We are not the same. We cannot be. That is not the journey for which we have been sent to this earth. In making that statement, I am acknowledging that I truly realize that our various life circumstance differ. Our upbringing and our tolerances are shaped by the realities of how we are raised and by whom the job is done.
But I am sick to death of hearing stories of our society increasingly revealing to the world that we have, individually and, in some cases, collectively, been raised by wolves.
Manners matter. And good manners change how we are viewed by others in the social world around us.
Of late, I have been distressed by the number of bullying and video taped fights that are making their way into the mainstream social media. It makes hooliganism gather friends and adherents instead of keeping anti-social behavior as a thing to be avoided under most circumstances.
The news media grants credence to the reports by airing them over and over again ad nauseum. Do we not have any GOOD things to report?
Of course we do.
Sadly, our society has managed to fall into the trap of believing that we need scandal to survive by making ourselves feel better by viewing the horrible actions and tragedies of a fellow traveler on this third rock from the sun.
Why do we do it?
When we are toddlers, we believe might makes right.
It is arguable that many have simply grown into larger toddlers who still function as if they push harder and talk louder and gesture more broadly that they are right in everything they do. It isn't true, but they believe it and act as if it is a truth enforceable by muscle and might.
Can we please return to civility?
Does anyone truly remember what that means?
Miss Manners needs to pay a visit to every school and refresh the remembrance of what is socially acceptable and what is not.
February 3, 2012
January 18, 2012
Radioactive Me
Cardiac stress test.
Like my regular life isn't a stress test all by itself! Sheesh!
Today I had to make an appearance to be stressed. The point being is heart health but I understand the secret part of testing is to strip you half naked (or whole naked in some cases), rob you of your dignity, shove needles into sensitive locations and pump in various solutions and fluids which have been lovingly shelf stored in the Antarctic somewhere near Mr. Popper's Penguins.
I had on skivvies, shorts and an exercise t-shirt beneath my winter wear today. The temperature dropped overnight from about 60 degrees to somewhere near the freezing point. Little did I know the place for the testing wasn't much warmer and had plans for me to see just how cold they could make me from the inside out.
The first shot of radiated solution made my mouth have a momentary metallic taste that passed through as almost an afterthought. As the tech was telling me that might happen, it was over and gone.
I got a saline flush and then I went to sit and wait until the stuff have coursed through my veins enough to register.
While I was sitting there, a man older than me was cussing, fussing and fuming because he, too, had been told to come at 8 a.m. for a cardiac stress test. He must never have had one before or he'd know how the lobby shuffle works. It's like 3 card Monte for an 8 a.m. slot while they jack you up with a port in your arm and the first injection of "glow juice". Since he wasn't there when I passed back through later on my way to get my Doppler done, I assume he finally won his "hand" and got jabbed, too.
As my name was called the second time to return to the reefer truck that held the equipment, I realized that the ambient external temperature and the allegedly warmed internal temperature were a scant two degrees apart. They apologized profusely for the "chill" then commanded me to strip down to my skimpy exercise clothing for the treadmill test.
Did I mention that they injected me a second time at this point with some more solution? Yep another shot in the arm of TVA's finest iceberg temperature rinse water with some radioactive waste in it. This time, the metallic taste in my mouth was more like chewing aluminum foil for the savor. I'm kinda concerned that with all these isotopes floating around in my body that I will be my own night light later this evening...
They assure everyone that won't happen, but I remember telling patients years ago the same comforting words of hope and promise while jacking them up with their own glow juice for their scans. Nothing like injecting or drinking poison to save your life, right?
The gal that was there to apply the various sticky patches that would read my cardiac function apologized over and over for her cold hands. She needed to. I've dressed dead people who were warmer. Seriously, sister, buy some dang gloves for those frozen digits! And the alcohol prep pads had also been kept on ice just for me.
Perhaps I forgot to tell you this little gem: that they also use a bit of sandpaper to ensure a good contact point? Oh, you didn't know that did you? Yep, they use some fine grit sandpaper and rub the hide off of you just enough that the adhesive will stick well and then rip off the second, third and fourth layers of dermal tissue and leave you looking like a polka dotted victim of modern medicine upon their removal later in the day.
By the time we got the scans underway the second time, I was so dang cold that couldn't feel my fingers or toes. And I'm reasonably sure parts of me froze and fell off. I just hope it wasn't anything I might need later on. Of course, it can't be my saddlebags, my gut or my butt that froze off... everyone knows it NEVER gets cold enough to truly freeze your butt off. Kinda sad...
Anyway, when all the testing, sliming, sanding, poking, injecting, scanning and sweating were done, I was commanded to return Thursday of next week to receive the results of the testing.
I hope they got the information they needed. Because frankly, this gal is all tested out. I think I have won a free pass to say "NO" and say it emphatically the next time they gin up some kind of procedure they want to see me naked to perform.
I'm about ready to buy a burka.
Should you happen to pass my house later this evening and see a glow coming from my windows as it is passing through the home, don't worry... it's just me. They promise I'll flush this stuff out of my within 24 hours. The question is, will the pee glow... and do I need a black light to find out?
Like my regular life isn't a stress test all by itself! Sheesh!
Today I had to make an appearance to be stressed. The point being is heart health but I understand the secret part of testing is to strip you half naked (or whole naked in some cases), rob you of your dignity, shove needles into sensitive locations and pump in various solutions and fluids which have been lovingly shelf stored in the Antarctic somewhere near Mr. Popper's Penguins.
I had on skivvies, shorts and an exercise t-shirt beneath my winter wear today. The temperature dropped overnight from about 60 degrees to somewhere near the freezing point. Little did I know the place for the testing wasn't much warmer and had plans for me to see just how cold they could make me from the inside out.
The first shot of radiated solution made my mouth have a momentary metallic taste that passed through as almost an afterthought. As the tech was telling me that might happen, it was over and gone.
I got a saline flush and then I went to sit and wait until the stuff have coursed through my veins enough to register.
While I was sitting there, a man older than me was cussing, fussing and fuming because he, too, had been told to come at 8 a.m. for a cardiac stress test. He must never have had one before or he'd know how the lobby shuffle works. It's like 3 card Monte for an 8 a.m. slot while they jack you up with a port in your arm and the first injection of "glow juice". Since he wasn't there when I passed back through later on my way to get my Doppler done, I assume he finally won his "hand" and got jabbed, too.
As my name was called the second time to return to the reefer truck that held the equipment, I realized that the ambient external temperature and the allegedly warmed internal temperature were a scant two degrees apart. They apologized profusely for the "chill" then commanded me to strip down to my skimpy exercise clothing for the treadmill test.
Did I mention that they injected me a second time at this point with some more solution? Yep another shot in the arm of TVA's finest iceberg temperature rinse water with some radioactive waste in it. This time, the metallic taste in my mouth was more like chewing aluminum foil for the savor. I'm kinda concerned that with all these isotopes floating around in my body that I will be my own night light later this evening...
They assure everyone that won't happen, but I remember telling patients years ago the same comforting words of hope and promise while jacking them up with their own glow juice for their scans. Nothing like injecting or drinking poison to save your life, right?
The gal that was there to apply the various sticky patches that would read my cardiac function apologized over and over for her cold hands. She needed to. I've dressed dead people who were warmer. Seriously, sister, buy some dang gloves for those frozen digits! And the alcohol prep pads had also been kept on ice just for me.
Perhaps I forgot to tell you this little gem: that they also use a bit of sandpaper to ensure a good contact point? Oh, you didn't know that did you? Yep, they use some fine grit sandpaper and rub the hide off of you just enough that the adhesive will stick well and then rip off the second, third and fourth layers of dermal tissue and leave you looking like a polka dotted victim of modern medicine upon their removal later in the day.
By the time we got the scans underway the second time, I was so dang cold that couldn't feel my fingers or toes. And I'm reasonably sure parts of me froze and fell off. I just hope it wasn't anything I might need later on. Of course, it can't be my saddlebags, my gut or my butt that froze off... everyone knows it NEVER gets cold enough to truly freeze your butt off. Kinda sad...
Anyway, when all the testing, sliming, sanding, poking, injecting, scanning and sweating were done, I was commanded to return Thursday of next week to receive the results of the testing.
I hope they got the information they needed. Because frankly, this gal is all tested out. I think I have won a free pass to say "NO" and say it emphatically the next time they gin up some kind of procedure they want to see me naked to perform.
I'm about ready to buy a burka.
Should you happen to pass my house later this evening and see a glow coming from my windows as it is passing through the home, don't worry... it's just me. They promise I'll flush this stuff out of my within 24 hours. The question is, will the pee glow... and do I need a black light to find out?
January 13, 2012
But Daddy, we're SHARING!!!
Anyone who has welcomed a hound into the household as a fully fledged member knows that they are soon the boss of life in general.
Such is the case with our current canid resident who believes that she alone is the arbiter of right and wrong within the confines of the four walls of our home.
Although reluctant to offer us space in her comfortable doggy beds (yes, there are more than one of them... shut up!), Gypsy is more than happy to share OUR furniture with us because after all, we are FAMILY.
Rick has become the unfortunate butt of the jokes when it comes to our dogs over the years. Smokey, our first furry child, was a fond visitor to his pillow. He would lie upon it, lick it and steal it for himself. Sometimes, he would craftily sneak down into the covers, make a U-turn and then lie down on his back with his head on Rick's pillow and his front paws extended over the covers like a small, hirsute child. And he would smile with his brilliant, Pepsodent white teeth showing as if to say "Thanks, Dad, this is mighty comfy!"
Gypsy has a slightly different take on it all.
She sneaks and insinuates herself into various places in the house. Not content to lie upon the bed in Daddy's spot, Gypsy steals his pillow, tosses it high into the air, body slams it and apparently, from what we have both ascertained and seen in actual demonstration, does cannonballs on the bed itself. Because we have an air mattress type bed, and because we each have our own settings, it is patently obvious that she prefers the "spongy" side of the bed where Rick sleeps to perform her death defying gymnastics. That is the place where the divots remain when she has exhausted her repertoire of mind boggling feats that the circus can only dream of duplicating.
In addition to the bed stealing and frequent cover hogging that Gypsy enjoys. She has taken a liking to various other furniture in the house. Most notably is her fondness for napping in "Daddy's chair". Daddy's chair is a navy blue, floral wing back living room chair that we purchased secondhand when the first secondhand chair died an untimely death.
This chair is admittedly comfortable, but I have trouble getting out of it because it is TOO comfortable. Plus the angle of my knees to my hips when I am buried in it makes getting up a trifle difficult. I seldom use this chair. That was, apparently, an open invitation for use by other household members and Jared was NOT first in line.
At first, Gypsy would stealthily creep up into the chair paw by paw as if it was some sort of night maneuver of a guilty looking paramilitary force. There was scarcely a sound of the compression of the cushion as she would insert her body into the chair's comfortable space. She would look around to see if scolding was to follow and when she was assured that it was not forthcoming, Gypsy would settle down and close her eyes with a victoriously smug smile on her face.
When she would hear Rick's footfall, she would rouse and leap from the chair to prevent recrimination and discipline.
But now, age and seniority have apparently kicked in. She has overheard us discussing the ratio of human to canine years and is smart enough to do the math. She is the senior citizen of the household and as such feels fully justified in asserting her "right" to the chair.
Gypsy is smart enough to understand that Daddy doesn't WANT to share his chair and cunning enough to enforce her will upon him. Naturally, she will reluctantly move herself from his chair and come to me for reassurance when Daddy scolds her for leaving her furry butt marks all over HIS domain.
Gypsy doesn't mind. Literally. She does NOT mind. As soon as he leaves the chair to go get a drink, visit the bathroom or just get a book from the back, Gypsy slides up into his chair with a triumphant glee that rivals anything Cleopatra ever considered. She is queen of the chair, just like Cleopatra claimed queen of the Nile status. The big difference is that Gypsy bows to no one in her quest for comfort.
That Rick is deprived of a place to sit means NOTHING to her. Gypsy just stretches out, arches her back and looks dolefully upon him as he banishes her from the furniture yet again. She knows she will be back. McArthur-like, she will be back to claim the beachhead and establish her landing craft on the soft cushions.
She thinks they are SHARING.
Or at least that is the impression she wants us to believe. In reality, this cunning hound knows that sharing isn't the modus operandi at all. Chair dominance is the name of the game. She plans to have the chair for herself any time she desires to use it.
Our comfort doesn't matter to her at all.
Not one whit
Because, with her guilty little chocolate brown eyes, she tells him "But Daddy, we are sharing... on MY terms!"
Such is the case with our current canid resident who believes that she alone is the arbiter of right and wrong within the confines of the four walls of our home.
Although reluctant to offer us space in her comfortable doggy beds (yes, there are more than one of them... shut up!), Gypsy is more than happy to share OUR furniture with us because after all, we are FAMILY.
Rick has become the unfortunate butt of the jokes when it comes to our dogs over the years. Smokey, our first furry child, was a fond visitor to his pillow. He would lie upon it, lick it and steal it for himself. Sometimes, he would craftily sneak down into the covers, make a U-turn and then lie down on his back with his head on Rick's pillow and his front paws extended over the covers like a small, hirsute child. And he would smile with his brilliant, Pepsodent white teeth showing as if to say "Thanks, Dad, this is mighty comfy!"
Gypsy has a slightly different take on it all.
She sneaks and insinuates herself into various places in the house. Not content to lie upon the bed in Daddy's spot, Gypsy steals his pillow, tosses it high into the air, body slams it and apparently, from what we have both ascertained and seen in actual demonstration, does cannonballs on the bed itself. Because we have an air mattress type bed, and because we each have our own settings, it is patently obvious that she prefers the "spongy" side of the bed where Rick sleeps to perform her death defying gymnastics. That is the place where the divots remain when she has exhausted her repertoire of mind boggling feats that the circus can only dream of duplicating.
In addition to the bed stealing and frequent cover hogging that Gypsy enjoys. She has taken a liking to various other furniture in the house. Most notably is her fondness for napping in "Daddy's chair". Daddy's chair is a navy blue, floral wing back living room chair that we purchased secondhand when the first secondhand chair died an untimely death.
This chair is admittedly comfortable, but I have trouble getting out of it because it is TOO comfortable. Plus the angle of my knees to my hips when I am buried in it makes getting up a trifle difficult. I seldom use this chair. That was, apparently, an open invitation for use by other household members and Jared was NOT first in line.
At first, Gypsy would stealthily creep up into the chair paw by paw as if it was some sort of night maneuver of a guilty looking paramilitary force. There was scarcely a sound of the compression of the cushion as she would insert her body into the chair's comfortable space. She would look around to see if scolding was to follow and when she was assured that it was not forthcoming, Gypsy would settle down and close her eyes with a victoriously smug smile on her face.
When she would hear Rick's footfall, she would rouse and leap from the chair to prevent recrimination and discipline.
But now, age and seniority have apparently kicked in. She has overheard us discussing the ratio of human to canine years and is smart enough to do the math. She is the senior citizen of the household and as such feels fully justified in asserting her "right" to the chair.
Gypsy is smart enough to understand that Daddy doesn't WANT to share his chair and cunning enough to enforce her will upon him. Naturally, she will reluctantly move herself from his chair and come to me for reassurance when Daddy scolds her for leaving her furry butt marks all over HIS domain.
Gypsy doesn't mind. Literally. She does NOT mind. As soon as he leaves the chair to go get a drink, visit the bathroom or just get a book from the back, Gypsy slides up into his chair with a triumphant glee that rivals anything Cleopatra ever considered. She is queen of the chair, just like Cleopatra claimed queen of the Nile status. The big difference is that Gypsy bows to no one in her quest for comfort.
That Rick is deprived of a place to sit means NOTHING to her. Gypsy just stretches out, arches her back and looks dolefully upon him as he banishes her from the furniture yet again. She knows she will be back. McArthur-like, she will be back to claim the beachhead and establish her landing craft on the soft cushions.
She thinks they are SHARING.
Or at least that is the impression she wants us to believe. In reality, this cunning hound knows that sharing isn't the modus operandi at all. Chair dominance is the name of the game. She plans to have the chair for herself any time she desires to use it.
Our comfort doesn't matter to her at all.
Not one whit
Because, with her guilty little chocolate brown eyes, she tells him "But Daddy, we are sharing... on MY terms!"
January 12, 2012
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