I am in a cast, and not on Broadway...

This is not my foot, but my cast is the same color

I fell down the stairs day yesterday. Carrying a big tub of 'stuff'. I miscounted and stepped out onto what I thought was the landing and encountered only air. In the split second that one knows what is about to happen, after the 'Oh, shit' and the 'This is gonna hurt', I realized that I was heading right into an antique hutch with thin, fragile bubbled glass. You know, the kind of glass that slices tissue and arteries better than a Bovie cauterizing scalpel.

So I made diversionary efforts. I pulled the tub up in front of my face, bent my knees and attempted to 'collapse' straight down and avoid the glass, all the while thinking 'Clamp the spurting artery with your hand, call for help while you can still speak, stay calm, don't move'.

When I hit the floor, I shattered the plastic tub, using it to break my fall. I stayed in a kind of push-up position a moment, then rolled sideways, missing the hutch entirely. I felt a hot pain in my left knee and a sharp piercing pain in my right ankle and foot. Lying there taking stock, I heard, 'Are you alright?', my husband responding to the loud crash. 'I'm not sure yet...' I answered. Then, lying there, I said, 'Bring two ice packs', because I knew I had to begin to dull the pain and stem the swelling. I hurt! But, the hutch was unshattered and I was unbloodied.

I lay there long enough to catch my breath, then got up to walk. Very sore, but doable. I did more work, slowly and carefully, spent the evening icing and elevating the foot, and went to bed. I must have awakened twenty times in response to the pain of having the blankets on my foot and ankle. This morning, I made an appointment to see the orthopedist. Going into the office, I used my son's crutches, lowered to my height, abandoned only a week ago following foot surgery.

Then, the usual. X-rays, examination, then 'You need a cast'. No, I did not just hear that. I have things to do. I have company coming for a week, starting tomorrow! I did not just hear that! There is some mistake! Look at those X-rays again. I have a party scheduled for Friday night, and I am cooking for twenty! No, I call for do-overs!

But, instead, here I am, floundering around with a hunk of fiberglass up to my knee, taking ten minutes to go from my chair to the refrigerator for lemonade. Boxes are still unpacked in the hallway, beds are still unmade, and there is laundry to be folded.

And I have to figure out how to shower and not get my cast wet. Company will be at the airport in two hours. Hell, it'll take me that long to get upstairs.

Then and Now...

This somehow makes me feel better...

I know, I know, this doesn't speak highly of my evolved self that celebrates the natural beauty of of the aging process.

But, be honest, when you look in the mirror sometimes and see the natural beauty of your aging process, doesn't it just freak you out? Don't you just go 'What in the hell?!' Liar, you do, too.

I think I'd be way gorgeous if I had the benefit of indirect lighting and professional make-up and hair artists. Until, of course, age overcame the caulk-and-putty abilities of the pros. Sigh.

Time marches on. And we all succumb. (Tee-hee)

And this...

And this...

And this...

For the girls

To all of my sisters who have confronted breast cancer,

fought back,

and won.

You each are a hero.

From Femail Creations Catalog

The Wisdom of Alan Alexander Milne

"Promise me you'll always remember...

you're braver than you believe,

and stronger than you seem,

and smarter than you think."

--Christopher Robin, to Pooh

A.A. Milne and his son, Christopher Robin, with Winnie the Pooh. Photograph by Howard Coster, the original is in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

Laundry, take two

(this is really me, doing laundry yesterday...*)

It seems like I have always used liquid laundry detergent labeled 'free and clear', that is, free of colorings and fragrances. Apparently, I forgot why I began to use them in the first place. I know that I am an advocate of the smallest interference possible in products, whether cleaning or food or personal hygiene.

Recently, my son gave up his college apartment and moved back home, integrating his products into the general household supplies. I ran out of my laundry detergent and used some of his for a large pile of clothing one Saturday not long ago. Washed, dried, folded, put away.

Then, I began to itch. I thought it was a reaction to dry air or cleaner at the hospital. I began to itch more, sometimes digging at my forearms before I realized what I was doing. Then, I began to turn red. That finally got me thinking.

The first thing we ask a patient who presents with skin itching and rash is; 'have you changed your laundry or bath soap?' I asked myself, and the answer was 'Oh, yeah!' I hurried upstairs to remove all the recently laundered clothing from closet and drawers, along with the dirty stuff, and began to rewash and double rinse everything.

I ended up with a huge pile of laundry to work my way through, but the reward is that, as soon as I switched to clothing that had been laundered in my old way, my dermal disruptions ended.

Oh, now I remember why I always get the neutral-smelling, clear detergent and then dilute the softener by two thirds for our laundry!

(okay, so it's a Google image, but it could've been...*)

Real and actual quotes from a former boss

'I feel like a sheep in plain clothes.'

--referring to attending to a Democratic event

'This throws a wrench into the monkey works.'

'He was so mad, he was frosting at the mouth.'

Yogi Berra, aka Lorenzo Pietro Berra, linguist extrordinaire

You've got to be careful if you don't know where you're going, because you might not get there.

I got a touch of pantomime poisoning.

If I didn't wake up, I'd still be sleeping.

Mantle's a switch hitter because he's amphibious.

You give a hundred percent in the first half of the game, and if it isn't enough,

in the second half you give what's left.

If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

Quote

I thank God for my children every day.

Without them, I would have never discovered

how well

red wine complements

chicken nuggets.

--Unknown

Don't hurt the babies

Google image

If you witness child neglect or abuse, or even suspect it, please report it. It takes everyone to protect our most vulnerable humans.

You can remain anonymous, if you choose, or you can give your name but ask that it be kept confidential. However you do it, just do it.

Abuse is rarely a singular event. If you have witnessed it, chances are it is occurring both regularly and with greater intensity in private. Be an adult. Report it, and report it again if you do not see results.

As a nurse, I am a mandatory reporter. I have to tell the authorities if I even suspect abuse or neglect. Adopt that attitude. Because it is right to do so. Because it shouldn't hurt to be a child.

No fingerprints

Google image

I have dry hands. Not like crusty, flaky ugly hands, but hands that hate dry climates, frequent washings, and alcohol cleansers. Not terrific for a nurse-type like myself.

Add that to the fact that the drugs in my unit are stored in a machine resembling an automatic teller, called a Pyxis, that requires bio-identifiers, in combination with a numerical code, to allow access. Result? The machine frequently denies me access because it cannot detect my fingerprints. My fingers are so dry, they do not make an imprint on the glass of the scanner. No skin oil left, therefore, no fingerprints... Weird. And inconvenient.

So, often I stand there, in front of the digital drug god, desperately trying to gain access to meds that will save my patient from pain, hyper/hypo-tension, seizures, nausea, tachy/brady-cardia, or whatever else I get dealt. All the while, the computer is flashing, scanning, reading, over and over, trying to verify that an actual living finger tip is on the glass scanner surface. My dry, wizzled-up, undetectable fingers. Trying to make an impression for the benefit of a patient. After a few attempts, the machine will refuse to try again, figuring the operator is perpetrating a fraud. Back to square one. This can be a frustrating, protracted, anxiety-producing experience.

So, I cheat. I touch my finger tip to my neck, applying onto it the Lubriderm lotion that I put on everyday. And; voila! Instant detectable fingerprint! Access is approved, and the patient is saved. But, what a hassle. And, I wonder sometimes what I might be transferring to my skin. Eewww.

What a strange system that penalizes both nurse and patient for a flaw such as skin dryness. Seems like only a more profound component should be the cause of delay in getting valuable medication to a critically ill person. Like, maybe, the pharmacist died, or the power plant was hit by a bomb.

You know, I should take up a life of crime. I wouldn't even have to wear gloves to avoid detection. I fly under the radar. I have no fingerprints.

Weird connection cast in gold

I was looking on the web the other day, perusing horseshoe necklaces. I love horses, riding, and the horseshoe. Thought about buying me-self a little bling.

I found some lovely things, but also one troubling pendant. It is shown here. A horseshoe necklace with a marijuana leaf. Hunh?

Noone wearing this is gonna ride with me! I won't be party to some toker falling off their horse or failing to react in time to prevent injury to themselves or their mount. Nuhn-unh.

Let them stay on the porch with the horse tied nearby. And just tell them they had a great ride.

Skate-by relationship seeking

I took my great nieces to the roller rink yesterday. I was really shaky, not having been on skates for over a decade. But, I tottered around the kiddie floor until I felt confident enough to venture out into the swirling masses on the big floor. It was in the kiddie area that I experienced the strangeness that has become modern relationship seeking.

First, there was a thin grey-haired man with a black KISS t-shirt skating with a 10ish red-haired little girl. He mentioned to me that he had just had his fiftieth birthday and was 'at least still getting out here'. I replied 'good for you'. A few minutes later, the little red-haired girl came up to tell me that her daddy 'thinks you're pretty...' Oh. 'that's nice, thanks...'

Then, as I was sitting on the sticky shag-carpeted bench, a buzz-cut woman wheeled up and plopped down inches from me, grinning. She crossed one leg up onto her knee and said 'My stoppers are coming unscrewed'. Oh. Bummer, dude, ah, dudette. Um, dude'. She cranked away on the big eraser things on the front of her skates, grinning rakishly at me, and began talking about her life, her friends, what fun... and, with a little wave and smile, she was off.

My daughter started laughing, and said 'Geez, Mom, you're getting hit on by both sexes! You still got it!' She was, of course, kidding. Neither hitter was attractive or desirable enough to make the hittee (me) feel flattered. Flattened, more like. But the experience did serve as a lesson in modern relationship-seeking behaviors.

I thought I was taking some little girls skating. No, I was at one of the hottest pick-up spots for older, stranger, lower income, funnier looking singles in town. And I got hit on, so there...

Comb over

Google images

When, oh when, will the comb-over become extinct? What is it that makes otherwise intelligent men drag sparse strands of hair over acres of nude scalp? Why doesn't someone say, "Dude, that looks like hell."?

It is the responsibility of the citizenry to thwart the continued practice of the comb-over. It is not a native species, it is invasive and noxious. We must place it on an eradication list.

Do you want to go through life, never knowing when the dreaded sight will assault your eyes and stick in your brain like a calcium chew in an angora sweater (don't ask).

Out, out, damn bald spot with comb-over!

Because I can...

Google image

Paula Deen, on her tv cooking show, "I use a lot of butter when I cook, because...well, because I can!"

--Paula's Home Cooking, FOOD channel, 2007, repeat 1/08/10

Happy birthday to the REAL king...

Vernon Presley, father, Elvis, Colonel Tom Parker. Google image

...the king of rock and roll with the velvet voice. Elvis Aaron Presley. Not MJ, despite the desperate attempts to link the two...(that makes me 'throw up a little in my mouth'...)

Jet-haired southern poor boy who rocked the music scene with his blend of black sound, blues, rock and roll, and pelvic prestidigitation. Who loved his mama, Gladys. Who loyally stayed with a manager, Colonel Parker, when he should have moved on*. Who made the female hearts of the world reach therapeutic cardio rates. Who captured the heart of a three year old little girl from the West, a baby who held a radio wire and acted as a human antenna for her teenage sisters as they did dishes. (Me, in case I was too cryptic)...

I loved his voice. I loved his lyrics. I loved his messages.

He made me think of life outside our dirty chaos-filled home. I thought of love and promise and happiness. I still have that feeling when I hear his music. Like there is more out there to see, to feel, to touch, to taste.

Happy birthday to you, Elvis. And thanks for the sounds, the dreams, the life-long crush.

*It is a fact that after Elvis' death an official investigation found that "both Colonel Parker and RCA acted in collusion against Presley's best interests. Colonel Parker was guilty of self-dealing and overreaching and had violated his duty to both Elvis and to the estate." --from Elvis Info Net and official estate documents

This is NOT okay!!!!

See what I mean? (post of 1/6/10)...

This is not Sherlock's style. He doesn't get naked, EVEN to bathe. I have read all the Watson tales, listened to all the radio shows, watched all the television shows (except the ones with Leonard Nimoy or Charleton Heston, for obvious reasons). I have read The Seven Per Cent Solution, watched The Young Sherlock Holmes, even read several versions of Conan Doyles's biography. I know that The Man was addicted to opium and cocaine. I know he was a flawed character. I accept that.

But, he was not cute, he was not bumbling, and he was not the sort to be tied naked to a headboard, willie-nillie. Or, willie-pillie, as in this picture, thanks to the strategic pillow.

I would like to see the pillow removed, though...

What? I don't hate Robert, especially naked, just not as SH...

Quote

Something special happens when people laugh together over something genuinely funny, and not hurtful to anyone. It's like a magic rain that showers down feelings of safety and belonging to a group.

--Mary Jane Belfie, from Heart, Humor & Healing

Sherlock

I a nervous about seeing the new Sherlock Holmes movie starring Robert Downey, Jr. I have been a Sherlock fan for years.

I have accepted the fact that he is a tall, thin, geeky guy with a prominent nose and strange tastes, as written by Conan Doyle. I adapted to him as a voice on the radio rather than just within the written word. I have stuck with him as his face went through the transmogrifications of Basil Rathbone, Jeremy Brett, Peter O'Toole, John Neville, and over a dozen other pretenders. I refused to watch him played by Leonard Nimoy or Charleton Heston, for obvious reasons.

But, Robert Downey, Jr.?! He's way too cute to be The Man himself. And I saw the previews. Sherlock naked, tied to a headboard?! Not in a million years! His clothing is permanently affixed to his body! He was born in a smoking jacket, for God's sake!

How could I witness the modern version and be entertained? For that matter, how could I remain calm? I don't think he would ever find himself in such a condition, not if 'that woman' herself, Irenie Adler, managed to somehow seduce him.

I would need a lot of support to see this movie, maybe even meet with a counselor to debrief after. And then years of support groups. It is just all too much.

A piece of my heart

Today, I got a piece of my heart back, one that I was not fully aware was missing. I rode a horse.

I grew up with horses; rode almost daily. Horses and dogs provided the calm nonjudgemental regard I lacked in my chaotic family life. Horses provided an escape. As long as I was riding, I was not at home where I was a target for shame, ridicule and punishment.

I have not ridden for years. I sold my last horse several years ago. He and I were never a good fit anyway. He wanted to be a big silly pet, willful and distractable. I wanted a calm uncomplicated trustworthy companion.

My niece has been bugging me for the past year or more to come ride with her. She lives about an hour away. I finally did it. I was loaned a big, tall Missouri Foxtrotter named Rain. She was a dream. We rode for miles and miles, up trails that let out onto mountain peaks with breathtaking views. We forded streams and waded through mud.

I felt like I was breathing sweetened air. I seemed to float on that gaited mare. We sometimes flew through the woods, the trees blurring past and my hat threatening to leave my head. I felt exhilarated and giddy. I felt a hole in my soul being mended.

As we ended the ride and I groomed my mount, I could not stop smiling. I had gotten back the horsewoman in me, and I had missed her. She has always been a good friend of mine.

The sunscreen song, from Loving the Simple Things, at http://tolivetolaughtolove.blogspot.com/

The Lyrics:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

Women's Collegiate Soccer's Tanya Harding

Have you heard about the female soccer player Elizabeth Lambert of the New Mexico Lobos? I think she is channeling Tanya Harding in her style of play and (lack of) sportsmanship.

She trips, fouls, stomps and, famously, pulls ponytails hard enough to ground the player. She is showing the world that women are as big of assholes as men. Wow, nice work, girl.

For you young folk, Tanya is the pro ice skater who got her husband and his big-ass friend to whack the knees of her closest competition, Nancy Kerrigan. Those trailer park girls should not be fucked with...