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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

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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

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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

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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...

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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