Hello? Are You Still Out There?

Hello?  Are you still out there?  I can't believe I've been away so long, but I assure you, I've been busy.  When I last posted, I shared that I had a new job.  Having always prided myself on being fairly bright and able to learn just about anything I set my mind to: boy howdy, did I get a wake up call.

I've been an RN for 33 years and I have experience in several areas.  One of the nicest things about being an RN is the flexibility of working different positions in a variety of venues.  I have spent 24 years working in hospital facilities and the rest in a variety of areas that gave me the opportunity to try life outside of a hospital setting.  I was able to learn many different jobs in a reasonable amount of time.  Now, for the first time in my life, I was afraid I was not going to be successful and it really set me back on my heels.  Yikes.

My latest job is in an area which I had zero experience.  The generous people who hired me knew I didn't have any experience in this area but decided to take a chance and hired me.  God bless them for their generosity.  After general orientation, I started the nuts and bolts of putting together the information to become competent in my new job.  As I stated, I thought I had the job I would retire from when I got laid off.  I had not had a new job in over eight years so the process of being a "New Bee", was a distant memory.  It never occurred to me I might have bitten off more than I could chew.  About two weeks into the process, I started to realize it might be impossible to teach this old dog some new tricks.  Ouch.  Then the panic started to roil in the back of my mind; "What if I can't do this?"

On top of learning a new clinical area was the daunting experience of learning EMR.  Electronic Medical Records, which is charting patient information in a computer program rather than on paper. So what's the big deal?  Well, even being fairly computer savvy, this was a very big deal.  Apparently my brain doesn't think the same way that the people who developed the program do.  What seems perfectly logical to me wasn't part of the program and things that totally baffled me were standard operating procedure for EMR.  Really?  So not only am I learning a new clinical area, I'm learning a new language as well.  I don't know what the statistics are about learning a new language after a certain age, but I'll bet the learning curve is completely different at 61 than it is at 21.  The panic continued to simmer.

May I say that the people who were saddled with training me have have been extraordinarily generous and supportive?  They have been uniformly gracious and have been, patient and kind.  Each had a different style in how they shared their expertise with me, but I have learned something from each one that contributed to my knowledge base. All that being said, I was struggling mightily.   My self confidence was flagging because, quite honestly, I was used to being really good at my job.  Being at best, not dangerous, was and is not acceptable to me.  My ego beside, the patients deserve the best and I was not yet able to provide that.  They got what they needed and were safe, but deserved so much more. 

So, I plod on.  My mentors continue to answer my questions with patience and grace and slowly, I am getting better at the job.  Not shooting for the starring role, just wanting to be a good enough.  This is all a new mind set for me.  I have to say, that although I am now OK in my new job, I still aspire to be much better.  Very much humbled by this experience, it gives me renewed appreciation for the learning process.  Although it has taken me much longer than I expected, the process has not been without it's upside: new and wonderful colleagues, and a new area to grow into.  Life is good.

Choices

Life always involves choices.  We make good ones, bad ones and some choices are made for us.  We've all made good and bad choices because that's what human beings do.  Let's talk about the choices that are made for us.  

It seems in the cyber world, it is presumed we are unable to make a decision without input from another entity.  Our social networks want to find our friends, events and music for us and no amount of checking off boxes will get them to stop.  I have been assertive in trying to find ways to get the suggestions to stop to no avail so far.  Even my Operating System wants to help me.  At least it gives me the choice of which search engine to use, each more annoying than the last.  I have on occasion accidentally down loaded even more help when updating software because I sped by the page with the small checked box on it.  I once ended up with a different Operating System and it took 15 minutes to navigate through the different options before I could find and check the option I DON'T WANT THIS STINKING OPERATING SYSTEM!

Even music is pushed upon me via my once beloved iTunes.  I don't care what music my friends are listening to and I don't particularly want to share my selections with them.  I don't want my music chosen for me either.  I have very eclectic musical tastes and no pre loaded software could ever satisfy my moods when it comes to music.  By now I'm sure you can guess what types of expletives fly out of my mouth when I get the message "based on your previous choices we recommend...."  When did consumers send the message that we no longer could choose for ourselves?  I don't remember getting the memo and no one ever asked me if my brain had suddenly gone to mush and could they please help me.  

Now I can hear some of you state the obvious:  it's all about selling things. Believe me, I know that.  What the people deciding what I'll like don't seem to grasp is that I am a contrarian. I will not be pushed into making the choice someone else has in mind because it just pushes my red hot angry button.  I guess one could say I am stubborn, but I don't think that really covers it.  You see, I didn't have a rebellious stage as a teenager but to make up for it, I've been clandestinely rebellious ever sense.  I don't wear a sign and for the most part I don't advertise the fact that the more you push me in a direction, the more I will push back.  If you present me with options and leave me alone I am fine.  Tell me I must take A or B and I'll take C, it's just the way I am wired.  

So to the cyber world I say:  Leave the choices to me please.  Stop trying to guide me to your choice and I may find my way to your choice eventually, or not.  It is in human nature to want to do things for ourselves and we really don't need or want your help.  Don't make me go back to buying everything in a brick and mortar store.  If you build it they will come?  Yes, just give them the chance please.

Words

I posted a new vocabulary word on Face Book the other day: scuppered.  I read it in an article and was in awe. A new word to use!  Difficult to put into a sentence let alone a conversation, but oh the glory of it all if you are successful!  Oh and by the way, scuppered is defined as sinking a ship deliberately.  So I'm now on a mission to use the word scuppered.

This is not the first time I have become swept up in the romance of a new word.  I actually shivered when I first heard the word, surreptitious.  I could not wait to use it.  Of course when I finally did use it, it was anticlimactic.  I got a "huh?' and life went on.  The lesson learned there was know your audience.  The only worse situation is using a great word incorrectly and in front of someone who actually knows what it means.  Embarrassed doesn't even cover that situation.

I must explain that although I love words, talking and writing, I have little education behind the love.  I was into the sciences and liberal arts was not a focus for me, so I got by only taking the minimum requirement for English both in high school and college. I wasn't interested in being well balanced, I wanted to get out of school and work. Do I rue the day I made the blunder of not pursuing more balanced education?  Oh yes I do.  There is irony I suppose because the fact is I have always been a voracious reader.  I was reading the same books as my mother by the time I hit third grade.  Not a genius, I just read whatever was in the house.  The good news is I didn't understand a lot of what I read since they were most often....novels of a certain genre.  You know: cheesy romance or mystery stories.  Looking back, I am horrified at some of the books, but in the end, I didn't become a sociopath and I still love reading.  Taste, well that's another can of worms all together.  I still read anything: soup cans, cereal boxes and sleazy romance novels as well as Pulitzer prize winning tomes. 

You should know that spelling is an issue for me.  My spelling is abysmal.  If it weren't for spell check I'd be in deep trouble.  I think it is a genetic issue somehow.  I spell poorly, my son's father spelled worse than I did and our son struggled with it as well.  My son and I have fabulous vocabularies, but again if it weren't for spell check, well, it wouldn't be pretty.  To his credit, my son doesn't shy away from using great words, and he has figured out a way to present his thoughts beautifully and spells without embarrassment.

I encourage you to break the mold when it comes to words.  We use our favorite 500 words out of being comfortable rather than wanting to convey a thought or a feeling accurately.  There are a lot of words out there because there are a lot of things to describe in our lives.  Should you use fire or conflagration for example?  Fire means flame.  Conflagration means large destructive fire.  Which word really describes what you were trying to say? As I have said before: words are powerful.  Words should communicate, inspire, motivate, entertain, and at times make you reach for the dictionary, but they should never be complacent.  Words educate, titillate, stimulate, and help you contemplate.  Use them well, use them wisely, use them precisely and with joy.  Words are the tools that help you share your world.  

By the way, I was out sailing the other day and some damned fool scuppered his ship for the insurance money. OK, that was a rather abrupt use of scuppered.  I will figure out a way to use that word in a conversation and a hush will come over the audience...or there will be a "huh?" and life will go on.  Until then: Life is good.

The only prime number I like is beef

If I die in my sleep tonight, I will die knowing that there is a prime number that is 17 million digits long.  You know what a prime number is of course: it can only be divided by itself and one.  Yes, I will surely rest in peace with that piece of information residing in my brain.  This number is 22 megabytes in size in case you were wondering.  Yes sirree, I am at peace.  What is the every day use for a prime number that is 17 million digits long you might ask?  Nothing, Nada, Zip.  Why in the world do people spend time figuring these things out?

It seems that the math world, a world I only visit if there is no other choice, is obsessed with prime numbers.  They even have contests to see who can find the largest prime number.  I didn't even know it was missing.  If they find and then prove their findings, they sometimes get money and sometimes get written up in some math journal and will forever be a footnote in some one's doctoral thesis.  At least they will be until the next number is ascertained.  It is my premise that none of this makes a bit of difference.  Why?  Theoretically, these numbers already exist right?  If there is no practical application for large prime numbers, WHO CARES?  To me it's like counting sand particles in the desert.  They are there and their number, while it might be interesting to someone, is irrelevant.

I suppose this is the geek equivalent of mountain climbing: I find numbers because they are there.  Wouldn't it be a better use of time and resources if there were a practical application that would improve quality of life?  A 17 billion digit number does not help me balance my check book (a calculator doesn't either for some reason).  It does not find a cure for cancer, or any genetic disorder or protect us from meteors plummeting towards earth.  Let's look at what prime numbers can do.

Prime numbers are beneficial in cryptography.  You know, the codes for communication when you don't want the enemies to read it.  Cryptography helped win WW II when pure military might and strategy alone could not.  That was beneficial.  The only practical use for prime numbers is in the computer world although the brainiest mathematicians insist that it may change some day.  There are also those who believe insects use prime numbers somehow.  Like the cicadas who come out at irregular intervals say 13 and 17 years.  This confuses their natural enemies and more of the cicadas survive. While that information is fascinating, it's only useful every 13 or 17 years and only if you live where there are cicadas.  Well, when I want to enter a prime number contest or become a cicada, I'll start working on prime numbers.  Until then, I'm sticking to Prime Rib.  Dinner anyone?

Timing is everything

Recently the 25th billion iTunes song was downloaded.  The lucky person who downloaded it received a $13,000.00 gift card.  Although it boggles the mind that 25 billion songs have been downloaded, what are the chances that you would be the one to do it?  I'm not a statistician but I think it's along the lines as the lotto.  What made the person download a song at just the right time?  Chance or dumb luck? Timing can be good or bad.  If you got new tires BEFORE the first rain, that's good timing and probably paying attention to the weather forecast.  Getting a flat tire in the rain because you were driving the car your friend loaned you is bad timing but with the best of intentions. Leaving a slot machine after playing it for 2 hours only to have the next person hit a huge jack pot is bad timing and an excuse to commit murder or at least aggravated slapping.  Why do these things happen?

I have a friend who seemed to win some contest on the radio weekly.  She had some golden touch and her timing was great.  Tickets to movies, events, T Shirts she's won them all without breaking a sweat.   I have personally won two contests.  I won a Beatles 45 record (don't make me tell you what a 45 is) in 1963 by answering a question of some sort.  The next time I won anything was 2012.  I answered the second most correct answers about our cafeteria staff and such and got $10.00 of credit to spend.  I was thrilled I assure you but if you look at the length of time between wins, it's a little sad.  49 years between wins may be a record.  Oh by the way, I enter a zillion contests a year plus play the lotto.  I fill out surveys in the grocery store in hopes of a gift certificate.  I fill out surveys when I buy things on line, eat in a restaurant all in hopes of getting a little something fun out of it.  I've tried winning the Dream Home and the Green Home on HGTV every year they have had the contest.  If there is a form to be filled out and dropped in a barrel somewhere, I do it.

So why am I going on about luck and timing?  Well, I've been buying songs on iTunes for years.  I buy them pretty regularly but recently, I've been a little mad at Apple.  I decided they didn't share and play well with others as evidenced by the way it's difficult to use their products on a non Apple device.  It can be done, but it isn't necessarily easy (remember this is my opinion).  So to punish Apple, I decided to start downloading my songs from Amazon.  An added advantage is the prices can sometimes be much better and they don't care what device you put the music on.  Amazon gets a lot of business from me and they have wonderful service so I like doing business with them.  Why am I bringing this up in relationship to luck and timing?  Well, I bought some music from Amazon the other day.  After I read the article I wondered if I had purchased the music from Apple would I have had the 25th billion download?  It would be so me if that was the case.  But lucky or unlucky, good timing or bad timing, any day you wake up you have another chance to win something.  Life is good.

There is no sense in trying to make sense of the absurdities of ife

So it's been a rough couple of days. Job applications are being rejected and the things that make the news these days aren't improving things. A few observations: Today there was a survey and the question was, " Who is the better parent, Honey Boo Boo's mother or Kim, Khloe and Kourtney's mom?  Did I miss the memo?   Was it National Stupid Question Day and no one told me?  To be fair, this was not placed in the hard news section but is this something anyone really thinks about?  And if they do, what else do they do to occupy their time?  If you are comparing Reality TV Moms, it is clearly a very slow news day.  There was even an article or two talking about what really made Mary Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie blind.  The poor girl has been dead for a very long time, what difference could it possibly make now.  Apparently someone pointed out that Scarlett Fever doesn't cause blindness like the author hypothesized.  Again, these people need to find something else to worry about.

Speaking of more random thoughts.....

The Super Bowl always amuses me.  The food statistics for this event are appalling.  I made a brief foray into the grocery store to pick up a few things on my way to an Un-Super Bowl party.  I swear you could smell the testosterone from the moment the automatic doors opened.  Men in football jersey's (from all teams not just the one's participating), were zooming around the store grabbing bags of chips and 12 packs of beer like they were being given away.  I thought maybe I'd walked in on one of those game shows where you have five minutes to load up your shopping cart and whoever has the most when the whistle blows gets to keep the spoils.  I was afraid someone was going to get hurt.   I'm not a sport fan in any way, but I do like to watch the highlights on the eleven o'clock news.  This way I can have a conversation with someone and not have to say, "Super Bowl...that's football right?"  People get that look on their face.  The one that says, "Poor dear, she doesn't get out much does she?" 

And further rambling...

When you start drinking wine at 1 PM with friends for a "special lunch", you can be sure you will not be getting anything done that day.  Particularly when the lunch and drinking last six hours.  I'm not exaggerating here.  Six hours of delightful food and conversation.  At least they tell me it was delightful.  I'm having a little difficulty reconstructing the day.  I wonder why?  I guess I wouldn't qualify for the Olympic drinking team.  Just going to have to buckle down and drink up.  Or is it buckle up and knock them back.  I'll figure it out not to worry.

One last random thought.  Well maybe more than one.  I generally have a short attention span, and it seems stress shortens it even more.  If I could count the number of times I have forgotten what I was doing I guess I wouldn't have forgotten what I was doing would I?  

The way I explain a short attention span or ADD for that matter is this: it’s like the little boy in the Family Circle comics.  The little boy is going to go next door but in the process he has to explore the entire neighborhood first.  He eventually finds his way back to the house next door but has used the most circuitous route imaginable.  That is how my brain is working these days.  I’m not getting much accomplished but I sure am walking around a lot!

I love the smell of Salonpas in the morning

So, in having to accept that I'm not 21 anymore, I have to treat my body with a little more respect.  Apparently bending over is way out of my comfort zone these days.  Literally.  It seems that bending over, twisting, and sleeping on my side, causes my rickety old back to talk to me: "DON'T DO IT" is the usual message.  Well, this doesn't work for me obviously.

Let me be clear, I still do everything I want to do, I just make a bit more noise doing it.  There are the moans and groans of course.  Snap, crackle, pop too.  Then of course that old standby, swearing.  Not that any of these things actually makes me feel better: more of a reflex I suppose.  But I have learned there are a few things I can do to beat back the aches and pains.

I have to stretch as I am getting up which is where the snap, crackle and pop are observed.  You yoga people are saying, so?  Well, I'm not a yoga person and I tend to fly out of bed when the mood, or the bladder strikes me.  When the thought to get up enters my mind, I get up.  Since it has become very clear to me that I can no longer hop, skip and jump first thing in the morning, I now stretch.  Let me define stretching: I slowly move my legs while bending, and or rotating the joints.  Then I sit up.  While sitting up on the side of the bed I do a neck roll which produces an amazing amount of popping.  Then I stand up and reach for the sky, roll my shoulders and do some gently twisting which inevitably makes my right shoulder and back pop.  The sound is similar to the last couple of pops you hear when you are microwaving popcorn...you just wait for them to slow down and you know you are done.

Now throughout the day I do throw in a few stretches as well.  When I pull weeds my back is happy until I try to straighten up.  Then it says, "Whoa little filly!  Slow down."  Why my back is a horse I don't know, but I'm just reporting what happens.  So, I get up slowly and then stretch this way and that until my back stops talking.  Now my back isn't always unhappy. It prefers that I keep in motion however.  It feels best when I am walking.  I'm glad for that, but it feels odd just walking around without a particular goal in mind.  Of course when I'm walking around I see things that I want to do, bend over, and well, you know the rest.

After a full day of creaking, popping and swearing, I take a nice hot shower that is heaven.  I am lucky enough to have a tank less water heater so I do not run out of water.  I actually have to set a timer or I would not get out.  Ever.  Not good for the water allotment, energy bill or my wrinkled skin but oh does it feels good.  After drying off it's time for fuzzy PJ's and slippers, but I must first do a few other things.  It's time for the application of the over the counter lotions and potions.  Sometimes I just go with the odor free varieties: the anti inflammatory cream versus the blue stuff with Emu oil and the like.  Sometimes I go with the heating patches which are fragrance free.  But sometimes these measures just don't do enough. Then it is time for the grandma stuff.  You know what I'm talking about: the treatments that make you smell like your grandma. 

I used to think Bengay was my grandmother's perfume.  Now of course I know differently.  I had no idea until the last couple of years that Bengay wasn't the only choice.  A dear friend introduced me to Salonpas.  It comes in patches of various sizes and now it also comes in foam and spray!  And it all smells like menthol.  Just like grandma's Ben Gay and any other number of lotions and potions.  I don't fully understand the mechanism that makes it fairly efficacious but it saves me from taking pills so I'm good with that. The smell, not so much.  So, I've learned to stop and smell the Salonpas, which makes it possible for me to stop and smell the roses.  Life is good.

I've become a lunch lady

No I have not taken a job in a school cafeteria, although that's starting to sound good.  No, everyday I get up and cruise the websites for a minimum of two hours on the hunt for a job.  Lately what I've been doing after that is going to lunch.  It's a tough job but I'm willing to take one for the team.

The lunches usually start around 11:30 and go to at least 2:00.  We aren't really eating the whole time I assure you, mostly it's talking.  And talking.  And just to change it up a little: talking.  I have been having lunch with friends that I have worked with.  Some friends from the distant past and some from the last job.  I have found that keeping in touch has become very important to me.  I've always liked and gotten along well with my co-workers, but recently they have become a life line of sorts.

When you have recently become one of the disenfranchised, it's good to feel like you are not the only one having a challenge in finding a new job.  Checking in with someone about resumes, on line applications and new ways to keep you busy is usually what the conversation is about.  Lots of listening, and nodding and then taking your turn for your pal to do the same for you is the routine.  You get tired of complaining about the situation to your loved ones, and trust me they get tired of hearing it (although I hear some families do a good job of hiding it).  Having someone to commiserate with is good for everyone: the persons in the situation and their loved ones all  get the benefit.  Loved ones are saved from hearing the same thing over and over, and the disenfranchised has someone to bounce ideas and feelings off of.

There are words of encouragement provided by someone who understands the situation that cannot be construed as obligatory or "required".  Comparing experiences becomes a seminar on how to do things more successfully.  Exchanging "Hints from Heloise" for a particular website can be huge.  All these things are given freely because we truly care about each other and want to help.  Then there is the laughing.

It feels good to laugh at yourself about getting stuck in some electronic loop with someone who has done the same thing.  Laughing with someone about not having any clothes for an interview because you have been wearing scrubs forever feels good.  Sharing that even if you did have the clothes they probably wouldn't fit due to stress eating.  Sharing that you are now coloring your own hair and that next time you are sure you will get the color right.

Eventually, I am sure we will all have jobs, even if they are not our dream jobs.  We will have gotten them from due diligence, dotting the I's and crossing the T's.  It is my hope however that we will continue to meet for lunch even then.  The lesson is your friends are always there, but we just don't always make the time to see them.   Life is short so remember to have lunch in the good times as well as the bad. 

Self Portrait

So in trying to navigate the websites looking for jobs, I now discover some of them want a picture of you.  Why I don't know, since these are the same people who won't give me an interview.  A new picture to throw darts at perhaps?  In any event, I didn't have a recent picture of me that didn't involve holding some sort of alcoholic libation so I figured I'd have to start from scratch.  Apparently drinking is not considered a skill to most employers.

As I have expressed, my face has been captured by gravity and the like.  I have avoided having my picture taken for the last 10 years...unless of course someone has given me a cocktail.  Being unemployed and not confident of becoming a Cover Girl, I decided to take it myself.  Save some money, get the picture, no big deal right?  Not so fast says my rickety old body!  First of all, I have a $99.00 digital camera because I'm worth it.  Secondly, I use it once in a blue moon.  Not too many bells and whistles so I think I have a fighting chance of success.  Somehow uncomplicated does not translate into easy.  I change out the batteries and start clicking away. The first round of pictures consisted of shots of me as I backed away from the camera with various looks of disgust on my face since I couldn't remember how to set the self timer.  I also think if you were good at reading lips you might have seen some new combinations of swear words.  All of those pictures deleted, I give it another try.

This time I figure out the self timer.  The self timer however doesn't fix the lighting, hair or makeup.  Several shots later I've decided just to put a bag over my head and say, "not to worry, I'm sure I'll heal soon".  Since I was relatively sure that wasn't something an employer would appreciate, I continued taking pictures.  After several pictures in color in a blouse where my crepe like neck was exposed in full light, I was ready to sign up for the Life Style Lift.  Then I remembered I was unemployed and couldn't afford one, so I tried again.  This time I use less light, more blouse and a different room for good luck.  I then decided color wasn't my friend and I switched to black and white.  Who knew how deep bags under your eyes could look with improper lighting and using the black and white feature?

Getting pretty pissy at this stage, I get down to business.  I put on a black turtle neck (the first person to say that's redundant gets punched), ramp up the makeup and change rooms again.  This time I have lighting behind me with soft ambient light in front of me and I don't use the flash.  I also found the sepia option.  For those of you who do not remember sepia, it's shades of brown.  I figure this is a good option since age spots are brown right?  Miracle of miracles, I finally get a shot that doesn't make me want to gargle with Drano.  I crop and manipulate the picture with every available option on my camera.  I cannot afford Photo Shop so the camera is my only aid.  Hallelujah!  It only took four hours to get one picture I could post for the people who are not going to interview me for a job.  The good news is it's the picture on this blog too.  Life is good.

The rain from Spain is here

I love the rain.  I love the smell of it and how it turns everything green. I love that I can turn off my sprinkler system.  I love that I get to wear more layers which can hide a multitude of sins. I love that the rain washes my car and it is free!  I love how well I sleep when it rains. I love the rain as an excuse to have a fire in the fireplace which helps channel my propensity for pyromania into heat and not jail. This is how I feel the on first day of rain.

How would I feel if it rained for more than a day or two? Try this scenario:

Day 2:  Oh yes.  I forgot I have wavy hair but the rain has reminded me.  I'm sure there is a hair product in the bottom of my vanity that will take care of it.  If I can just get down low enough to take a look. Found the anti-frizz and my flat iron!  I can bundle up and have another fire tonight!

Day 3: Using an umbrella is harder than it looks.  How in the world to you get it down and in the car without getting yourself wet in the process?  Every time I think I have the maneuver just about mastered,  there is some sort of a catastrophe. Today my purse emptied itself on the wet, wet ground and I had to handle an umbrella, the purse, and crawling around on my hands and knees.  I definitely heard someone laugh as they were passing by.  Note to self: repair rip in seat of pants.  At least I can have a fire in the fireplace tonight.

Day 4:  All of my shoes are damp.  When you live in an area where rain is the exception and not the rule, you do not own water resistant shoes.  Three pairs of wet sport shoes, two pairs of wet espadrilles, and one pair of wet clogs which are apparently made of wool.  We're not even going to talk about how slippery flip-flops are in the rain.  I may have a fire tonight; I may not.  It seems there is a little water in my garage where the wood is stored.

Day 5: I am so done.  Everything smells damp.  Everything feels damp.  Everything IS damp  My hair is frizzy, all of my turtle necks have been worn and I am out of clean socks.  I'd do the wash but a river is now running through my garage where my washer and drier are located.  At least they used to be located there.  Maybe I should look.  No fire tonight because the wood that remains is wet. Grrr.

Day 6:  All of the patio furniture has floated into the neighbor's yard.  My tree is starting to list to port; or starboard.  I never remember which is which, but I know a listing tree is not good.  Oh yikes!  The neighbor's patio furniture has joined mine and is now floating down the street.  I'm calling the Coast Guard.....

No, I don't like that scenario.  Perhaps I should be tone my ode to rain down a little and restate how I feel about rain: I like a little rain to keep the grass green please.  No need to overdo it Mother Nature!

Walking on the edge of technology

So, as I have been documenting, lots of changes have happened since the big layoff.  Too much free time, too few deposits in the bank, and lots of time on the internet searching for jobs.  I am going along with the flow pretty much, but I have noticed it's the little things that make a difference.

I'm really starting to like text messaging or "texting" for short.  Now my son would tell you I've always liked it, but quite honestly, that's about the only way a get to "talk" with him.  It's much easier for him answer a quick text than to answer the phone and have to say HELLO MOM with his co-workers and friends within earshot.  I get that and I try not to over use the text privilege with him.  Now days however, it's keeping me in touch with my former associates.

I suspect I am not the only one who is at a loss of what to do, think, plan, on a day to day basis.  That doesn't surprise me.  What surprises me is how much I miss the people I worked with.  Most of us worked twelve hour shifts, three days a week and you might go weeks without seeing one of your cohorts.  But you always knew you would see them again.  Each one of my associates had a special something that I looked forward to when I worked with them.  Some of them are just so young and excited about life, it was energizing just to be around them.  Some are about my age so we had a common history of music, life experiences and disappointments to bond us.  Some of my associates are just so different from me I was always learning something new about their life, where they came from and even a few words of a different language.  The inside jokes, the eye rolls and talking under your breath are all sorely missed.  Now what does that have to do with texting?

Texting has become a way to touch base with someone and feel like you are not alone.  It is acceptable for pauses in the "conversation" and bad spelling and the occasional oops are forgiven.  It's a very casual way to let someone know you are thinking about them without overwhelming them with nine zillion questions.  God knows the more you text the more likely you are going to show up on Damn You Auto Correct so you try to keep it brief.  You can quickly see if someone is busy and set up a last minute meeting.  You can say "thinking about you", without getting all smarmy.

I still think texting can be inappropriate: texting someone sitting next to you is just lazy or rude to the other people in the room.  Texting when your child is trying to get you to look at their latest art project is ill timed and you may miss a wonderful moment that you can't get back. Texting while you are walking means you have a pretty good chance of becoming a hood ornament.  Texting while driving is just stupid.  But texting to keep in touch is growing on me.  Life is good but I don't want to see one of my texts on Damn You Auto Correct.  Really!

My junk mail is trying to tell me something

You know you are reaching a certain age when all your junk mail is geared towards your demise.  In the last month I have had 6 offers for life insurance.  AARP won't leave me alone and apparently won't stop until I have signed up.  Then there are the funeral packages.  Holy Cow!  Who knew there could possibly be THAT many funeral plans?

Now, I'm not trying to be fussy here, but how do they know how old I am?  Is there a data base that sales people have access to?  I have visions someone, somewhere is sitting at a computer and pushing a button for each name that pops up on the screen:  Joe Blow 1948 send the Senior Stuff (funeral, AARP, life insurance from Colonial Penn).  Sally Smith 1960, send the Younger Senior Stuff (AARP, long term health care insurance information, hormone replacement information).  Bob Burns 1970, send Middle Age Stuff (life insurance, disability insurance, hair replacement and gym membership information).  Tiffany Temperance 1980, send Adult Stuff (loan consolidation, online dating, gym membership, and on line college information for MBA).  Can't you just see this?

It would be foolish in this day and age of cyberspace to think there isn't a cornucopia of complied information about you floating around just waiting to be accessed by a sales person.  I personally think they are going about this all wrong.  I think they should mix it up a little.  Send some young adult information to a senior woman and make her day!  Hell, she'd probably buy whatever you want just because you confused her with a younger woman.  Send the senior man the information for the gym membership.  You could help him get inspired to get in better shape.

As a society, we categorize people based on age.  It's just how we are.  Once you are over 35, you are on that slope to funeral plans.  Heaven forbid someone 50 would want to go to college or learn a new language.  At 70, why wouldn't you want to do online dating (think how much driving after dark could be eliminated)?  A smart 20 year old might want information about IRA's.   I say forget about the stereo types, break the mold and damn the torpedo's!  Send everybody, everything and let them decide what age appropriate means for them.

A person's age is more than a number.  Some people are born are born old: they don't like change and never want to venture out of their comfort zone.  Some people are forever young:  they can't wait to wake up everyday and learn something new.  Most people are somewhere in the middle:  we have times when there aren't enough hours in the day to get all our adventures completed.  We also have days when it seems like an adventure to eat something new.  We are individuals and we want to be viewed that way.

Please stop sending me prepaid funeral plan information and send me Pilates information instead.  Who knows?  It may delay the need for the funeral package. I'm getting down from my soap box now, because I know, life is good.

A Sunday with my BFF's

I was honored by my BFF's this past Sunday.  They took me to the farmer's market.  As far as I can tell, this is a tradition that goes back years and it's usually only the two of them.  Because they are wonderful, caring folks, they asked me to come along.  You see, they are worried I'm not getting out much since the layoff situation raised its ugly head.

They are right of course.  I don't get out much.  I spend hours on the computer looking for the next great job.  What I find however is not the next great job, but the next job I am not qualified to apply for.  It's almost like if I'm afraid if I leave the computer for a bit, the perfect job will pop up and disappear before I get back to sit down.  This is not going to happen of course, but you never know right?  So back to my BFF's....

I get myself over to their home ten minutes late because my back is talking to me.  "Back talking" again and it's giving me the raspberry.  I apparently carry my stress in my back.  Kind of like that ugly purse you carry because you don't want to clean the thing out.  In any event, they do not complain that I am late:  they are visiting with the lovely woman who cleans their house.  They do not speak to her like she is performing a service for them.  They speak to her like she is a friend.  They ask about different family members and have clearly been keeping up with what is happening in her life.  No mention of tasks to be done as she has already started cleaning while they are visiting. We leave the house in her capable hands and we are off to the farmer's market.

I get my lame self in the car and there is an offer to fasten my seat belt for me since the lateral movement pinches a bit.  Thanks guys, you are the best, but I'm OK for the time being.  We finally get to the farmer's market, find parking and we are off to find treasures.  What a surprise!  They seem to know every vendor there.  And again, they ask after others and know enough about them to be specific with their questions.  One of my BFF's buys things because, "Although I can buy this somewhere else, I like these people and I want to support their business."  It is important to him that this person continues to do business because this is how he is.  He cares about everyone.

My other BFF is a collector.  He knows his stuff and can't wait to get the next treasure with a great story behind it.  Although this BFF is quite the raconteur, he also likes to hear the stories about the things he pick out for one of his many collections.  He hears what the exotic item is made from, where is was made, sometimes how it was made and how old it is by the time the purchase is completed.  He does not forget the details and now has a new story to impart.  It's a win-win situation.

The day is not finished.  Not far away is a thrift store to scour for used treasures.  It's a very eclectic place filled with a combination of used clothes, furniture, household items, books and then oddly some new furniture as well.  They of course find a couple of things to buy and I have had fun making fun of them looking at everything.  I still have a hitch in my giddy-up but some how the distraction works as well as medicine.

Now we are off the Hispanic market to find things I have never seen before: fried pork rinds that are clearly the size of, well, half a pig.  I eat these things, but having it actually look like what it is gives me pause.  The BFF's are everywhere looking at everything and one finds some things to buy of course.  You can't have enough of Herdez Salsa Verde can you?

We finish up the adventure by going to a hamburger place I've never heard of, but they of course know all about it, where the chain started and the like.  Good food, good company.  By the time we get back to their house, my back has let me know it's time to go home and lay down a bit.  Hugs all around and I'm off.

I got to nap about two hours and something wonderful happened when I got up.  I felt great: the old back was a little sore, but that is it.  Although I had taken a substantial dose of ibuprofen, I don't think that's what has done the trick.  No, I think Reader's Digest wasn't quite correct: laughter is good medicine, but friendship is better.  Life is good.

Forget the money, follow the shoes

If I lived in the world's largest house and you couldn't find me, all you'd have to do is follow the shoes.  As I scanned my house today, and it is really quite modest in size, I counted 11 and 1/2  pairs of shoes scattered hither and yon.  Now hither and yon must be elves of some sort distributing my shoes all over the house since I have no memory of how they got there.  They are piled in various rooms: some by the back door, some by my bed, some by my favorite chair in the living room and some in my office under my computer desk.

The scattered shoes are casual since that's all I'm wearing these days.  There are sport shoes, flip flops, Mary Jane's, flat cushy comfy shoes and one pair of boots.  They are all colors and they have all been slipped off in a hurry since even the laces remain tied. There are no clothes next to the shoes, although an occasional sock is observed.  Some of them are neatly paired to each other, but most look like they were kicked off on the run.

Now the shoes scattered about the house only represent about a fifth of the shoes I own.  My pretty shoes with various heel height, colors and bling are grouped up in my closet on assorted shelves, in boxes and in the case of boots, stacked on the closet floor propped so they can stand up.  I don't want to give you the impression I run out and buy shoes frequently because I don't.  I probably only buy shoes a couple times a year and those are usually for work.  I just hate to throw shoes away.  I have some shoes from so long ago I'd be embarrassed to say how long ago.  I can tell you some have gone out of style and come back in without ever having to leave the closet.

I suppose it doesn't make much sense to some of you, but shoes can tell the story of your life.  There are the work shoes which get replaced frequently because you wear them long and hard and they just don't last.  Then there are the shoes you only wear when you get dressed up and go out.  Fancy shoes have a pecking order of wear:  the really high heels only get worn when you want your legs to look long.  The middle height heels can be worn for lots of occasions but mostly going out to lunch or to a work event.  The shoes with the most bling are worn to impress other women.  You have to be a woman to understand that.  Most of the men I have known really don't care what the shoes look like as long as they don't delay your departure for dinner. Then there are the flip flops.  Flip flops are the state shoes of California, or at least they should be.  They come fancy, plain, high, low but they are always comfortable.  They are hated by Stacy on What Not to Wear, but the dear woman doesn't live in California so she is forgiven.

The good news is, these scattered shoes are not a safety issue.  The shoes manage to keep close to a wall, door, bed, chair rather than in the middle of the room.  They sit patiently waiting to either be put back on or picked up in a mad hurry because company is coming.  They never say anything although one occasionally sticks out a tongue. Oh, that reminds me: 11 and 1/2 pairs?  Where is that other shoe?

I'm Becoming A New Species

I believe it was Bette Davis who said, "Getting old is not for sissies!"  Boy howdy was she correct.  I have accepted the fact that I am getting older.  Gray hair has been being dyed for twenty years now.  It now takes an act of congress to lose weight (which explains why I am not any lighter).  I have even accepted moderate hearing loss in my right ear.  I draw the line at becoming another species.

It's not bad enough that I seem to becoming another species, I'm not even sure which one it is.  When I look at my neck, I am certain I am becoming a turkey.  The waddle gets more pronounced with every year.  Since I haven't uttered one 'gobble' and I don't run at the sight of a hunter, I guess I'm not a turkey yet.

When I look at the skin on my face, I think I am becoming a Shar pei.  According to Wikipedia Shar pei is: a breed of dog known for its distinctive features of deep wrinkles and a blue-black tongue. The breed comes from China. The name translates to "sand skin" and refers to the texture of its short, rough coat.   Well if it's in Wikipedia it must be true.  My coat is becoming a bit rougher but I think a better after shower moisturizer may solve that problem.  The closest to a blue-black tongue is a deep purple tongue after a nice Cabernet so I'm good there.  I must not be on the road to Shar pei.

Now for my favorite: goat. As I get older I have noticed I get one black hair on the right side of my chin.  I look for it every day, and when I don't find it I celebrate.  Then one day it magically appears (which must be black magic right?) and that sucker is on its way to being 3/4's of an inch long!  "WHERE THE HELL WAS THAT YESTERDAY?",  I say to myself, and more importantly, "DID ANYONE SEE IT?"  No one had reported seeing it, but I do wear a rather substantial make up foundation.   It's either been camouflaged or people are being kind.  Not so bad I think, but I need to be sure. So I have recently taken to inspecting my face in different types of light and a higher magnification mirror. Ouch.  This was either a really good idea, or a really bad one.  I have made the discovery I not only get the one rogue black hair, I am getting white hairs.  The white hairs would be harder to see, but these suckers are coarse, plentiful and curly.  Do you know how long a hair must be to be curly?

This is all very depressing right?  Then I start to think: there is good news here.  I am not becoming another species I'm just getting older.  In her infinite wisdom, Mother Nature is trying to take care of the problem.  Mother Nature makes our eye sight change when we get older doesn't she?  If she couldn't change the hair, wrinkle and waddle thing, she could make sure we don't see them: we get the gift of presbyopia.  It doesn't seem like much of a gift when you can't read a menu in a nice, candle lit restaurant, or when you need a laser to see the small print on a medicine bottle.  It does seem like a wise gift when you discover what getting older looks like.  I am not a wealthy woman and there isn't much of a chance of plastic surgery at this stage.  I can hunt down the hairs and take care of them when I need to.  The good news is, all I have to do to look better is take off my glasses.  Life is good.

Driving Shouldn't Be A Contact Sport

 Sorry I've been away a couple of days...the job search is taking way too much time, but since I need a job to pay the bills, I will occasionally have to miss some blog time.  But I digress.....

                                                        *


I have had various observations made about my driving skill.  Perhaps skill is not the correct word.  I'll let you be the judge of what would best describe how I handle the open roads in my city.  I used to love to drive.  Back when I was a teen I couldn't wait to drive.  It represented freedom, a sign of maturity, and of course it was cool.  Now I consider it a necessity that isn't particularly fun and at times can be downright scary. 

Take a routine trip to work, back in the days I was working.  I allowed myself thirty minutes to get to work.  It usually took me fifteen to twenty minutes depending how quickly I was pushed along the road by the other drivers: you know what I mean.  If you try to go the speed limit you are suddenly subjected to all sorts of sign language and none of it nice.  Who knew how many birds accompanied drivers to work? At some point I was apparently assigned an F-150 to personally escort me each time I hit the freeway.  I swear it is so.  It is always white and either a hair's width ahead of me or behind me.  The F-150 must be afraid I might get away, so it makes sure to stay nice and close to me. Isn't that thoughtful?  I don't know what I would do if I could actually see where I was going or what was happening behind me.  That would take all the fun out of getting where I want to go.

On the rare occasions when I've managed to avoid the F-150, that doesn't mean it is smooth sailing.  The other drivers do the most interesting things: like race to get in front of you only to slow down 10 miles per hour.  Then there is the reverse: they are chugging along and I finally give up and attempt to go around and they speed up 10 miles per hour.  I'm not sure why.  As much as I hate to admit it....I have found myself doing this myself on a couple of occasions.  I know, I should know better, but, sometimes, it just happens

Every time I get in the car I tell myself to be chill and that there is no hurry.  This lasts until the person in front of me actually drives the way I had intended to.  When I see someone going, say, the speed limit or less, and there are no other cars in front of them, I ask myself WHY?  The road is wide open and this person is putting along.  I usually just go around and try really hard not to look at them in case I'm making a face.  Even slow drivers can have a gun.

The time I am most likely to drive a tad above the speed limit is on the way home from work.  By the time I have left work, I have put in somewhere around 13ish hours, have had one thirty minute break and I may or may not have had a bathroom break.  I'm not kidding.  I haven't consciously thought about these things until I start to get on the freeway.  Then it strikes me I am starving and my bladder is about to give way.  Needless to say, I put the pedal to the metal.  I've had more than one associate say they were getting on the freeway behind me and when it was their turn, I was just gone, not to be seen again.  But hey: a woman’s gotta do what a woman's gotta do.  And if I don't speed up I’d do it in the car.  That reminds me....gotta go!

25 Degrees is Cold in Southern California

I woke up to 25 degrees this morning. This wouldn't be a news item most places in January but I live in Southern California, next stop Baja, Mexico.  Then what in heaven's name is happening? I was on board with global warming, after it was announced that 2012 was the hottest year on record. Could 2013 be trying to set the record for coldest year?  I wish I'd gotten the memo so I could have been prepared.

When you live in So. Cal., winter is a place you visit.  You go to the mountains, enjoy the snow, aggravate the mountain folks and go home to warm up.  Simple really.  We don't typically even have coats.  We have little stylish jackets that don't necessarily do much against the cold.  Jeans are our main protection against the winter, add a hoodie and you are good to go. This outfit is actually seen all year because we don't really have big fluctuations in temperature. Well at least we don't usually have big fluctuations in temperatures.

To combat the cold, I have had to take extreme measures.  I have turned on the heat.  Not only have I turned it on I have left in on for a good portion of the day the past week.  I have taken to wearing whatever fuzzy clothing I have all day long.  I have gotten a couple of puzzled looks when going to the mail box, but it has been a matter of survival. Then there are the flannel sheets.

I have avoided putting the flannel sheets on the bed for a couple of reasons.  The first reason is I really love my 600 thread count sheets.  This is a level of luxury unknown to me until a couple of years ago.  Once you go above 300 thread count, you just can't go back.  The second reason is although flannel is warm, it is not elegant.  When it occurred to me that only I would know about the sheet change, I capitulated.  I am so glad I did.  Last night I was actually so warm, I thought about throwing one of my comforters off.  Yes, I have more than one.  I have my all weather comforter and my down comforter plus the flannel sheets.  If you are going for warm, go large or go home.  I don't run the heater at night, so I figured why not?

I'll tell you why not.  Flannel sheets plus fuzzy pajamas's creates a situation similar to Velcro.  I swear there were sparks when I rolled over caused by the friction.  Was this similar to striking a match?  I had visions of an obituary that read, "Fire officials speculate the conflagration was caused by the deadly combination of flannel sheets and fuzzy monkey pajamas. The family requests the public be reminded that this combination is a health hazard that should be avoided at all costs."  Fearful for my life, I slept in one position happy in the thought I would live to see another morning.  Life is good.

Winter, Spring, Summer or Fall

I have a home with a modest yard.  At least it seemed modest when I bought the place.  To be honest, my frame of reference was skewed.  My previous home was on a half and acre.  Anything smaller, didn't seem like such a big deal.  What the hell was I thinking?

When I was looking for a home there was a lot to consider.  I ruled out a condo because: 1) the neighbors were too close, 2) the HOA's had many many rules most of which were asinine, 3) HOA fees only go up 4) no land to grow tomatoes.  Well you can certainly see where my mind was.  It was all about tomatoes. I wanted a little land to call my own.

The topography of my previous home was a challenge.  Very little of the land was flat.  What was flat had poor soil.  Let me just say, I was dirt poor.  Literally.  There was clay and there was decomposed granite with a dusting of dirt. The first year, I got 4 carrots about 2 inches long, 3 flat watermelons and lettuce I was afraid to eat because of bugs and such.  The tomatoes didn't do much and I may have had a couple but it was underwhelming.  The next year I had a conversation with someone who was successful with growing vegetables in the neighborhood.  Once she stopped laughing, she gave me the facts:  Unless I had a back hoe and wanted to spend a huge amount in soil amendments and the soil itself, I'd do much better to grow things in containers.  Needless to say, that although I did get tomatoes, it wasn't the garden I'd imagined.  Fast forward 26 years.

The back yard was already terraced so I knew where to start.  Since I was in the same general area as the previous house, I knew I had to have a raised bed.  I bought what I needed from Home Depot and set out to get my garden started.  The raised bed took me a lot longer to set up than I had planned for.  Pounding stakes into ground that is comprised of rocks and clay wasn't easy and it actually took me a couple of weeks.  Then I had to tote bags of soil as there was very little access to the back yard.  Not being 21 anymore meant I had to have a little help to start.  Once I realized I could drag the bags of soil I did much better.  After a lot of blood, sweat and tears, the plants were in and all I had to do was wait right?  If you don't count hand watering, weeding, spraying and praying then, yes. 

I was in my glory!  I had tomatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I had them for snacks.  I gave them away.  I made gazpacho. I made mucho gazpacho.  I gave gazpacho away. I  grew Anaheim chili peppers and I gave them away.  I still have Anaheim chili peppers and may never have to plant them again.  I have parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.  Really.  Love that yard! Most of the time.

As is predictable, I love the yard when the weather is nice and I am seeing the fruits of my labor.  I hate the mundane raking of leaves, mowing the lawn and weed pulling.  Where's the fun?  I have raked leaves, filled an entire giant trash can only to come back outside an hour later to be greeted by just as many leaves as I just got rid of.  Seriously.  Rake, rake, rake.  Fall, fall, fall.  Sisyphus has nothing on me.

Was it worth it in the end?  Was insisting on having a house instead of a condo the right decision?  I think so.  The mundane duties of yard work help me appreciate how nice it is to go into the back yard and pick my own vegetables which taste so much better than store bought.  It's nice that the vegetable season is so long here in my yard. It's also nice vegetable season doesn't happen during leaf season.  You know, "to everything there is a season".  Life is good.

The Information Highway is Holding Me Hostage

Granted, I haven't had to look for a job for eight years, but Good Golly Miss Molly things have changed!  To my surprise everything is done on line.  EVERYTHING.  I must have my resume on four or five different websites.  It's such a dynamic resume I have had two whole hits from headhunters.  The headhunters didn't even want my head.  They wanted to know if I knew anyone who could fill their position for (job title here).  It's like being told you can't join the club, but do you know someone else you can recommend?  Really?  Needless to say those headhunters won't be bothering me again.

So, as I navigate the information highway I am learning many things.  Just because you have uploaded your resume doesn't mean they aren't going to ask you for the exact same information on their specific application.  I have been tempted to fill everything in with, "Read the damn resume!", but I suspect that might not give them the best first impression of me.  What's the point of asking for the same information twice?  Is it a test to see if you have read your own resume?

Each employer website has its own peculiarities.  Click here, click there, follow the instructions and then you magically end up where you started.  Not satisfied that I followed all of the instructions to the "T", I go through it again.  Same result.  Just to be sure, I do it a third time.  Yes.  Now is official: I'm an idiot.  It's like the old fashioned fun house and I keep taking the wrong turn.  My thought is that if they are counting how many times you try, you might get points for perseverance.  Or more likely, they are laughing their butts off and seeing just how many times I try.  Harrumph.

I have also learned that while I have had a gazillion years experience in a variety of nursing roles that everyone else became a specialist while I was a happy generalist.  There is a specialty certificate for everything now.  Things I did years ago without any specialized training now needs a CERTIFICATE to prove you know how to perform.  Then you find out that there isn't a class you can take to get the certificate, you just take the test after you have completed two million hours doing it.  Fine and dandy, but you can't get the job without the certificate.  Then it strikes me that this is how New Grads feel trying to get their first jobs.  Well now I can tell you it sucks.  Just put me in coach!

Do not think I have given up.  It just makes me more determined to prove that you can teach an old nurse new tricks.  I'm going to figure out a way to work with the information highway until I get to my destination. 

The Benefits of Good Friends

I am blessed with many things and friends are some of my greatest blessings.  It's not easy to be my friend.  I tend to be reclusive and am not likely to call someone up and say let's go out.  It's not that I don't like people, I just don't like all people equally, and I don't like anyone for everything.  That sounds harsh and confusing doesn't it?  Let me try to explain.

My friends are all specialists.  They all have their own particular area in which no one else compares.  I have friends from 40 years ago that know almost everything about me so I don't have to keep starting from the beginning of ME.  I can just start on a conversation and they know the context and off we go.  I have more recent friends who all have different roles in my life. 

I have a friend who loves to use big words, complicated words, unusual words.  This is fun since I love words.  I have used words that only she understood and it's fun to see her eyes light up with amusement.  It's even more fun to see the looks of bewilderment on the other faces in the room.  Mean?  No, just a common bond.

I have a friend who is simple.  I don't mean mentally challenged.  I mean there is absolutely no artifice.  She says what she thinks out loud without concern about how it will be perceived.  She'll say something in the middle of a movie in a normal voice which is obvious and the people around us laugh, but she just had to say it.  Kind of like a five year old, but I mean in the innocent, unpretentious way. 

I have friends who are work friends.  We are good friends at work but don't meet outside of work.  We don't have anything in common except we are damn good at what we do and enjoy working together.  The comfort of not worrying about what your cohorts are doing while you work is undeniably great. 

I have friends who are fashionistas.  They look at me with knowing eyes.  They know their eyes are not going to be pleased when they see me, but they hang out with me anyway.  I'm stuck in the 60's.  The decade, and my decade.  Why didn't they tell me electric blue eyeshadow was out but has recently come back in.  OK.  You have to be a supermodel to pull it off, but I could give it a try.  They just let me be my unfashionable self.

I have a friend who wants to feed me.  All the time, whatever the event.  If she gets pick-up-the-friend duty when a medical procedure is due, she thinks there must be chicken soup and a vigil to make sure I'm OK.   I of course just want to go to bed and sleep, but the offer is appreciated just the same, but please: no soup for me!

I have two friends who are pragmatic.  No matter what life throws their way, they move on with minimal complaint.  They have a way to put things into perspective and don't say why me, they say why not me?   They are never victims: they are human beings who accept that life is not necessarily easy.  They are my hero's.

Then there are my BFF's who are gay men.  They have taught me how to cook, drink fine wine and they show infinite patience with my neurotic self.  If I have a rough patch physically, they call to make sure I have everything I need, every day until I am well.  If I have a rough patch emotionally, they wine and dine me until I forget what I was upset about.  They are kind and respectful of my privacy and not above teasing the hell out of me when I take myself too seriously.  I am a lucky woman.

If friends are treasures, I am wealthy.  Life is good.

My Truth Jeans Have Spoken

Yes, you read it correctly:  my truth jeans have spoken and it isn't good.  I do not weigh myself often because I tend to chase numbers.  Chasing numbers tends to strike up the OCD band and that just makes me crazy.  I know.  The crazy bus pulled away from the curb some time ago.  Let's just say chasing numbers exacerbates the condition.  In lieu of weighing myself, I put my one pair of non stretchy jeans on.  They are not forgiving, but they do give me the information I need.  I now know I have too much cushion on the tush.  Yes, I'm afraid the jeans said, "Back away from the feeding trough. NOW!"

My fall from grace started subtly in November when the layoffs started in the company that eventually laid me off too.  Even knowing that I was stress eating didn't stop me from eating.  I would have long conversations with myself about why I was eating so much, but apparently it was actually a monologue.  I never answered questions.  Maybe because I couldn't hear the questions over the perpetual chewing. Picture Ms. Pac Man.  Yes, now you have the visual picture in your brain of a woman who "mowed" her way out of her jeans.

I am not a sweet eater per se : it rarely occurs to me to buy cookies, cakes and such.  I do however eat light snacks.  I have take to stocking up on prepackaged snacks which typically run around 100 calories.  What a surprise to find out if you eat three of them at a time it really negates the idea of a light snack.  I mean it is the American way right?  If one is good, than three must be better.  The good news is at least they weren't sold in packages with more that five to six servings.  I mean really, that could have been disastrous. Would adding a label that stated, "Eat at your own risk...too many at a time has been associated with unimpeded hip growth.  Proceed with caution", have helped?

When I'm not dipping into the light snacks, I'm doing food inventory about every thirty minutes.  You can't be too careful.  Who knows when something from the pantry or refrigerator might escape or suddenly reach it's expiration date?  Someone has to keep an eye on these things to prevent theft and waste.  Over and over I check the larder.  And the more I check the larder, the lardier I get.  Oh now I get it.  It's called a larder for a reason. I should have seen that coming.


So now that the Truth Jeans have spoken I guess I'll have to do something about it. The holiday party season is over which helps. I have LOTS of spare time to exercise and that should help.  I supposed I could stock healthier food options in the house.  I will do all of these things.  Right after I take a nap and finish up all the holiday food...wouldn't want to waste anything you know.  What's that you say Truth Jeans?  I can't hear you, I'm still chewing.

A Few Words About Infomercials

I must now swear you to secrecy.  Raise your right hand and repeat after me: I, (your name here),  solemnly swear, to take to my grave, the contents of this post.  OK. Now we are ready to proceed.

I love infomercials.  I love everything about them.  The terrible products, the ridiculous and unrealistic claims, the bad quality of the filming, atrocious sound quality and most of all, the unmitigated gall of the sales pitch.  I watch with fascination as the product is demonstrated and the LIVE (as opposed to dead) audience oohs and aahs with amazement.  Who doesn't need more stuff in their life?

I attribute the progression to infomercials to Ron Popeil, although I think De-regulation of the industry a la Ronald Regan had something to do with it too. Let's be clear, I have not researched this, this is just the way I remember it.  What started with 60 second spots of advertisement became, 30 minutes of BUY BUY BUY now, operators are standing by now!  Think back:  The Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman, Chop-O-Matic and the like.  Remember?  I don't remember how old I was, but I remember thinking, "What a bizarre idea!"  But, I was fascinated and stopped to watch the commercials most of the time.  Who can forget, "But wait, there's more!"   Who ever knew they needed a bamboo steamer?

Infomercials are the best and the worst of American advertising.  Face it:  if we didn't watch and ultimately buy the products, infomercials would never have become part of our daily lives.  We want to believe the next new miracle product can be ours at a reasonable price.  Even knowing, 'Caveat emptor", we continue to look for the too good to be true solution to a problem we didn't know we had until we watched them demonstrate their wares. Isn't this the ultimate in optimism?  Or is it?  What about, "A sucker is born every minute."  Oh.  I don't like the thought of that, but I know there is a portion of the population who believes everything, they read, see or hear, and they are the target of the unscrupulous salesperson.  Can we protect these people from themselves or is the disclaimer at the end of the infomercial enough?

I'm going to have to think about this.  With my Genie Bra in place, and Resurgence skin care system on my face, I'll go into the kitchen use my Chop-O-Matic, cook up an omelet in my Orgreenic pan so I can work out with the Brazilian Butt Lift team.  No one's going to make a sucker out of me.

Capturing life with less colorful words

Considering I have been charting medical information for over 30 years, it is no wonder I find writing very challenging.  Most of the things I have captured on paper have little use in writing outside of the medical venue. Honestly, how often does "Patient expelled large amount of soft brown stool" get used when writing the Great American Novel?  Not very often I'd wager.  It's difficult enough trying not to speak in medical terms that describe bodily functions to my non medical friends.  Apparently asking a friend if they ever got rid of that pesky constipation issue is not polite conversation at the luncheon table.

Nursing language is direct and to the point since charting should be factual and quite honestly, nurses don't have the time to make information attractive.  Information is stated and you move on.  "The patient ate two eggs, one piece of toast and drank four ounces of orange juice.  Patient had an immediate emesis of undigested food."   Now that I'm trying to express my thoughts, hopes, dreams and schemes, I have to be cognizant of presenting what I have to say in a more socially acceptable form.  Keeping bodily fluid information to a minimum and under no circumstances mentioning tissue that is undergoing desquamation is essential.  It apparently creeps people out.

Rather than stating, observing, evaluating and concluding, I will try to share feelings, situations and events to which others can relate. I will leave medical terminology behind. I will not dangle participles and will only split an infinitive when I forget to go back and fix the the first pass of what I was trying to say.

Working as a nurse has allowed me to be very involved but remain distant at the same time.  Nothing safer than professional distance.  The way words are used can have the same effect.  Capturing "just the facts" does not document the complete event.  I can not tell you how many times I have recorded the death of a patient in clinical terms: "Patient without heart beat and respiration's.  Pupils are fixed and dilated."  What wasn't charted that this person was married for 56 years to his childhood sweetheart and the entire family was there to celebrate his life.  No mention was made that his grandson shaved him because it was important to the patient to look his best, no matter how bad a day he was having.  No one outside of the room knew that everyone joined hands, said a prayer and kissed him goodbye as he was taking his last breaths. There was also no note that said the nurse had tears running down her face because she was so moved and honored to have witnessed this precious moment.

Words are powerful, they are funny, they are sad, they are personal, they make a point and they miss the point.  Ah, but the manipulation of words is a puzzle that turns out differently each time pen is put to paper, or fingers to keyboard.