual patient. I’m not sure if he was there for the excessive Hobbit hair on his toes or the sniffles. Not my business, but there were definitely some toe things that needed to be sorted out between those two. The only consolation was the toe licker was not licking the Hobbit toes.   

At this point the blood has dried to my hand and arm and the towel wrapped around it. I was stiff from holding my hand up in the air and feeling a bit light-headed. The volunteer worker tried to keep me occupied by telling me stories about pansies and granola. She made me hungry; it was a perfect time for M&M’s. I mean really, usually when I’m in the ER I have to avoid eating anything because surgery is imminent, but I knew this time I could indulge on candy and soda with a clear conscience. Smurf and I shared, it was sugary bliss.

When I as finally called out of the waiting room to have my wound looked at we were greeted by a nurse topping in about 4’ nothing. I felt sorry for her, not because she was small, but because she had me to contend with. She seemed rather overwhelmed by my 6’ something size and felt the need to walk very far in front of me. I think the logic was, if I fell, there was no way she could catch me, and she didn’t want to be pinned and fighting for air underneath this massive woman covered in blood. She sat me down as quickly as possible, but even then I towered over her. She finally made me lie down. This woman gave me the best shot I have ever had. Tetanus in the arm, didn’t feel a thing. She deserves brownies or something.

While waiting for the doctor my lovely child took gory photos of my now uncovered wound. I really hope I don’t see them on Facebook today, but somehow I know they will make the middle school rounds, and pilfered (with permission) a few plastic gloves to use for dissecting eyeballs at school. At least I can be entertaining for her friends and our activities serve a purpose. I did think I would have to catch her though when the doctor shot my hand full of Lidocaine. I have never seen anyone turn so pale. I can’t imagine how she is going to deal with the eyeballs if this makes her weak in the knees. She personally has never injured herself to the extent of needed stiches and rightly so she was a bit “grossed out”. I told her to pay attention, it was cool and interesting. She stuck her tongue out at me, but did offer to drive us home again. What a sweet girl.

The evening ended with stitches across my hand, an ultimate bacon cheeseburger and an old episode of Bones. Still waiting for the laundry Gnomes to arrive and sort everything else out.

Can LiquiGlide cure Stuckivitis?

I always find some of my most logical and comprehensive ideas come while I’m commuting. As I listened to the radio yesterday I learned MIT came up with LiquiGlide as a response to decade’s old Ketchup complaints. While Ketchup slowness has been a problem for most American’s over the years we have weathered it quite well. We have resorted to the knife in the bottle, smashing the bottle with the back of our hands, adding water, but essential despite the problems, Ketchup eventually ended up on our hotdog.  I pondered what other uses LiquiGlide might have for Americans in need.   MIT states LiquiGlide is essentially a solid that performs like a liquid (don’t sue me for paraphrasing) and I thought what has a solid component and needs to be extracted by a liquid. It hit me. Bubba’s head. It has been in need of a FDA approved; slide solid/cream for so long it is possible beyond salvaging. But what about all those other individuals out there with stuckivitis who could use a great way to get their head back on their shoulders and out of their ass? Is it possible we could use LiquiGlide to solve the age old dilemma of how to extract someone’s head from their posterior? And if so how would we begin to market that? Would it be packaged along with the condiments in our food aisle or sold as an additive in the hemorrhoid cream section?    It is too overwhelming for me to contemplate at this moment. I am sure MIT experts will tackle it when they see fit. I defer to them and offer up Bubba as a test case when they are ready to proceed.  Lord knows he’s probably suffocating by now.

I smell like day old cabbage

I woke up this am with the crazy idea I would dress like a girl and strut my femininity. It lasted until 10:30. I laid out my sunny Karen Kane tank dress last night, complete with sexy suede boots and Native American jewelry. I arose early and blow dried my bangs to their proper position before allowing the rest of my long tresses to blow dry via Jeep ride. I donned eyeliner, mascara, lip liner and blush. I looked hot! I felt young and sexy and desirable for about 2 hours.
I am still wearing the same clothes and still have makeup on my face, my bangs are still straight, no jewelry has been changed I just added a few things. I am now covered in asbestos dust, sweating like a horse, and smell like a monkey. My Tracey Allen perfume has mingled with 46 girl year old sweaty woman scent and it is something akin to rotten cabbage. Does this mean cancer is already setting in?
Is nothing ever easy? It all started when a short person said to this tall person “Can you help me for a minute?” Now, mind you, she’s a wonderful person and it’s not her fault for my rapid decline, I am totally responsible. I responded with “Of course!” I wonder if Napoleon said this when his General’s asked if they should really commit to that final charge?
The help consisted of removing ceiling tiles from an empty office and installing them in her office. Six of them. Six very frustrating 18” x 18” squares. This seemed like a small request at first glance and would have been if I was in my normal jeans, Birkies and t-shirt. I would have thought it through first, not second and been on about my way, but, no, dressing like a girl makes you act like a girl and my brain cells failed me.
At first I attempted to pull the tiles out of the ceiling with a bronze fishing pole from the adjacent warehouse. You just had to see it, the thing weighed about 30 lbs., but it kept getting caught on the tile frame. Then I tried jumping up to reach them. Yes I am tall but 46 year old women in sex suede boots do not hold records for high jump for a reason. Finally after only freeing 3 and already sweating profusely I was covered in white dust particles with misshapen chunks settling in my eyes. I looked down at my friends smiling cherub face and said “We need to rethink this”.
Armed with chair, long wooden stick and sunglasses (the other me would have included a hat) I freed the remaining three in about 30 seconds and installed all six in a little over the same time. But no the job wasn’t over. It required a trip to the bathroom to completely disrobe and pluck chunks of ceiling tile from between my breasts where they were sticking like some type of lichen. It was so much fun to take a paper towel bath right there in the unisex bathroom, surrounded by smell man things and dusty toilet seat covers. I found dust particles in places I didn’t know I had, between my toes (no really how did it get there) well and a few other places it definitely didn’t belong. So know I am sweaty, hovering over my desk fan and wondering if the buggers in my nose are white particles too. Oh well, only one way to find out.

Tugging on Superman’s Cape

“Just what makes that little old ant think he can move a rubber tree plant? Everyone knows an ant can’t move a rubber tree plant, but he’s got High Hopes” This came pouring forth from my lips as I drove my daughter to school this am. Frank Sinatra would be proud I’m sure, but my daughter thought I had lost my mind. I had absolutely no idea where it came from. My mouth just started singing it without inquiring of my brain, but once it was there I couldn’t get rid of it. I hummed it all morning and a few times sung it out loud to the chagrin of the grocery store clerk.

Finally, over my morning latte the Jim Croce classic, Don’t mess around with Jim, invaded and took over. In my defense it was playing on the radio. Now, I’m humming “Don’t tug on Superman’s cape-You don’t spit into the wind-You don’t pull the mask off an ‘ole Lone Ranger-And you don’t mess around with Jim”.

I wonder if this really does say something about my state of mind. Both songs are about overcoming adversity. The ant finally moved the rubber tree plant and Slim kick Jim’s assssss…..cape or no cape. It’s possible!

I tend to think there is a hidden meaning in everything we say, do and think. I wax philosophical at times and like to think I’m really deep and profound. Perhaps I’m just insane. My mom is, my sister’s are, so are the last 10 generations of my family. We tend to think we are just eccentric, but really we are insane and sometimes heavily medicated. I’m always amazed we don’t get a group discount on therapy.

I can find hidden meaning in the shape of a cantaloupe while watching Wallace and Gromit (yes, really it’s there), and am always interested in the hidden motivations behind what people do or say. Maybe we are all just ants trying to move rubber tree plants, or Slims standing up to Jims? Then again maybe not? Who knows, but it sure makes life more fun to break into song for no reason at all. Oh, great now the theme to the Pink Panther is in my head! I wonder what that means?

Embracing the sensational – what did you say?

It is one of the paradoxes of our time that ideas capable of transforming our societies, full of insights about how the human animal behaves and thinks, are often presented in unreadable language – Doris Lessing

 

Verbal communication has always been the bane of our existence. In the days when we communicated through hand signals to tell our fellow man where to go to spear the approaching mammoth, we kept to quick simple gestures which had one meaning and one meaning only. Our verbal communication has become so utterly complicated words can have many unrelated meanings and our placement of them in conversation is the only way to determine what that meaning may be. Sow, sow, I am I talking about my lady pig or my need to plant seeds. We express ourselves to others in the manner and motives that make sense to us. We fail to take into account those we communicate with one another. We ignore the idioms which are used by different cultural groups and age affiliations within our own language. “No I am not sick; I think your painting is sick.” Same word one makes my face turn green the other describes my delight in your ability as an artist. Next week the word could be a catch-phrase for a type of tuna fish.

When we talk to one another we need to remember to BE CLEAR. We must ask ourselves the question “Is the person I am talking to hearing what I am saying?” and more importantly “Is this person understanding where my words are coming from?” I recall a having a conversation with my ex-husband.  I felt I was clear and concise in my phrasing. My girlfriend who was present later stated she understood me completely. My husband stared at me with a blank expression of confusion, thus he is now my ex-husband.  Perhaps we should all go back to chatting in the sign language of early caveman when we have something important to say. We could take away the adverbs and adjectives in our speeches and just get to the nuts and bolts of the issues.

Verbal communication is destroying our country right now. A lot of people are talking but no one is saying anything of value and more importantly no one is bothering to listen. Bill Clinton was quoted on the Situation Room website by Blitzer as saying “I think Obama will win”. I did hear him say this in the interview, but he also talked about bipartisanship, the need to resolve political agendas for the good of the American people, social responsibility, Mitt Romney’s chances of success and much, much more. Our verbal communication is ignoring the necessary and embracing the sensational. How do we stop talking and start listening? How do we speak and be heard? How do we make a statement which will be taken at face value and not disseminated by others into something it is not? Sometimes I think we should just throw the phrase “Cat, dog, bites, wagon, grandma, open, tool, mileage, coffee” at everyone we meet just to see if they even bother to notice.

Thank God there is no Transformer Heaven!!

“I have a limited amount of random knowledge,” my daughter stated when she was asked if what type of dogs werewolves were.  The asker is 8, my daughter is 12. This produced an explanation by my daughter of how werewolves were probably more live “wolves” than actual domesticated “dogs” as we know them.  The 8 year old replied, “You are just confusing me, but I know Santa’s not real.”  I love being a witness to these conversations.  Twenty minutes before we picked up her friend and the 8 year old sister we passed a sign posted on a business billboard that read “Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it,” a quote generally attributed to the Dalai Lama. My daughter’s first comments included “Well, it isn’t really success if you didn’t have to do anything to get it, right?” I followed this thought with one of my own, “If you have to sacrifice more than was ethical, moral, or financially possible to achieve, was it really success after all?”

I love the days we have these conversations. I forget sometimes she is 12 going on 40. She amazes me with her insight, clarity and often whimsical sarcasm. I treasure the comments she makes about my road rage driving “Mom, do you really thing that insane woman can hear you?” when she sees me ranting back at the lady who just cut me off in traffic and flipped me off as if it was my fault. I love the answer to the question I asked about whether or not it was obvious that I had lost 30 lbs. “No, I really can’t tell” was the reply.  But the best by far this week was “Thank God, they left out Transformer Heaven in this movie, I don’t think I could have handled it a second time!” A true movie critic in the making.

Dancing In The Yard

Sometimes I twirl, sometimes I spin. Sometimes I stand in one spot and sway with the music. I don’t need a cacophony of melodic delights coming from my stereo to dance in the yard. I can listen to the birds and the motion of the breeze through the trees. I can prance about to the sound of thunder, traffic or the daily commotion of life. I can also prance about and find divine inspiration in a melody from Queen, or jump and spin while pretending I have the skill to dance for a Harlem Ballet troupe. The neighbors watch me, wondering if they should call the funny farm to come and cart me away. My children laugh and join in until they are old enough to care what other people think. My cat prances around my feet and my dog bays at the sight of me. What an amazing thing to take time out of my day to dance in the yard. I hope you find the time in your day to dance. It can be in the yard, on the street, in the elevator or in your shower, but make sure you find time to dance.
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