When our Little Miss was about two and a half, she was crawling out of her crib on a regular basis. As parents, my husband and I thought avoiding head and neck injuries from falling while crawling out of a crib was a good thing. Therefore, we bought her a day bed.
Little Miss was our third daughter and by this time we had learned to ease in change. Therefore, we left her crib set up, but with the side down and put her thousands of stuffed animals in it. We told Little Miss that she could sleep in her big girl day bed while her stuffed animals slept in the crib.
This worked well. At least until we thought enough time had passed that it was safe to take her crib down. Generally by morning most of the animals had been retrieved and were in the day bed with Little Miss. Therefore, we concluded that the crib was no longer needed.
So one fine Saturday morning, my husband got out his rechargeable drill and began disassembling the crib. Little Miss was occupied with eating cereal in the living room and watching cartoons. But she wandered upstairs to see what dad was doing.
Apparently taking the crib down was not on her playlist. She began running around the house with her hands in the air shouting “No fair! No fair! Daddy’s taking my lid off.”
Being adults, my husband and I had lost the essentials of childhood logic and it took us a little while to grasp this concept. In the meantime, Little Miss stood in her Tinkerbell jammies holding her Mickey Mouse flannel blanket staring at my husband with a terrified look on her face.
Ultimately he asked Little Miss if she wanted him to stop taking her crib apart. With a quivering lip she solemnly shook her head no. “Then I won’t, he assured her.” That solved the dilemma and life went on.
Growing up, our three daughters had many pets. This included our share of hamsters and gerbils, dogs and cats and at one time ducks and rabbits. The rabbits and ducks were gifts from the Easter bunny one year. We had a large fenced in back yard and the rabbits and ducks got along well enough with our two basset hounds. Or rather, they got along pretty well with our male basset hound, Buddy boy, but not his mother.
By summer we had two of the three original ducks left and one rabbit. The rabbit was a large lop eared fluffy rabbit we called Abby Rabbit. We let Abby Rabbit roam the back yard during the day time and she would take refuge under our deck. Under the deck was Mamma Hound’s territory and the two squared off. All of our basset hounds got plenty of exercise and none were the lumpy Pillsbury dough boy type of fat bassets. Mamma Hound was particularly small and lean.
After some initial growling followed by a warning ground thump, mamma hound was excised from under the deck by a series of powerful kicks delivered by one Abby Rabbit to a howling Mamma Hound. From that point on Mamma Hound grudgingly agreed to share the space under the deck with Abby Rabbit.
Ducky didn’t fare so well. Ducky had a bird brain and was dumber than the basset hounds, which themselves were dumber than a box of rocks. Let’s face it, hush puppies are loveable but if you’ve ever owned one you know they aren’t known for being the smartest canines.
Ducky wandered the back yard, swam in the kids’ wading pool and ate bugs from the garden. Ducky ate things by pecking at them. Ducky also ate dog food from the bowl. This was fine with Buddy Boy but Mamma Hound was still a bit teed off with the burgeoning pet population, was most likely still holding a grudge against Abby Rabbit, and was not about to share food as well as napping places.
Mamma Hound warned Ducky with a growl that her food bowl was not to be touched. Ducky continued pecking at Mamma’s food bowl so Mamma nipped Ducky. Ducky pecked at Mamma’s nose and Mamma charged. Ducky was used to playing chase this way with Buddy Boy so Ducky turned and waddled away as fast as ducks can go. Mamma, however delivered one powerful chomp to Ducky’s behind leaving a bare spot, leaving Mamma with a mouthful of white duck feathers.
After consulting our neighbor who raised birds, we spent the next few weeks using diaper rash ointment on Ducky’s behind until his feathers grew back. We also moved Mamma’s food dish out of harm’s way.
Ducky’s companion was Lucky Duck who also played chase with Buddy Boy. Buddy Boy was a growing pup who could be a little rowdy. It turned out he was a little too rowdy for Lucky Duck the day he picked Lucky Duck up in his mouth and broke Lucky’s neck.
Then our children who were five and under came up with their own plan. We needed to have Ducky lay eggs so we could have more ducks. My husband and I explained, delicately, that we didn’t think that would work because we only had one duck. So if Ducky was going to be the mamma duck and lay eggs, we needed a daddy duck.
Children make their own sense out of the world and have their own reasoning and logic. The lack of a daddy duck didn’t slow down their plan. They simply used creative thinking and decided that the rabbit could be the daddy. It is impossible for adults to argue with logic like this and so my husband and I gave each other “that look” and agreed that the rabbit could be the daddy. Why not? After all we believed in diversity!
However, we were not prepared for the next series of events. As fall approached, Ducky laid an egg. All along we had thought Ducky was a dude. Being city kids, my husband and I forgot that fowl can lay unfertilized eggs. Therefore I looked at the migrating ducks in the sky and wondered if some fly by night rascal duck had violated our pet. Our bird savvy neighbor straightened that concept out.
Our oldest daughter started kindergarten that week and proudly took Ducky’s accomplishment for show and tell. Ducky’s accomplishment was accidentally dropped in the backyard, to the delight of Mamma Hound who loved eggs with anything. Ducky tried to lay another egg but became egg bound (according to our neighbor’s diagnosis) and succumbed to the inevitable.
But as for me, these days when life seems unfair and someone is trying to take my lid off, I try to remember to think out of the box and apply the concept that all things are possible and all problems are solvable. After all, why can’t the rabbit be the daddy and, if ducks can lay eggs, why can’t they be golden eggs?
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Nice Thing About Sisters
The nice thing about sisters is … I wouldn’t know. I don’t have one. I never had one and my parents stopped making family members after my brother came along. But I have observations about people who do have sisters about what could be the nice thing about having a sister.
Item one: Someone to blame. My husband grew up in a large Irish Catholic family. He has lots of sisters. They have lots of children, mostly girls. So he has lots of nieces and they have sisters. My husband is the oldest of the clan but we were the last to have children. As a result, we heard lots of stories about the T girls, MJ and L.
MJ and L were two peas in a pod who grew up on a farm, playing in the dirt and having a generally good time. MJ and L had a lot of energy which was normally put to mischievous use. As the older one, MJ was most likely to be confronted about the situation. Her standard response was “L done it”. One day Grandma O’Bryan reminded MJ that L wasn’t there. MJ’s response “Oh man, Grandma, you figured it out.” So, a sister can be someone to blame – at least for a while.
Item two: Someone to antagonize. We have three daughters. Growing up they were pretty much the fighting Irish. This is just what happens when you mix Scottish and Irish. You get vim and vinegar. Our oldest daughter was the Ready Freddy of the group. The middle one is a whisp of a girl and our stealth child. The youngest is devil or angle, with her halo sitting firmly on two bumps that could very well be demon horns, particularly where the middle daughter was concerned.
The older two generally got along. The oldest and the youngest generally got along and the middle and little one were oil and water. The youngest took full advantage of this and deliberately antagonized the middle one. Miss S would go in Miss KA’s room and touch things on purpose, simply to stir the pot to the boiling point. It worked every time. Miss KA wound string through her room with pins tapped to it as S traps. Then Miss KA posted a note on Miss S’s room telling Miss S the evil fate that awaited Miss S should she step foot in the forbidden room.
The plan backfired because Miss S could not read. But, she was creative, scribbled an illegible note and taped it to Miss KA’s door. Then she sat in her closet and knocked on the wall, which backed up to Miss KA’s room, making it sound like someone was at Miss KA’s door. Her motto might have been “Anything To Annoy”.
Item Three: Someone to borrow from: When you have children, hand me downs are essential. When you have three girls, the youngest rarely gets anything new, but knows all clothes will eventually be hers. Sometimes this outgrowing process can be speeded up by borrowing. Take the case of the Care Bear pajamas. Our middle daughter had a Care Bear nightie. Being a string bean, she grew up and the nightie went from being ankle length to mid calf length to knee length, but still fit her. It was also her favorite PJs.
The little one helped me with laundry one day. This was a bit odd because folding and putting away clothes was generally considered a supreme punishment in our house, as were any other household chores. I watched as Miss S dashed away with the folded Care Bare nightie and stuck it in her dresser drawer.
“But that belongs to KA” I reminded Miss S. With the ultimate in child logic her response was “Well, it’s mine now.”
I was reminded of these events when I went upstairs today. Our middle daughter is a grown up young lady who lives in San Francisco but will be visiting us next weekend. I thought this weekend was a good time to make sure her old bedroom is clean and dusted, with fresh sheets and so on. I discovered that our youngest daughter, who is home from college for the summer, is using Miss KA’s bed frame as a drying rack. Over time Miss KA’s room has become an extension of Miss S’s closet. What can I say? I am sure that by next week these clothes will be dry.
The last time Miss KA was home she and Miss S spent a great deal of time in Miss S’s room watching videos. Miss KA donated her desktop Apple computer to Miss S. I guess that just proves that hand me downs are forever. I guess sisters are too.
Item one: Someone to blame. My husband grew up in a large Irish Catholic family. He has lots of sisters. They have lots of children, mostly girls. So he has lots of nieces and they have sisters. My husband is the oldest of the clan but we were the last to have children. As a result, we heard lots of stories about the T girls, MJ and L.
MJ and L were two peas in a pod who grew up on a farm, playing in the dirt and having a generally good time. MJ and L had a lot of energy which was normally put to mischievous use. As the older one, MJ was most likely to be confronted about the situation. Her standard response was “L done it”. One day Grandma O’Bryan reminded MJ that L wasn’t there. MJ’s response “Oh man, Grandma, you figured it out.” So, a sister can be someone to blame – at least for a while.
Item two: Someone to antagonize. We have three daughters. Growing up they were pretty much the fighting Irish. This is just what happens when you mix Scottish and Irish. You get vim and vinegar. Our oldest daughter was the Ready Freddy of the group. The middle one is a whisp of a girl and our stealth child. The youngest is devil or angle, with her halo sitting firmly on two bumps that could very well be demon horns, particularly where the middle daughter was concerned.
The older two generally got along. The oldest and the youngest generally got along and the middle and little one were oil and water. The youngest took full advantage of this and deliberately antagonized the middle one. Miss S would go in Miss KA’s room and touch things on purpose, simply to stir the pot to the boiling point. It worked every time. Miss KA wound string through her room with pins tapped to it as S traps. Then Miss KA posted a note on Miss S’s room telling Miss S the evil fate that awaited Miss S should she step foot in the forbidden room.
The plan backfired because Miss S could not read. But, she was creative, scribbled an illegible note and taped it to Miss KA’s door. Then she sat in her closet and knocked on the wall, which backed up to Miss KA’s room, making it sound like someone was at Miss KA’s door. Her motto might have been “Anything To Annoy”.
Item Three: Someone to borrow from: When you have children, hand me downs are essential. When you have three girls, the youngest rarely gets anything new, but knows all clothes will eventually be hers. Sometimes this outgrowing process can be speeded up by borrowing. Take the case of the Care Bear pajamas. Our middle daughter had a Care Bear nightie. Being a string bean, she grew up and the nightie went from being ankle length to mid calf length to knee length, but still fit her. It was also her favorite PJs.
The little one helped me with laundry one day. This was a bit odd because folding and putting away clothes was generally considered a supreme punishment in our house, as were any other household chores. I watched as Miss S dashed away with the folded Care Bare nightie and stuck it in her dresser drawer.
“But that belongs to KA” I reminded Miss S. With the ultimate in child logic her response was “Well, it’s mine now.”
I was reminded of these events when I went upstairs today. Our middle daughter is a grown up young lady who lives in San Francisco but will be visiting us next weekend. I thought this weekend was a good time to make sure her old bedroom is clean and dusted, with fresh sheets and so on. I discovered that our youngest daughter, who is home from college for the summer, is using Miss KA’s bed frame as a drying rack. Over time Miss KA’s room has become an extension of Miss S’s closet. What can I say? I am sure that by next week these clothes will be dry.
The last time Miss KA was home she and Miss S spent a great deal of time in Miss S’s room watching videos. Miss KA donated her desktop Apple computer to Miss S. I guess that just proves that hand me downs are forever. I guess sisters are too.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Flashing Neon Sign
Flashing Neon Sign
This is it. I’m throwing in the towel and putting up a flashing neon sign. It will be 20 feet tall, be orange and yellow and say “O’Bryan”. This isn’t because I’m becoming eccentric. This is a necessity. People apparently need a sign that big and that bright to find our house.
You see, our address is number 18 and we have that clearly labeled on our house and on our mail box. But for some reason, delivery people and vendors cannot find our house. Instead, our stuff goes across the street to number 19.
We don’t know why this is. We very rarely receive things for number 19. But our neighbors constantly receive our things. Take the case of my daughter’s pizza. My daughter received a gift certificate for a pizza place as a graduation present. One day, she was hungry for a pizza. She called a couple of hours before she had to work to order a pepperoni pizza and asked to have it delivered.
We are very clear in giving our address. We say number eighteen and for emphasis we say number one eight. Very simple. Very clear. The pizza was promised in half an hour. After nearly an hour, she called and was told it was on its way. She repeated our address. Number eighteen. Number one eight.
After an hour and a half and no sign of the pizza, she made herself a sandwich and called the pizza place back saying the pizza had never arrived and that she had to leave for work. A few days later I learned from my neighbor that the pizza delivery boy brought tried to deliver a pepperoni pizza to them.
On another occasion my neighbor mentioned that a lawn service company had come and sprayed their yard. They didn’t use a lawn service. They hadn’t ordered any lawn care. I asked her what company. Sure enough, it was my company. I called my lawn service company to ask when they were going to treat my lawn. I was told they had just been to my address. “No you haven’t” I advised them. “You went to my neighbor’s house across the street”. The sad part is that I had been using this service for a few years by then.
The same thing happened with my pest control company. When the guy didn’t show up for the appointment, I called to check. He had gone to number 19 instead of number 18. Sad again because I also had been using this pest control company for a number of years.
My neighbors across the street frequently bring our mail to us because it winds up in their mail box. Recently a check intended for us went to their mail box – our address, their box. I have a magnet on my front door. They came over and left the check on my front door in the magnet. Thank heavens we have great neighbors across the street! It was a nice healthy check. When you are self employed as a freelancer, the check is always in the mail. It’s just nice when it’s your mail and you actually receive it!
Curiously, this misdelivery phenomenon is a one way kind of deal. We do not get their mail or pizzas or services. We’d like to. They had new Pella windows installed a few years ago. I am sure those lovely windows would look just as nice over here.
This year they both retired from 20 year plus careers at the same company. They celebrated by purchasing some new televisions and getting satellite TV service. I know we’d enjoy that! Last year they put in granite countertops in their kitchen. They are absolutely gorgeous and would look stunning in my kitchen as well. Right now they are having their deck remodeled with that man made decking material that never wears out. I was noticing our deck has a few warps and splits in it. New decking material would be excellent. But nothing of theirs shows up here. Just vise versa.
What is particularly annoying about this is that I work at home. So I am here when this stuff happens. Our door bell works just fine. There is no reason not to knock on our door. But it’s like the Maytag repair place over here!
It happened again today. My daughter is doing a semester abroad in London this fall through her college. She wants to do an internship and has applied for a British VISA. She received an automated call early this morning from an overnight mail delivery service that she had an overnight letter requiring her signature. We waited all day – eight hours to be exact.
We could have driven to Chicago in that length of time. Of course, we put the time to good use. I cleaned out the garage. We watched a movie I rented yesterday. We caught up on all our email. At 4 PM we discovered that the overnight mail delivery service went to our neighbor’s house with my daughter’s mail.
These absolutely wonderful neighbors aren’t home. They are in Columbus Ohio at a church event. We are taking care of their mail. We called the overnight mail delivery service and made arrangements to go pick up this letter. The pick up site is across town and the pick up window is only open from 7 PM to 7:30 PM. That’s two hours from now. I guess in that amount of time we could always order a pizza and have it delivered.
This is it. I’m throwing in the towel and putting up a flashing neon sign. It will be 20 feet tall, be orange and yellow and say “O’Bryan”. This isn’t because I’m becoming eccentric. This is a necessity. People apparently need a sign that big and that bright to find our house.
You see, our address is number 18 and we have that clearly labeled on our house and on our mail box. But for some reason, delivery people and vendors cannot find our house. Instead, our stuff goes across the street to number 19.
We don’t know why this is. We very rarely receive things for number 19. But our neighbors constantly receive our things. Take the case of my daughter’s pizza. My daughter received a gift certificate for a pizza place as a graduation present. One day, she was hungry for a pizza. She called a couple of hours before she had to work to order a pepperoni pizza and asked to have it delivered.
We are very clear in giving our address. We say number eighteen and for emphasis we say number one eight. Very simple. Very clear. The pizza was promised in half an hour. After nearly an hour, she called and was told it was on its way. She repeated our address. Number eighteen. Number one eight.
After an hour and a half and no sign of the pizza, she made herself a sandwich and called the pizza place back saying the pizza had never arrived and that she had to leave for work. A few days later I learned from my neighbor that the pizza delivery boy brought tried to deliver a pepperoni pizza to them.
On another occasion my neighbor mentioned that a lawn service company had come and sprayed their yard. They didn’t use a lawn service. They hadn’t ordered any lawn care. I asked her what company. Sure enough, it was my company. I called my lawn service company to ask when they were going to treat my lawn. I was told they had just been to my address. “No you haven’t” I advised them. “You went to my neighbor’s house across the street”. The sad part is that I had been using this service for a few years by then.
The same thing happened with my pest control company. When the guy didn’t show up for the appointment, I called to check. He had gone to number 19 instead of number 18. Sad again because I also had been using this pest control company for a number of years.
My neighbors across the street frequently bring our mail to us because it winds up in their mail box. Recently a check intended for us went to their mail box – our address, their box. I have a magnet on my front door. They came over and left the check on my front door in the magnet. Thank heavens we have great neighbors across the street! It was a nice healthy check. When you are self employed as a freelancer, the check is always in the mail. It’s just nice when it’s your mail and you actually receive it!
Curiously, this misdelivery phenomenon is a one way kind of deal. We do not get their mail or pizzas or services. We’d like to. They had new Pella windows installed a few years ago. I am sure those lovely windows would look just as nice over here.
This year they both retired from 20 year plus careers at the same company. They celebrated by purchasing some new televisions and getting satellite TV service. I know we’d enjoy that! Last year they put in granite countertops in their kitchen. They are absolutely gorgeous and would look stunning in my kitchen as well. Right now they are having their deck remodeled with that man made decking material that never wears out. I was noticing our deck has a few warps and splits in it. New decking material would be excellent. But nothing of theirs shows up here. Just vise versa.
What is particularly annoying about this is that I work at home. So I am here when this stuff happens. Our door bell works just fine. There is no reason not to knock on our door. But it’s like the Maytag repair place over here!
It happened again today. My daughter is doing a semester abroad in London this fall through her college. She wants to do an internship and has applied for a British VISA. She received an automated call early this morning from an overnight mail delivery service that she had an overnight letter requiring her signature. We waited all day – eight hours to be exact.
We could have driven to Chicago in that length of time. Of course, we put the time to good use. I cleaned out the garage. We watched a movie I rented yesterday. We caught up on all our email. At 4 PM we discovered that the overnight mail delivery service went to our neighbor’s house with my daughter’s mail.
These absolutely wonderful neighbors aren’t home. They are in Columbus Ohio at a church event. We are taking care of their mail. We called the overnight mail delivery service and made arrangements to go pick up this letter. The pick up site is across town and the pick up window is only open from 7 PM to 7:30 PM. That’s two hours from now. I guess in that amount of time we could always order a pizza and have it delivered.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
What I Like About Blogging
One of the best things that I like about blogging is that my husband’s life is now an open book. I somehow find that fulfilling and rewarding. My husband is completing a weeklong bike ride across Iowa, called RAGBRAI. Before he left, he told our youngest daughter that in his ideal RAGBRAI, I would drive an RV from town to town so he could sleep in it at night. I of course, would have my laptop and all my “leisure time” for writing.
I thought about this for about a minute and a half, or maybe like 3 seconds. First of all, my idea of an RV and his idea of an RV are at opposite ends of the spectrum. I’m thinking plush, leather seats, bump out sides, luxurious and roomy – very very roomy. He’s thinking room for a bike and a mattress with minimum rust.
I have a low tolerance for noise. Loudly ticking clocks keep me awake at night and I remove them. I don’t open windows, not only because the pollen etc from the outside makes me sick, but because the frogs and insect noise outside keeps me awake. In short, I don’t have a hearing problem.
My husband, on the other hand, has increasingly decreased hearing in addition to his selective hearing. To say that he sleeps like a rock would be an understatement. One evening, our fireplace was going but the flu wasn’t properly open. So, the fire alarm system in our house was activated. There’s an extremely loud alarm on every one of our three floors – including one right outside of the bedroom. Joy boy slept through the entire 15 minute ordeal while our youngest daughter and I worked on ventilation and got the alarm to shut off.
That screeching ear blasting alarm pales in comparison to the noise my husband makes while snoring. His snoring gets worse with activity – like riding a bike 100 miles a day. Therefore, the thought of spending several nights in a tin can with a sweaty snoring Sasquatch with sinus problems gave me night mares for a few days. I enjoy sleep deprivation even less than I enjoy anything that makes me get sweaty – like bike riding.
I’m off the hook for this year, of course. I recently had knee replacement surgery. Recently enough that driving anything across Iowa is completely out of the question at the moment. This might be why they say “timing is everything”.
But each day with the new tin lizzie knee is a little better. I am able to get up and down stairs relatively well and yesterday I ventured out in our back yard. This is quite a big deal for me. We have a walk out basement and our back yard slopes down. It’s just enough of a slope that it has always been tricky for me to walk down it. The alternate route is the basement steps, but those are wooden, go straight down, and are narrow and a bit scary.
But I managed an expedition into the back yard yesterday. We have a bird feeder back there which was sadly in need of filling. I packed some bird seed in a plastic container, slung it into a light weight back pack and blazed a trail to the back yard.
We used to have dogs that blazed the trail. They had certain set paths. They beat a path from the garage door to their favorite sleeping spots, then around the perimeter of the fence. We couldn’t get grass to grow on their doggy path, so I put in stepping stones.
We had basset hounds and basset hounds are funny creatures of habit. Normally, once they develop a habit, they will not change their habit for anything. Therefore, I thought putting in the stepping stones was a clever idea and would reduce muddy dog feet.
For some reason, our dogs did not like the stepping stones and actually moved their dog path. There must be something permanent about certain dog trails. Although we are currently ‘petless’ and have been so for a year and a half, we are still trying to get grass to grow on the doggy trail that now runs right along side of the stepping stones. Go figure.
In addition to filling my bird feeder, my expedition led me to the discovery of two nearly ripe tomatoes in my garden. Nature’s wonders never cease. Pat will return shortly and I am sure that I will have plenty of “Pat stories” to add to future blogs, including this week’s adventures on RAGBRAI – spent in a tent and not in an RV.
I thought about this for about a minute and a half, or maybe like 3 seconds. First of all, my idea of an RV and his idea of an RV are at opposite ends of the spectrum. I’m thinking plush, leather seats, bump out sides, luxurious and roomy – very very roomy. He’s thinking room for a bike and a mattress with minimum rust.
I have a low tolerance for noise. Loudly ticking clocks keep me awake at night and I remove them. I don’t open windows, not only because the pollen etc from the outside makes me sick, but because the frogs and insect noise outside keeps me awake. In short, I don’t have a hearing problem.
My husband, on the other hand, has increasingly decreased hearing in addition to his selective hearing. To say that he sleeps like a rock would be an understatement. One evening, our fireplace was going but the flu wasn’t properly open. So, the fire alarm system in our house was activated. There’s an extremely loud alarm on every one of our three floors – including one right outside of the bedroom. Joy boy slept through the entire 15 minute ordeal while our youngest daughter and I worked on ventilation and got the alarm to shut off.
That screeching ear blasting alarm pales in comparison to the noise my husband makes while snoring. His snoring gets worse with activity – like riding a bike 100 miles a day. Therefore, the thought of spending several nights in a tin can with a sweaty snoring Sasquatch with sinus problems gave me night mares for a few days. I enjoy sleep deprivation even less than I enjoy anything that makes me get sweaty – like bike riding.
I’m off the hook for this year, of course. I recently had knee replacement surgery. Recently enough that driving anything across Iowa is completely out of the question at the moment. This might be why they say “timing is everything”.
But each day with the new tin lizzie knee is a little better. I am able to get up and down stairs relatively well and yesterday I ventured out in our back yard. This is quite a big deal for me. We have a walk out basement and our back yard slopes down. It’s just enough of a slope that it has always been tricky for me to walk down it. The alternate route is the basement steps, but those are wooden, go straight down, and are narrow and a bit scary.
But I managed an expedition into the back yard yesterday. We have a bird feeder back there which was sadly in need of filling. I packed some bird seed in a plastic container, slung it into a light weight back pack and blazed a trail to the back yard.
We used to have dogs that blazed the trail. They had certain set paths. They beat a path from the garage door to their favorite sleeping spots, then around the perimeter of the fence. We couldn’t get grass to grow on their doggy path, so I put in stepping stones.
We had basset hounds and basset hounds are funny creatures of habit. Normally, once they develop a habit, they will not change their habit for anything. Therefore, I thought putting in the stepping stones was a clever idea and would reduce muddy dog feet.
For some reason, our dogs did not like the stepping stones and actually moved their dog path. There must be something permanent about certain dog trails. Although we are currently ‘petless’ and have been so for a year and a half, we are still trying to get grass to grow on the doggy trail that now runs right along side of the stepping stones. Go figure.
In addition to filling my bird feeder, my expedition led me to the discovery of two nearly ripe tomatoes in my garden. Nature’s wonders never cease. Pat will return shortly and I am sure that I will have plenty of “Pat stories” to add to future blogs, including this week’s adventures on RAGBRAI – spent in a tent and not in an RV.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Cycling Through Solutions
Normally I mow our lawn. I do this because my husband doesn’t do a very meticulous job. He also does things like lifting the lawnmower up into my flower beds to mow them, which results in hundreds of dollars of perennials being sucked out of the soil and ground into lifeless shreds.
But, I just had knee replacement surgery a few days ago. I cannot walk without crutches and I am taking narcotics for pain. Therefore, using a machine with sharp blades that can cut off appendages is unwise. Further, right now I am not physically capable of pushing the mower.
Which means my husband, Pat, has to mow the lawn. I got him to mow the grass once before I went to the hospital. He complained like an annoying mouthy attorney the entire time. No grass was mowed during the week that I was in the hospital. No grass was mowed the weekend that I came home from the hospital. No grass was mowed at all during last week. The grass is now up over my ankles and catches my crutches when I try to walk through it to fill my bird feeders and water my flowers. Now, my husband, Pat, has left for a week long bike ride. Therefore the grass continues to grow and he is nowhere to be found.
Of course, there were numerous opportunities to mow the grass. We’ve had lovely rain free weather for days now. Also, like a dutiful and caring spouse, I brought up the subject several thousand times, lest he forget that our grass needed to be mowed.
On each occasion, he conveniently found something else to do, such as add air to his bike tires, pretend to sleep in the recliner, putter around in the garage with bike stuff, go on bike rides and make one or two million phone calls about the weeklong bike ride. I’m betting that other ladies can identify with me as I am sure that I am not the only woman whose spouse puts his time consuming hobby far far above any household husbandly duties.
This bike ride is called RAGBRAI, which stands for the Register’s Annual Bike Ride Across Iowa. The Register is a local newspaper. The ride starts at a city on the western side of the state and riders spend a week pedaling across Iowa through various cities to the eastern part of the state. The launch point ritual is dipping a front bike tire in the Missouri river, which borders the western side of the state. The end point ritual is dipping a rear bike tire in the Mississippi river, which borders the western side of the state.
A minimum of 10,000 people participate in this ride and my husband describes it as “adult spring break.” There are countless stories of beer drinking, wild parties, beer drinking, alcohol consumption, quite a bit of food from various vendors, and beer drinking. Of course, there is pretty scenery in Iowa and lots of hills to pedal as well. However, since he’s Irish through and through, I’m thinking he goes for the parties and the beer drinking.
Personally, I like RAGBRAI. I don’t go. I enjoy it from a distance. It’s a week of peace and quiet for me. No snoring. No stinky bike clothes in the laundry. No daily recounts of every bike ride. No one stealing the TV remote to change the channel to Tour de France. No noise and grumbling in the garage. No one wearing cleated bike shoes across our ceramic tile floor and breaking the tiles. It’s ALL GOOD!
Enormous whining and complaining precipitates RAGBRAI each year. This year’s “sky is falling” catastrophe occurred on Friday when we discovered that my van needs new brakes all the way around, and therefore, would not be available for my husband to take on RAGBRAI. Pat actually rides his bike to the starting point for RAGBRAI. The van, minus all the passenger seats, was needed to haul the gear. That’s gear with a “g” and that rhymes with “b” which stands for beer. Of course, “g” also rhymes with “c” and that stands for a week’s worth of bike clothes. It also rhymes with “t” and that stands for tents. Throw in some sleeping bags, extra tires incase of blow outs, a towel and toiletries, his friend’s tandem bike and other assorted necessities. Of course, the van has a hitch, which is good in case a trailer is needed to haul anything else – like beer.
I’m not driving the van, of course. My husband got one of his friends to get his wife to volunteer to drive it for them. But the word from the mechanic was a set back for them all. Yes, this was avoidable if the van had been taken to the mechanic earlier, but I could not drive until Thursday and my non-lawn mowing husband didn’t take it in. He did, however, borrow it on Thursday to drive to a client appointment 3 hours away. As a result, it was Friday morning before I could take the van in for an oil change and to get the squealing grinding noise checked.
I’m not a “sky is falling” kind of person. I’m more the glass half full, obstacles are only opportunities in disguise kind of optimist – a real Pollyanna. I’m also resourceful. As a result, I offered several suggestions. One of them was to leave the tandem bike behind. This was rejected. Another was to take our Jeep and use the hitch bike carrier plus attach things to the luggage carrier on the roof of the Jeep. This also was rejected. My third brilliant idea was to use someone else’s van or rent one. Rejected. To be fair, Pat did not reject these ideas by himself. He was in constant consultation with his guy pack on this dilemma. It was a group decision.
Of course, you can’t mow the lawn when talking on a cell phone – unthinkable. In the end, I rejected one of their counter ideas – to let the guy’s wife drive my van with the bad brakes. This was so out of the question that I hid all the van keys! The bottom line is that the day was saved when the guy whose wife was going to drive the van decided to drive his truck to RAGBRAI and haul everything in the truck. I think that was actually like one of my ideas, but since it was actually my idea it was acceptable.
All of this, of course, left Pat way too emotionally exhausted to mow our grass. But, since there are no unsolvable problems and every obstacle is simply an opportunity in disguise, I’ve found the silver lining in this. This is an opportunity for an invention and a brilliant invention at that.
What we need is a pedal powered riding lawn mower. It would look like a regular bike and ride like a regular bike, but the wheels would be about 20 inches wide and would have razor sharp grass cutting blades, like the old hand push mowers did. It’s a win/win and a brilliant solution, if I do say so myself. Pedaling the bike would rotate the grass cutting blades. Pat - and other spouses like him, would get a bike ride in. Our grass would be cut whenever I can’t mow. It’s eco friendly and helpful in reducing our carbon footprint and overall in a positive step in saving the planet. Not to mention it would be quiet – far more quiet than our gas powered self propelled mower that I use now.
Of course, the bicycle mower could be decked out with bike ‘stuff’. Pannier bags could be attached to carry necessities like granola bars. A water bottle would still fit on the bike – and the water bottle could be filled with Gatorade, a necessity for any bike ride. Our yard is traffic free so an IPod can be worn and listened to with complete safety. And then there’s beer. A cooler with some beer could be carted out to the yard ahead of time because lawn mowing and drinking beer go hand in hand like RAGBRAI and beer drinking or like little boys and wet cement.
So, now that I have a brilliant ultimate solution to my dilemma, there are a few more things to resolve – like a design, a patient and the actual invention itself. In the meantime, I shall have to locate a starving college student and hire that person to mow our grass this week. In the meantime, I shall sit on our deck, enjoy the nice weather and watch the birdies looking for food in my empty bird feeders.
But, I just had knee replacement surgery a few days ago. I cannot walk without crutches and I am taking narcotics for pain. Therefore, using a machine with sharp blades that can cut off appendages is unwise. Further, right now I am not physically capable of pushing the mower.
Which means my husband, Pat, has to mow the lawn. I got him to mow the grass once before I went to the hospital. He complained like an annoying mouthy attorney the entire time. No grass was mowed during the week that I was in the hospital. No grass was mowed the weekend that I came home from the hospital. No grass was mowed at all during last week. The grass is now up over my ankles and catches my crutches when I try to walk through it to fill my bird feeders and water my flowers. Now, my husband, Pat, has left for a week long bike ride. Therefore the grass continues to grow and he is nowhere to be found.
Of course, there were numerous opportunities to mow the grass. We’ve had lovely rain free weather for days now. Also, like a dutiful and caring spouse, I brought up the subject several thousand times, lest he forget that our grass needed to be mowed.
On each occasion, he conveniently found something else to do, such as add air to his bike tires, pretend to sleep in the recliner, putter around in the garage with bike stuff, go on bike rides and make one or two million phone calls about the weeklong bike ride. I’m betting that other ladies can identify with me as I am sure that I am not the only woman whose spouse puts his time consuming hobby far far above any household husbandly duties.
This bike ride is called RAGBRAI, which stands for the Register’s Annual Bike Ride Across Iowa. The Register is a local newspaper. The ride starts at a city on the western side of the state and riders spend a week pedaling across Iowa through various cities to the eastern part of the state. The launch point ritual is dipping a front bike tire in the Missouri river, which borders the western side of the state. The end point ritual is dipping a rear bike tire in the Mississippi river, which borders the western side of the state.
A minimum of 10,000 people participate in this ride and my husband describes it as “adult spring break.” There are countless stories of beer drinking, wild parties, beer drinking, alcohol consumption, quite a bit of food from various vendors, and beer drinking. Of course, there is pretty scenery in Iowa and lots of hills to pedal as well. However, since he’s Irish through and through, I’m thinking he goes for the parties and the beer drinking.
Personally, I like RAGBRAI. I don’t go. I enjoy it from a distance. It’s a week of peace and quiet for me. No snoring. No stinky bike clothes in the laundry. No daily recounts of every bike ride. No one stealing the TV remote to change the channel to Tour de France. No noise and grumbling in the garage. No one wearing cleated bike shoes across our ceramic tile floor and breaking the tiles. It’s ALL GOOD!
Enormous whining and complaining precipitates RAGBRAI each year. This year’s “sky is falling” catastrophe occurred on Friday when we discovered that my van needs new brakes all the way around, and therefore, would not be available for my husband to take on RAGBRAI. Pat actually rides his bike to the starting point for RAGBRAI. The van, minus all the passenger seats, was needed to haul the gear. That’s gear with a “g” and that rhymes with “b” which stands for beer. Of course, “g” also rhymes with “c” and that stands for a week’s worth of bike clothes. It also rhymes with “t” and that stands for tents. Throw in some sleeping bags, extra tires incase of blow outs, a towel and toiletries, his friend’s tandem bike and other assorted necessities. Of course, the van has a hitch, which is good in case a trailer is needed to haul anything else – like beer.
I’m not driving the van, of course. My husband got one of his friends to get his wife to volunteer to drive it for them. But the word from the mechanic was a set back for them all. Yes, this was avoidable if the van had been taken to the mechanic earlier, but I could not drive until Thursday and my non-lawn mowing husband didn’t take it in. He did, however, borrow it on Thursday to drive to a client appointment 3 hours away. As a result, it was Friday morning before I could take the van in for an oil change and to get the squealing grinding noise checked.
I’m not a “sky is falling” kind of person. I’m more the glass half full, obstacles are only opportunities in disguise kind of optimist – a real Pollyanna. I’m also resourceful. As a result, I offered several suggestions. One of them was to leave the tandem bike behind. This was rejected. Another was to take our Jeep and use the hitch bike carrier plus attach things to the luggage carrier on the roof of the Jeep. This also was rejected. My third brilliant idea was to use someone else’s van or rent one. Rejected. To be fair, Pat did not reject these ideas by himself. He was in constant consultation with his guy pack on this dilemma. It was a group decision.
Of course, you can’t mow the lawn when talking on a cell phone – unthinkable. In the end, I rejected one of their counter ideas – to let the guy’s wife drive my van with the bad brakes. This was so out of the question that I hid all the van keys! The bottom line is that the day was saved when the guy whose wife was going to drive the van decided to drive his truck to RAGBRAI and haul everything in the truck. I think that was actually like one of my ideas, but since it was actually my idea it was acceptable.
All of this, of course, left Pat way too emotionally exhausted to mow our grass. But, since there are no unsolvable problems and every obstacle is simply an opportunity in disguise, I’ve found the silver lining in this. This is an opportunity for an invention and a brilliant invention at that.
What we need is a pedal powered riding lawn mower. It would look like a regular bike and ride like a regular bike, but the wheels would be about 20 inches wide and would have razor sharp grass cutting blades, like the old hand push mowers did. It’s a win/win and a brilliant solution, if I do say so myself. Pedaling the bike would rotate the grass cutting blades. Pat - and other spouses like him, would get a bike ride in. Our grass would be cut whenever I can’t mow. It’s eco friendly and helpful in reducing our carbon footprint and overall in a positive step in saving the planet. Not to mention it would be quiet – far more quiet than our gas powered self propelled mower that I use now.
Of course, the bicycle mower could be decked out with bike ‘stuff’. Pannier bags could be attached to carry necessities like granola bars. A water bottle would still fit on the bike – and the water bottle could be filled with Gatorade, a necessity for any bike ride. Our yard is traffic free so an IPod can be worn and listened to with complete safety. And then there’s beer. A cooler with some beer could be carted out to the yard ahead of time because lawn mowing and drinking beer go hand in hand like RAGBRAI and beer drinking or like little boys and wet cement.
So, now that I have a brilliant ultimate solution to my dilemma, there are a few more things to resolve – like a design, a patient and the actual invention itself. In the meantime, I shall have to locate a starving college student and hire that person to mow our grass this week. In the meantime, I shall sit on our deck, enjoy the nice weather and watch the birdies looking for food in my empty bird feeders.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Another New Tin Lizzie Knee
Today is my daughter and son-in-law’s first wedding anniversary. They went to Chicago for the weekend and went to see a Chicago Cubs baseball game. Hope the Cubs won. Don’t want them in a bad mood on their special trip.
I now have my second tin lizzie knee. It’s been just a couple months since my right knee replacement surgery and my doc changed how he does things. The pain control protocol changed. Now he gives 3 pain meds before the anesthesiologist gives you the spinal block and sleepy stuff. The more numb the better in my book.
After the trip through the chop shop and a short tour through the recovery room, you wind up in your hospital room. Staying in a hospital room now is like a visit to the spa and hospitals are borrowing some concepts and terms from the land of hotels. First, you get a private room – at least in orthopedics. This is great – better rest and recovery and fewer germs. The hospital has WIFI and encourages you to bring your laptop and Blackberry. There are no defined visitor hours and the room has a couch that doubles as a bed, allowing for overnight guests.
On day one, my leg was immobilized. I had lots of padding from my toes to mid-thigh and was wrapped in an athletic wrap that might have been able to stretch to Cincinnati if unwound. Hey, who knows - the world’s biggest rubber band ball might have been started by an orthopedic surgeon. My new titanium parts and padding were in a big blue immobilizing sling held in place with lots of Velcro. I think back in the doctor’s lounge that orthopedic surgeons compare notes on how much Velcro and athletic wrap is used in a day, reminiscent of fishermen telling fish stories, or any kind of guy fest where power tools are discussed.
I wonder if the athletic wrap for the hospital is delivered in 18 wheeler trucks and comes on large rolls like carpeting. It’s possible that it comes on spools the size of water towers for small towns. Of course, another option is that it is delivered on flat bed trucks and comes in a giant ball that would fill the Hoover Dam Reservoir. All of these options would require several burly guys, a crane, or possibly a forklift to haul it in.
Day one is great. You are slightly groggy and very numb. The spinal block evaporates your memory of your body from the waist down. It’s a bit like being half invisible. Invisible is good since you are also wearing a hospital gown with a peek show in back.
On day two, the Velcro sling comes off and they put you on a continuous motion machine twice a day. This is to keep your leg moving and the new knee bending. This is the day that the spinal block wears off. As sensation returns, it’s a bit like landing on an alien planet with a familiar landscape. “Houston, we are being contacted by hostile forces. We are under siege by a tribe of nerve endings on Planet Knee Cap. Our shields are failing.” Body parts, it turns out have a long memory and hold a grudge.
During this stay, however, I had a couple of melt downs. My husband, Pat, came to visit after work and was sleeping on a couch. It was irritating. Don’t know why – just was. Also, I had zero appetitive and some well meaning tray toter from “host services” (which is basically a cart pushed by a worker who fills your water pitcher) would not shut up. She asked me if I had ordered dinner. I hadn’t. You see, they have ‘room service” in hospital rooms now and you can order food from 6:30 AM to 7 PM. It was only 5 and I wasn’t hungry. I also wasn’t feeling talkative.
So, rather than just leave me alone, the wonder woman of the water cart decided she had to convince me to order dinner. She did this by saying inane things like “I’m a good mom’ and “I love my job”. For my part, I thought I was pretty clear. I used body language. I put my hand over my eyes and said “I am not hungry and I don’t want to talk.” Simple yet to the point. When this didn’t work, I finally lost it. Since I couldn’t heave a bed pan or crutch at her I burst into tears and ordered her and Pat out of my room. This apparently led both of them to find my nurse and suggest that I was in too much pain. Yah think?
Knee surgery is followed by a whole regimen for controlling blood clots. First, they take you off all medication that thins your blood – like my hormone patch, the lack of which may have contributed to the melt downs, and one of my arthritis meds that really helps control the arthritis and pain.
After eliminating things that might thin your blood, they give you blood thinners. If this is making sense to anyone, you might be a great candidate for medical school. Start making a rubber band ball and save Velcro now. Blood thinners come in pill form but I was fortunate enough to get liquid stuff injected though wicked little needles into my stomach twice a day. The first shot left a palm size black and blue bruise on the left side of my tummy that is still looking mighty angry and very sensitive to touch.
Back to the melt down. When the nurse came in to see me, her first line of interrogation was about ordering dinner. I tell you. These people are evil. I realized how helpless I was against them. About the only thing I could do was push the nurse call button. I wasn’t mobile. I couldn’t reach the walker or the crutches and I couldn’t get out of bed by myself. I decided that if I did order food, I would have something to throw. So I went through the menu and ordered stuff that was hot and liquid and would spatter, or came in large heavy bowls that would be good for discus throwing.
When the food came – what luck – the same tray toter brought it in, the pitcher pourer who pedals information about being a good mom and loving her job. I decided the next best thing was to fake sleep until their shift was over. After all, they all had to leave sometime. The next day was better although my doc did come in my room with a very serious look on his face – so who knows what they wrote in my chart. Good thing they didn’t know what I was thinking and that I never acted out any of my evil plans.
Another blood clot prevention thing they do is to slap your feet in the puffer booties. These things fit on your feet like Velcro sandals. They are hooked to a machine that fills them up with air every minute. The concept is a bit like a boa constrictor wrapped around its prey. As the air goes in, the puffer booties squeeze your feet. It helps keep blood circulating through your legs. It also makes it a little hard to sleep with a wheezing thing going off and squeezing your feet every minute. It does tend to push you up in the bed so it’s a bit like being rocked by an asthmatic robot.
I did have an IV in my hand. They put antibiotics in my IV and saline in my IV. I also got my shots in my IV, except for the ones in the stomach. The problem with IVs in your hand, when you need to use a walker or crutches, is that your hand bends and “compromises” the IV. The end result is that your hand swells up like a football. So, I had to have my IV changed. I started out with it in my left hand, since I’m right handed and I planned on doing some writing while in the hospital. But, they had to move the IV to my right hand. But no luck, the first poke went through my vein. I had Nurse very nice and I have pretty decent veins. But she wasn’t having success in the second spot. So, Nurse very nice called in another nurse. I was surrounded by women in white with needles. They went for a third unsuccessful spot in my right arm and then called in Nurse Janet.
Nurse Janet is Queen Mother of IVs. She still wears a nurse hat, which I thought was pretty cool. Nurse Janet went back to my left arm, talked to me and voila! The IV was placed. She put it half way between my wrist and my elbow – where getting in and out of bed and using a walker or crutches wasn’t going to affect it. I can’t even tell where Nurse Janet poked me. She left absolutely no trace. Having the IV in that location worked great. As a matter of fact, that’s where it should start out from the first poke back in the pre-operating area.
Most of the days I had Nurse Nimble. She is super nice, Asian and tiny. I don’t remember what she was doing, but I was sitting in a chair. She was helping me with something and wound up having to duck under my bedside tray. On day three I was able to lose the bulky bandages from surgery that were wrapped around my leg and knee. I graduated to some funky compression stockings that are basically an elastic tube. They are part of a pilot the hospital is doing to see if they work better at reducing swelling, etc., than other compression stockings.
The one for my non surgical leg went on peacefully. The one for my other leg was a bit of a bad boy. First, my surgical leg was puffy and stiff. It took 3 of us to get that thing on my leg. Nurse Nimble actually had to climb on my bed and tackle it at one point. I was holding bandages in place while Nurse Nimble and the surgical stocking swami wrestled with it. At that point, the pain pills were working just fine and I was copasetic.
Now that I’ve been wearing several days and am home, the stocking has been subdued but is still misbehaving. It is supposed to stay in place and keep my bandage over the staples that cover my new tin lizzie knee. But both ends of it like to roll. So, at one end I have a swollen foot with little fat sausage toes sticking out. At the other end my scar and staples peek out over the top of the non-cooperative and defiant flesh tube.
But, I did do well enough to get out of the hospital a day earlier than last time and I’m fairly mobile right now. I have less pain with this surgery and less swelling. So, all things considered, it was a success.
I now have my second tin lizzie knee. It’s been just a couple months since my right knee replacement surgery and my doc changed how he does things. The pain control protocol changed. Now he gives 3 pain meds before the anesthesiologist gives you the spinal block and sleepy stuff. The more numb the better in my book.
After the trip through the chop shop and a short tour through the recovery room, you wind up in your hospital room. Staying in a hospital room now is like a visit to the spa and hospitals are borrowing some concepts and terms from the land of hotels. First, you get a private room – at least in orthopedics. This is great – better rest and recovery and fewer germs. The hospital has WIFI and encourages you to bring your laptop and Blackberry. There are no defined visitor hours and the room has a couch that doubles as a bed, allowing for overnight guests.
On day one, my leg was immobilized. I had lots of padding from my toes to mid-thigh and was wrapped in an athletic wrap that might have been able to stretch to Cincinnati if unwound. Hey, who knows - the world’s biggest rubber band ball might have been started by an orthopedic surgeon. My new titanium parts and padding were in a big blue immobilizing sling held in place with lots of Velcro. I think back in the doctor’s lounge that orthopedic surgeons compare notes on how much Velcro and athletic wrap is used in a day, reminiscent of fishermen telling fish stories, or any kind of guy fest where power tools are discussed.
I wonder if the athletic wrap for the hospital is delivered in 18 wheeler trucks and comes on large rolls like carpeting. It’s possible that it comes on spools the size of water towers for small towns. Of course, another option is that it is delivered on flat bed trucks and comes in a giant ball that would fill the Hoover Dam Reservoir. All of these options would require several burly guys, a crane, or possibly a forklift to haul it in.
Day one is great. You are slightly groggy and very numb. The spinal block evaporates your memory of your body from the waist down. It’s a bit like being half invisible. Invisible is good since you are also wearing a hospital gown with a peek show in back.
On day two, the Velcro sling comes off and they put you on a continuous motion machine twice a day. This is to keep your leg moving and the new knee bending. This is the day that the spinal block wears off. As sensation returns, it’s a bit like landing on an alien planet with a familiar landscape. “Houston, we are being contacted by hostile forces. We are under siege by a tribe of nerve endings on Planet Knee Cap. Our shields are failing.” Body parts, it turns out have a long memory and hold a grudge.
During this stay, however, I had a couple of melt downs. My husband, Pat, came to visit after work and was sleeping on a couch. It was irritating. Don’t know why – just was. Also, I had zero appetitive and some well meaning tray toter from “host services” (which is basically a cart pushed by a worker who fills your water pitcher) would not shut up. She asked me if I had ordered dinner. I hadn’t. You see, they have ‘room service” in hospital rooms now and you can order food from 6:30 AM to 7 PM. It was only 5 and I wasn’t hungry. I also wasn’t feeling talkative.
So, rather than just leave me alone, the wonder woman of the water cart decided she had to convince me to order dinner. She did this by saying inane things like “I’m a good mom’ and “I love my job”. For my part, I thought I was pretty clear. I used body language. I put my hand over my eyes and said “I am not hungry and I don’t want to talk.” Simple yet to the point. When this didn’t work, I finally lost it. Since I couldn’t heave a bed pan or crutch at her I burst into tears and ordered her and Pat out of my room. This apparently led both of them to find my nurse and suggest that I was in too much pain. Yah think?
Knee surgery is followed by a whole regimen for controlling blood clots. First, they take you off all medication that thins your blood – like my hormone patch, the lack of which may have contributed to the melt downs, and one of my arthritis meds that really helps control the arthritis and pain.
After eliminating things that might thin your blood, they give you blood thinners. If this is making sense to anyone, you might be a great candidate for medical school. Start making a rubber band ball and save Velcro now. Blood thinners come in pill form but I was fortunate enough to get liquid stuff injected though wicked little needles into my stomach twice a day. The first shot left a palm size black and blue bruise on the left side of my tummy that is still looking mighty angry and very sensitive to touch.
Back to the melt down. When the nurse came in to see me, her first line of interrogation was about ordering dinner. I tell you. These people are evil. I realized how helpless I was against them. About the only thing I could do was push the nurse call button. I wasn’t mobile. I couldn’t reach the walker or the crutches and I couldn’t get out of bed by myself. I decided that if I did order food, I would have something to throw. So I went through the menu and ordered stuff that was hot and liquid and would spatter, or came in large heavy bowls that would be good for discus throwing.
When the food came – what luck – the same tray toter brought it in, the pitcher pourer who pedals information about being a good mom and loving her job. I decided the next best thing was to fake sleep until their shift was over. After all, they all had to leave sometime. The next day was better although my doc did come in my room with a very serious look on his face – so who knows what they wrote in my chart. Good thing they didn’t know what I was thinking and that I never acted out any of my evil plans.
Another blood clot prevention thing they do is to slap your feet in the puffer booties. These things fit on your feet like Velcro sandals. They are hooked to a machine that fills them up with air every minute. The concept is a bit like a boa constrictor wrapped around its prey. As the air goes in, the puffer booties squeeze your feet. It helps keep blood circulating through your legs. It also makes it a little hard to sleep with a wheezing thing going off and squeezing your feet every minute. It does tend to push you up in the bed so it’s a bit like being rocked by an asthmatic robot.
I did have an IV in my hand. They put antibiotics in my IV and saline in my IV. I also got my shots in my IV, except for the ones in the stomach. The problem with IVs in your hand, when you need to use a walker or crutches, is that your hand bends and “compromises” the IV. The end result is that your hand swells up like a football. So, I had to have my IV changed. I started out with it in my left hand, since I’m right handed and I planned on doing some writing while in the hospital. But, they had to move the IV to my right hand. But no luck, the first poke went through my vein. I had Nurse very nice and I have pretty decent veins. But she wasn’t having success in the second spot. So, Nurse very nice called in another nurse. I was surrounded by women in white with needles. They went for a third unsuccessful spot in my right arm and then called in Nurse Janet.
Nurse Janet is Queen Mother of IVs. She still wears a nurse hat, which I thought was pretty cool. Nurse Janet went back to my left arm, talked to me and voila! The IV was placed. She put it half way between my wrist and my elbow – where getting in and out of bed and using a walker or crutches wasn’t going to affect it. I can’t even tell where Nurse Janet poked me. She left absolutely no trace. Having the IV in that location worked great. As a matter of fact, that’s where it should start out from the first poke back in the pre-operating area.
Most of the days I had Nurse Nimble. She is super nice, Asian and tiny. I don’t remember what she was doing, but I was sitting in a chair. She was helping me with something and wound up having to duck under my bedside tray. On day three I was able to lose the bulky bandages from surgery that were wrapped around my leg and knee. I graduated to some funky compression stockings that are basically an elastic tube. They are part of a pilot the hospital is doing to see if they work better at reducing swelling, etc., than other compression stockings.
The one for my non surgical leg went on peacefully. The one for my other leg was a bit of a bad boy. First, my surgical leg was puffy and stiff. It took 3 of us to get that thing on my leg. Nurse Nimble actually had to climb on my bed and tackle it at one point. I was holding bandages in place while Nurse Nimble and the surgical stocking swami wrestled with it. At that point, the pain pills were working just fine and I was copasetic.
Now that I’ve been wearing several days and am home, the stocking has been subdued but is still misbehaving. It is supposed to stay in place and keep my bandage over the staples that cover my new tin lizzie knee. But both ends of it like to roll. So, at one end I have a swollen foot with little fat sausage toes sticking out. At the other end my scar and staples peek out over the top of the non-cooperative and defiant flesh tube.
But, I did do well enough to get out of the hospital a day earlier than last time and I’m fairly mobile right now. I have less pain with this surgery and less swelling. So, all things considered, it was a success.
Monday, April 27, 2009
More Than Four Legs Are Too Many
Outside bugs may have a good purpose for them. Outside they play an important role in flower pollination. Also, for other outside creatures, bugs are an important part of the food chain. I’ve noticed a few woodpeckers at my birdfeeder, but they seem to have a little trouble with the seeds and apparently prefer food that moves. Inside the house should be absolutely off limits for bugs. (Inside should be off limits for my husband’s bikes, too, but we'll work on these issues one at a time.)
We've had some memorable moments with bugs. Some of these moments involve repainting spots on walls to cover up bug remains. We prefer that my husband catch and release insects, preferably by flushing them down the toilet. But catch and release isn’t always possible and not everything sponges off.
A number of our bug moments involved our youngest daughter. We now have a regular pest company come and spray because our house has settled enough that box elder bugs were able to march into her room one sunny morning and crawl on her before she was ready to crawl out of bed herself. No one wants bed bugs – or even box elder bugs who want to cuddle up as bedmates. But then being the youngest of three required this daughter to be tough; just maybe not that tough.
At this point in time, our youngest daughter had long dark brown pig tails with matching bows. She was wearing denim bib over all shorts. We climbed into our seats, carefully buckled up, and checked a newspaper for the address of the store with the beanie babies.
We still had the windows down in the hot van as I drove out of the restaurant parking lot. My daughter began screaming hysterically, clutching frantically at the seatbelt, and trying to levitate herself and the van. I thought the metal buckle on the seat belt had gotten hot and was burning her bare legs. As I flipped the seatbelt open she jet propelled herself into the far reaches of the back of the van.
I discovered the real problem was a giant spider swinging precariously back and forth in the open passenger window. I instantly understood Miss Muffet's terror. No one wants a spider to sit beside her.
This was just the two of us and in emergencies like this bug removal falls to the Mom. There was only one thing to do. I rolled the newspaper into a serious weapon and flung it at the taunting spider, sending it and the newspaper airborne. Thank heavens for electric windows. I quickly rolled up the window before the spider could return – or send in any friends. Then I tried to convince my daughter it was safe to return to her seat. What finally did convince her was that I assured her that I wouldn't still be in the front seat if there was a spider anywhere nearby. This she believed. So did I.
We drove to a nearby small town where we refreshed ourselves with ‘real’ cherry cokes from an old fashioned soda fountain. We also added generously to her beanie baby collection. After all, a scare like that deserves a few extra stuffed animals.
It had rained earlier in the day and possibly sprinkled when we were eating lunch. I can’t remember anymore. So it is possible that this far from itsy bitsy spider mistook our silvery van as a shiny water spout and climbed up our van instead. Following this logic, when the sun came out, the spider must have dodged death from frying in the sun by rappelling down our open van window. Then it defied death once again by parasailing into the van as I was randomly smacking space with a rolled up newspaper. But, unlike cats, spiders must not have 9 lives as this spider met its demise by being squished when my daughter plopped back down on the passenger seat.
It wasn't until she was in high school that I told the truth about the spider. Understandably, she was quite upset to learn that the spider had been flattened by her. As for me, I will be calling our pest control company. I suspect that my husband will be busy on bike rides and no where to be found when it’s time to combat and capture of the spring invasion of things with too many legs.
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