* if I am backing into a parking space at Great Clips, because I have a coupon, and they don't look busy...a van will pull in closer, and a disheveled woman and two kids will climb out and beat me to the door
* a car that pulls out in front of me, with the gas-cap door hanging open, and leaves a two-car-length gap behind the truck in front of it at the stoplight, will undoubtedly make a left turn from the right lane, eschewing the center turn lane
* when I back out of the garage in a hurry, to pick up The Pony after his academic team practice on the day I don't go to school because of my lab appointment, a journey that takes thirty minutes, Juno will run into the garage and refuse to come out, necessitating my descent from the control center of my large SUV, to chase her and remove her in order to close the garage door
* if I go to bed late, and plan on catching twenty winks in the recliner the next morning while Hick takes his shower, before time to wake The Pony, the dogs will decide that some furry apocalypse is lurking at the edge of darkness, and bay at odd intervals while thumping against the front door
* a heavy-duty, canvas-duck dog toy purchased for Juno will last approximately twenty-three hours before wads of white stuffing start showing up in her dog house, on the porch, and in the front yard
* nobody around here likes sausage pizza except me, but when I leave two pieces in the fridge for lunch the next day, they will disappear, while the cheese and the pepperoni slices remain untouched
* after washing my copper-bottomed steel pan in my almond sink, I will have to wash the sink to remove the black stains, which would not have appeared in the stainless-steel sink I requested when building the house, that was rejected because it would "look cheap"
* I'm some freaky kind of Mensa-worthy brainiac, because I, alone, know how to take paper plates out of the cabinet and refill the wooden holder on the counter that proclaims Everyday China
Unbagging the Cats 1
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
The Imaginarium of Val the Victorian
I don't mean to be a reverse misogynist. That might not be the best term. A reverse misogynist could be a lover of women, and I wouldn't have any qualms about being one of those. In the platonic sense, of course. Not that there's anything wrong with that other way.
Because of the confusion, I googled hater of men. I'm not a hater of men, mind you. I don't mean to be one. But I found out the correct term is misandrist. Really. Would you have understood me if I said, "I don't mean to be a misandrist" in the beginning? Didn't think so.
I had an unsettling moment this afternoon while working in my classroom, waiting for The Pony to be done with his academic team practice across town. We had our monthly faculty meeting after school, and the moment it was over, folks cleared out of there like other folks rush into Walmart the moment the doors are opened on Black Friday. Like a reverse day-after-Thanksgiving sale.
I stopped by the teacher workroom to gather my mail. When I stepped out, both ends of the hall were as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. I might have seen a tumbleweed roll by the west wing. I continued to my classroom, and noticed the closet door right next to it was open. The closet that is locked all the live-long day, that contains boxes of paper, file cabinets of ancient records, and a microfiche reader. I felt like I was a young Jamie Lee Curtis, three months after Halloween, with Michael Myers still on the loose. It was surreal. Like my eyes were a camera dollying along the smooth tile, panning left into the closet just before I turned at my door alcove.
A man sat just inside the closet.
He was not a big man, not wearing a Halloween mask, not menacing. But he was a stranger. I'm not one to cry "Wolf!" I don't accost a school board member wandering our halls and ask if he has a pass from the office. I don't lock my door if a book falls in another room and a kid thinks it's a gunshot. I don't think every man finds me the utmost in desirability, and wants to pick me up. Well, unless I'm shopping in Save A Lot.
I was uncomfortable. We were the only two people in the building. I did not know him from Adam. His name might have been Adam. Where did he come from? All of the faculty, support staff, and building administrator had been in the meeting with me. Who was this guy, and how did he get that locked door open?
He might have been somebody's husband. But if so, where was the somebody? I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. I tied up some loose ends while sitting at my desk. Which I might not have mentioned is in the far corner, diagonal from the door, the only place the tech guy installed all of the wiring for my electronic necessities. I was a virtual sitting duck. Painted into a corner. Trapped like a rat. There's no way I could have outrun the guy. But I think I could have done some damage wielding a hard plastic chair.
All this was running in my subconscious while I worked, like a computer program running in the background. Then, it happened. Dude came into my room, and asked for some scissors. SCISSORS! The perfect murder weapon. Actually, that would be an icicle. But I'm sure scissors would suffice as long as he knew how to get rid of evidence.
And I gave him the scissors!
Because I'm not a misandrist. Just a Nervous Nelly.
Dude brought back my scissors and thanked me. I never did look him in the eye. I'm sure the majority of women who are snatched while jogging or birdwatching or waiting for a bus or...I don't know...working after hours in their classroom...think a random dude is harmless. Until he snatches them.
I locked up my room and started the long walk down the hall to where I park at the end of the building. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. When I saw my car through those exit-only doors, my heart beat a little faster. There was a big white car parked directly beside my black SUV. The only two vehicles in the parking lot. That's what you'd do, right? All those spaces to choose from, and you'd take the one farthest from the unlocked entrance door. You'd park so that your driver's door was next to the lone car's driver's door, right? That's how normal people think. I'm sure.
Something is rotten in Backroads.
Because of the confusion, I googled hater of men. I'm not a hater of men, mind you. I don't mean to be one. But I found out the correct term is misandrist. Really. Would you have understood me if I said, "I don't mean to be a misandrist" in the beginning? Didn't think so.
I had an unsettling moment this afternoon while working in my classroom, waiting for The Pony to be done with his academic team practice across town. We had our monthly faculty meeting after school, and the moment it was over, folks cleared out of there like other folks rush into Walmart the moment the doors are opened on Black Friday. Like a reverse day-after-Thanksgiving sale.
I stopped by the teacher workroom to gather my mail. When I stepped out, both ends of the hall were as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. I might have seen a tumbleweed roll by the west wing. I continued to my classroom, and noticed the closet door right next to it was open. The closet that is locked all the live-long day, that contains boxes of paper, file cabinets of ancient records, and a microfiche reader. I felt like I was a young Jamie Lee Curtis, three months after Halloween, with Michael Myers still on the loose. It was surreal. Like my eyes were a camera dollying along the smooth tile, panning left into the closet just before I turned at my door alcove.
A man sat just inside the closet.
He was not a big man, not wearing a Halloween mask, not menacing. But he was a stranger. I'm not one to cry "Wolf!" I don't accost a school board member wandering our halls and ask if he has a pass from the office. I don't lock my door if a book falls in another room and a kid thinks it's a gunshot. I don't think every man finds me the utmost in desirability, and wants to pick me up. Well, unless I'm shopping in Save A Lot.
I was uncomfortable. We were the only two people in the building. I did not know him from Adam. His name might have been Adam. Where did he come from? All of the faculty, support staff, and building administrator had been in the meeting with me. Who was this guy, and how did he get that locked door open?
He might have been somebody's husband. But if so, where was the somebody? I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. I tied up some loose ends while sitting at my desk. Which I might not have mentioned is in the far corner, diagonal from the door, the only place the tech guy installed all of the wiring for my electronic necessities. I was a virtual sitting duck. Painted into a corner. Trapped like a rat. There's no way I could have outrun the guy. But I think I could have done some damage wielding a hard plastic chair.
All this was running in my subconscious while I worked, like a computer program running in the background. Then, it happened. Dude came into my room, and asked for some scissors. SCISSORS! The perfect murder weapon. Actually, that would be an icicle. But I'm sure scissors would suffice as long as he knew how to get rid of evidence.
And I gave him the scissors!
Because I'm not a misandrist. Just a Nervous Nelly.
Dude brought back my scissors and thanked me. I never did look him in the eye. I'm sure the majority of women who are snatched while jogging or birdwatching or waiting for a bus or...I don't know...working after hours in their classroom...think a random dude is harmless. Until he snatches them.
I locked up my room and started the long walk down the hall to where I park at the end of the building. I resisted the urge to look over my shoulder. When I saw my car through those exit-only doors, my heart beat a little faster. There was a big white car parked directly beside my black SUV. The only two vehicles in the parking lot. That's what you'd do, right? All those spaces to choose from, and you'd take the one farthest from the unlocked entrance door. You'd park so that your driver's door was next to the lone car's driver's door, right? That's how normal people think. I'm sure.
Something is rotten in Backroads.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Rumors of My Filthiness Have Been Greatly Exaggerated
After giving a blood sample in the hospital lab on Thursday, I stopped by the gift shop on the way out to buy Hick some collectible chickens. My mom had asked to ride along with me, to get out of the house for a while. We passed the chickens around, debating on the markings (her) and the expressions painted on their faces (me). When you're buying chickens, you have to select the ones that are just right. I'm glad it was early in the morning, so people didn't see us standing in the display window, fingering chickens.
I decided on three proper chickens, and mom carried two of them to the counter for me. The cashier was one of three older ladies who volunteer there. She was a prim woman in a blue smock, very personable, the kind who has her hair done once a week at her beauty parlor. She commented on how cute the chickens were, and carefully preserved them in bubble wrap for the ride home. I paid her and handed Mom the bag. Because she likes to be useful, and baby me. I had a big red swatch of that red stretchy tape holding the gauze over my venous puncture site. So she thought me fragile, I suppose.
While I was putting the change back in my purse, I grabbed my mini bottle of Germ-X. Green, apple-scented Germ-X. "Before I go, I'm going to wash my hands. It's easier here than when I'm driving." The cashier nodded. As we walked through the self-opening door, out the front entrance of the hospital, I commented to Mom, "I hope she didn't think I was washing off her germs. It's just that I touched the chair arms in the lab, and sick people go in there, you know."
I'm not a germaphobe. But in the winter, after a visit to the hospital, or in my classroom, after touching the same stuff 120 students touch, I like a good cleanse a couple of times a day. But even I draw the line at being overly antiseptic. Take Bleachragapalooza, for instance.
The person who cleans my room loooooves her some bleach rag. She's very good at her job. Very efficient. At least once a week, everything gets a once-over with the bleach rag. I was fine with that. Until Tuesday. I arrived to find that the top of my Christmas gift of a faux-leather, light-blue, flip-top, notepad holder had been bleach-ragged. That's all well and good if the top lid is bereft of adornment. I'm sure a vinyl surface can be bleach-ragged without drawing my attention. But I had two mini post-it notes on there. Telling me which files I needed to gather information on Study Island. That place is so hard to navigate, I almost need Bear Grylls watching over me.
Do you know what happens to a mini post-it note written in pencil after a wild evening of Bleachragapalooza? He rolls up on himself, is what, and loses his memory. Anything written on him disappears. So there were two yellow curls of what could have, if they were dark brown, passed for chocolate curls on a baby-blue mini vinyl-frosting cake.
Am I so dirty that I need my post-its bleach-ragged? I know my laptop receives regular bleach-ragging. It is pristine. I'm not complaining. I only hope it's because that's part of the routine in all classrooms. Not because I am the Elaine Benes of the building, who might drag a keyboard across her butt to make a point.
Let the record show that I was once hired for a job in a junk store because I looked clean. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, baby!
I decided on three proper chickens, and mom carried two of them to the counter for me. The cashier was one of three older ladies who volunteer there. She was a prim woman in a blue smock, very personable, the kind who has her hair done once a week at her beauty parlor. She commented on how cute the chickens were, and carefully preserved them in bubble wrap for the ride home. I paid her and handed Mom the bag. Because she likes to be useful, and baby me. I had a big red swatch of that red stretchy tape holding the gauze over my venous puncture site. So she thought me fragile, I suppose.
While I was putting the change back in my purse, I grabbed my mini bottle of Germ-X. Green, apple-scented Germ-X. "Before I go, I'm going to wash my hands. It's easier here than when I'm driving." The cashier nodded. As we walked through the self-opening door, out the front entrance of the hospital, I commented to Mom, "I hope she didn't think I was washing off her germs. It's just that I touched the chair arms in the lab, and sick people go in there, you know."
I'm not a germaphobe. But in the winter, after a visit to the hospital, or in my classroom, after touching the same stuff 120 students touch, I like a good cleanse a couple of times a day. But even I draw the line at being overly antiseptic. Take Bleachragapalooza, for instance.
The person who cleans my room loooooves her some bleach rag. She's very good at her job. Very efficient. At least once a week, everything gets a once-over with the bleach rag. I was fine with that. Until Tuesday. I arrived to find that the top of my Christmas gift of a faux-leather, light-blue, flip-top, notepad holder had been bleach-ragged. That's all well and good if the top lid is bereft of adornment. I'm sure a vinyl surface can be bleach-ragged without drawing my attention. But I had two mini post-it notes on there. Telling me which files I needed to gather information on Study Island. That place is so hard to navigate, I almost need Bear Grylls watching over me.
Do you know what happens to a mini post-it note written in pencil after a wild evening of Bleachragapalooza? He rolls up on himself, is what, and loses his memory. Anything written on him disappears. So there were two yellow curls of what could have, if they were dark brown, passed for chocolate curls on a baby-blue mini vinyl-frosting cake.
Am I so dirty that I need my post-its bleach-ragged? I know my laptop receives regular bleach-ragging. It is pristine. I'm not complaining. I only hope it's because that's part of the routine in all classrooms. Not because I am the Elaine Benes of the building, who might drag a keyboard across her butt to make a point.
Let the record show that I was once hired for a job in a junk store because I looked clean. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, baby!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
A Pair of Love-Chickens for my Sweetie
Shh...can you keep a secret? Here's what I'm getting Hick for Valentine's Day:
Hick loves him some chickens. He's a collector. That's a nicer term than hoarder, right? Two are ceramic, and one is resin. I found them at the hospital gift shop when I went to the lab to leave some blood on Thursday. That place always has a fantastic chicken collection. I bypassed the pewter-looking flat hen and rooster, and the large, more lifelike black and white resin varieties. Hick has several of those large ones already, in better colors.
I'm sure he'll take these down to his rustic cabin by the creek. You know, as opposed to his modern, glass-and-steel cabin. Duh. I think a cabin is, by definition, rustic.
Did you know that, depending on how you pose them, these chickens can be best buddies, strutting along, sharing secrets, on top of the world, or...
...in the middle of an uncomfortable confrontation. One is, perhaps, pointing the wing at his partner, laying blame for an unthinkable atrocity. Someone is not getting out of this mess with feathers unruffled.
I hope Hick has as much fun with them as I did this evening while he was gone to an auction. They are now safely ensconced under The Pony's bed, inside a plastic bag, wound individually in separate sheets of bubble-wrap. It's best that they don't stick their necks out during the chomping of the hot wing dip during the Super Bowl.
Hick and I are not exactly lovebird material. We're more like love-chickens.
Hick loves him some chickens. He's a collector. That's a nicer term than hoarder, right? Two are ceramic, and one is resin. I found them at the hospital gift shop when I went to the lab to leave some blood on Thursday. That place always has a fantastic chicken collection. I bypassed the pewter-looking flat hen and rooster, and the large, more lifelike black and white resin varieties. Hick has several of those large ones already, in better colors.
I'm sure he'll take these down to his rustic cabin by the creek. You know, as opposed to his modern, glass-and-steel cabin. Duh. I think a cabin is, by definition, rustic.
Did you know that, depending on how you pose them, these chickens can be best buddies, strutting along, sharing secrets, on top of the world, or...
...in the middle of an uncomfortable confrontation. One is, perhaps, pointing the wing at his partner, laying blame for an unthinkable atrocity. Someone is not getting out of this mess with feathers unruffled.
I hope Hick has as much fun with them as I did this evening while he was gone to an auction. They are now safely ensconced under The Pony's bed, inside a plastic bag, wound individually in separate sheets of bubble-wrap. It's best that they don't stick their necks out during the chomping of the hot wing dip during the Super Bowl.
Hick and I are not exactly lovebird material. We're more like love-chickens.
Friday, February 3, 2012
It's Hard Out There for a Wimp
From the same Val who brought you the outrageous case of the mail-order service clerk who tried to alter the chosen shipping method to save the customer money...comes the tale of the judgmental convenience store clerk.
I was waiting in line behind a large trucker-type at the Gas Station Chicken Store counter a few days ago. The purchase of said gas station chicken may or may not have been involved. I can only say that if it was, then Val became a graduate of the Unnecessarily Delayed Gratification Club that day. Against her will.
Trucker had good taste. He grabbed himself a 44 oz. foam cup and filled it to the brim with tasty carbonated brew. He then took a second cup and put the first cup inside. I do it all the time. Extra insulation. That beverage will remain refreshingly cold all the live-long day. The exception being that I have a spare cup or two at home, and double-cup there instead of inside the Gas Station Chicken Store.
The clerk looked at Trucker's cup rig. "You know I'm going to have to charge you extra for the cup." She said it like a true minimum-wage clairvoyant.
"Yeah. That's fine." Trucker had his money out, ready to pay.
"I'll have to ring it up as a cup of ice. That's eighty-nine cents."
"Okay."
"Do you want to get ice in it?"
"No. It's fine."
"Because I have to charge you for a second cup of ice."
"Yeah."
"Are you sure you want the second cup?"
"I need it. My soda wobbles in my truck if I don't."
"All right, then. That's two twenty-eight."
The nerve of that quick-stop moralizer! It's not like the dude was counting out pennies. Or using an EBT card. Or looked like he slept under a nearby bridge. Stop fifth-guessing his motives. Sell him what he's buying. There was no turnip truck out front with a hunk of Trucker's hide on the pavement nearby. I saw no pumpkin frost on that country bumpkin. Nor did he have the smooth, soft skin that might signal that he was born yesterday. Trucker was a veritable rock. I'm glad he stood his ground.
Let the customer be right once in a while. Please.
I was waiting in line behind a large trucker-type at the Gas Station Chicken Store counter a few days ago. The purchase of said gas station chicken may or may not have been involved. I can only say that if it was, then Val became a graduate of the Unnecessarily Delayed Gratification Club that day. Against her will.
Trucker had good taste. He grabbed himself a 44 oz. foam cup and filled it to the brim with tasty carbonated brew. He then took a second cup and put the first cup inside. I do it all the time. Extra insulation. That beverage will remain refreshingly cold all the live-long day. The exception being that I have a spare cup or two at home, and double-cup there instead of inside the Gas Station Chicken Store.
The clerk looked at Trucker's cup rig. "You know I'm going to have to charge you extra for the cup." She said it like a true minimum-wage clairvoyant.
"Yeah. That's fine." Trucker had his money out, ready to pay.
"I'll have to ring it up as a cup of ice. That's eighty-nine cents."
"Okay."
"Do you want to get ice in it?"
"No. It's fine."
"Because I have to charge you for a second cup of ice."
"Yeah."
"Are you sure you want the second cup?"
"I need it. My soda wobbles in my truck if I don't."
"All right, then. That's two twenty-eight."
The nerve of that quick-stop moralizer! It's not like the dude was counting out pennies. Or using an EBT card. Or looked like he slept under a nearby bridge. Stop fifth-guessing his motives. Sell him what he's buying. There was no turnip truck out front with a hunk of Trucker's hide on the pavement nearby. I saw no pumpkin frost on that country bumpkin. Nor did he have the smooth, soft skin that might signal that he was born yesterday. Trucker was a veritable rock. I'm glad he stood his ground.
Let the customer be right once in a while. Please.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Omnipotent Val
This is not just my narcissistic personality disorder talking. I have evidence that points to my all-powerful influence over people, places, and things. But first, lets put a screeching, stereo-needle-skipping halt to the flow, and delve into some backstory.
Hick showers every morning, dresses, pops two Eggo NutriGrain Blueberry Waffles into the toaster, goes out to feed the dogs, and returns to scoop up his on-the-go breakfast.
I, on the other hand, arise thirty minutes before Hick, prepare myself for public presentation, and recline under a comforter in front of the TV until time to wake up The Pony. It's a finely-choreographed ballet. Heh. I almost typed buffet. Freudian slip. Anyway, I am usually on my six o'clock phone call to my mom while Hick is waffling about the kitchen.
Tuesday, I told my mom to hold on. I hollered to Hick, "Do you smell something burning?"
"No. I'm making waffles."
"You don't smell that?"
"Something smells kind of burned. I thought I smelled it last night. I told Genius to check and see if anything was cooking, but he couldn't find anything."
"Well, that's something burning."
"I didn't do it."
"You're in there using the toaster. I thought you might know something about it."
"It might be from this bread sack laying by the toaster."
"Most people would make sure the toaster was clear."
"Well, I didn't put it there."
"Take it off."
"It's not really touching. It looks like a bread tie or plastic clip down in the toaster."
"Well, shake it out!"
"You always blame me for everything."
"Uh. I'm IN HERE under a comforter. YOU are the one using the toaster, where there is something burning."
"I TOLD you, I didn't do it!"
Hick stormed out in a huff. I told my mom how I had started a toaster fire while talking to her on the phone. I wanted to regale her with my mad skillz of telekinesis, rivaling those of Carrie White, she of the dirtypillows and pig blood conditioner, life of the prom...but I don't think Mom reads Stephen King.
It gets better. Even Steven popped in. The great karmic equalizer. But first, more backstory. I made a pot of chili on Sunday. Hick enjoys toast with his chili. He must have had some leftovers Monday evening, after I retired to my dark basement lair to blog away the hours.
When I checked on the toaster, I did not find anything inside. But the stale half-loaf of bread that I set on the counter to feed the chickens was down to only two heels. Rather than harvesting the fresh whole-grain from the bread cabinet, Hick had raided the chicken bread. There's nothing that makes Hick squeamish more than hairless baby mice and moldy bread. While I can vouch that the kitchen is mouse-free, I can't verify the status of the stale bread.
I'm laughing best.
Hick showers every morning, dresses, pops two Eggo NutriGrain Blueberry Waffles into the toaster, goes out to feed the dogs, and returns to scoop up his on-the-go breakfast.
I, on the other hand, arise thirty minutes before Hick, prepare myself for public presentation, and recline under a comforter in front of the TV until time to wake up The Pony. It's a finely-choreographed ballet. Heh. I almost typed buffet. Freudian slip. Anyway, I am usually on my six o'clock phone call to my mom while Hick is waffling about the kitchen.
Tuesday, I told my mom to hold on. I hollered to Hick, "Do you smell something burning?"
"No. I'm making waffles."
"You don't smell that?"
"Something smells kind of burned. I thought I smelled it last night. I told Genius to check and see if anything was cooking, but he couldn't find anything."
"Well, that's something burning."
"I didn't do it."
"You're in there using the toaster. I thought you might know something about it."
"It might be from this bread sack laying by the toaster."
"Most people would make sure the toaster was clear."
"Well, I didn't put it there."
"Take it off."
"It's not really touching. It looks like a bread tie or plastic clip down in the toaster."
"Well, shake it out!"
"You always blame me for everything."
"Uh. I'm IN HERE under a comforter. YOU are the one using the toaster, where there is something burning."
"I TOLD you, I didn't do it!"
Hick stormed out in a huff. I told my mom how I had started a toaster fire while talking to her on the phone. I wanted to regale her with my mad skillz of telekinesis, rivaling those of Carrie White, she of the dirtypillows and pig blood conditioner, life of the prom...but I don't think Mom reads Stephen King.
It gets better. Even Steven popped in. The great karmic equalizer. But first, more backstory. I made a pot of chili on Sunday. Hick enjoys toast with his chili. He must have had some leftovers Monday evening, after I retired to my dark basement lair to blog away the hours.
When I checked on the toaster, I did not find anything inside. But the stale half-loaf of bread that I set on the counter to feed the chickens was down to only two heels. Rather than harvesting the fresh whole-grain from the bread cabinet, Hick had raided the chicken bread. There's nothing that makes Hick squeamish more than hairless baby mice and moldy bread. While I can vouch that the kitchen is mouse-free, I can't verify the status of the stale bread.
I'm laughing best.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Medicine Most Foul
I have a bee in my bonnet. And folks here in Backroads are quite fortunate that I didn't unleash that bee on them last night in one of the three local emergency rooms.
My mom had to go to the ER twice yesterday with a nosebleed. That's a no-no for septuagenarians on blood-thinners. She's fine now. But some of her patients-in-waiting need a good dose of medical etiquette. I've half a mind to notify Backroads Miz Manners.
It's cold and flu season, y'all. And it would stand to reason that a few ER waitees are infected with some kind of bug. Especially those who sit with a coat on backwards, bleary-eyed, looking like tap-tap-tapping on death's door would require entirely too much effort. So you would think that every time a new patient left the intake desk, the intake clerk would scrub up that electronic pen with some Germ-X or a baby wipe or, get this, some good old-fashioned hospital-grade C3H8O. That's rubbing alcohol for you non-science-teachers. Isopropyl to his family. But NO! Nary a thing was done to Mr. Electronic Pen between patients. Not that I could tell.
There was Mom, in her jeans and turtleneck, looking for all intents and purposes like the stand-in for Sissy Spacek during the prom scene in Carrie, dabbing at her drippy nostrils, no gloves. I put a stop to that forthwith. "Stop that! Here. Hold out your hand. You scrub with my purse Germ-X. Twice. Before you put your hand anywhere near your nose again." She is quite daughter-compliant.
Those workers didn't know if she harbored hepatitis or any other blood-borne disease. And the next person after her touched Mr. Electronic Pen in his soiled state. Not to mention the flu-sy who touched it before Mom. Criminy! Do we need Joseph Lister revolving in his grave?
But forewarned is forearmed. I always carry my trusty Germ-X. The public-health faux pas that put a wad in my panties last night was the total insouciance of the flu-sies in respect to airborne pathogen transmission. I observed three of them. One sat with his back against the wall, hoodie over his head, eyes closed, exhaling freely toward the center of the waiting room. I chose a seat diagonally opposite him, the greatest distance we could achieve.
Another one had been given a yellow gauze face-mask. He had it looped over his ears. It covered his mouth. But his gigantic honker was exposed. I could not tell if he was a mouth breather. I didn't see that fabric sucking in and out. And with the enormous proportions of his schnozzola, there was plenty of room for the virus to wend its way around any cloggage. We sat parallel to him, on the opposite end of the room.
The third flu-sy was totally ridiculous. He draped his gauze mask over his ears. And then under his chin. Nose and mouth were as bare as a newborn's butt. I suppose he was protecting us from saggy under-chin skin if he suddenly transformed into an old lady. Thank goodness, he left his parents waiting to hear his name called, and went out to sit in the car.
AND, the ER nurse practitioner (you didn't think we'd see a real doc, did you?), while washing her hands upon initial entry into the curtained inner sanctum to feel around on Mom's face, did not re-wash on subsequent re-entries after leaving to consult her attending.
The whole episode reminded me of the scene in the original John Wayne True Grit, where Gaspargo is going to remove a bullet from Labeouf's hand, and Mattie Ross (of near Dardanelle in Yell County) says, "Aren't you going to wash first? Don't you wash your hands before you eat?" And Gaspargo says, "I'm not going to eat his hand."
I wash my hands of this hospital.
Unfortunately, that's where I have to go tomorrow to have blood drawn in the lab.
My mom had to go to the ER twice yesterday with a nosebleed. That's a no-no for septuagenarians on blood-thinners. She's fine now. But some of her patients-in-waiting need a good dose of medical etiquette. I've half a mind to notify Backroads Miz Manners.
It's cold and flu season, y'all. And it would stand to reason that a few ER waitees are infected with some kind of bug. Especially those who sit with a coat on backwards, bleary-eyed, looking like tap-tap-tapping on death's door would require entirely too much effort. So you would think that every time a new patient left the intake desk, the intake clerk would scrub up that electronic pen with some Germ-X or a baby wipe or, get this, some good old-fashioned hospital-grade C3H8O. That's rubbing alcohol for you non-science-teachers. Isopropyl to his family. But NO! Nary a thing was done to Mr. Electronic Pen between patients. Not that I could tell.
There was Mom, in her jeans and turtleneck, looking for all intents and purposes like the stand-in for Sissy Spacek during the prom scene in Carrie, dabbing at her drippy nostrils, no gloves. I put a stop to that forthwith. "Stop that! Here. Hold out your hand. You scrub with my purse Germ-X. Twice. Before you put your hand anywhere near your nose again." She is quite daughter-compliant.
Those workers didn't know if she harbored hepatitis or any other blood-borne disease. And the next person after her touched Mr. Electronic Pen in his soiled state. Not to mention the flu-sy who touched it before Mom. Criminy! Do we need Joseph Lister revolving in his grave?
But forewarned is forearmed. I always carry my trusty Germ-X. The public-health faux pas that put a wad in my panties last night was the total insouciance of the flu-sies in respect to airborne pathogen transmission. I observed three of them. One sat with his back against the wall, hoodie over his head, eyes closed, exhaling freely toward the center of the waiting room. I chose a seat diagonally opposite him, the greatest distance we could achieve.
Another one had been given a yellow gauze face-mask. He had it looped over his ears. It covered his mouth. But his gigantic honker was exposed. I could not tell if he was a mouth breather. I didn't see that fabric sucking in and out. And with the enormous proportions of his schnozzola, there was plenty of room for the virus to wend its way around any cloggage. We sat parallel to him, on the opposite end of the room.
The third flu-sy was totally ridiculous. He draped his gauze mask over his ears. And then under his chin. Nose and mouth were as bare as a newborn's butt. I suppose he was protecting us from saggy under-chin skin if he suddenly transformed into an old lady. Thank goodness, he left his parents waiting to hear his name called, and went out to sit in the car.
AND, the ER nurse practitioner (you didn't think we'd see a real doc, did you?), while washing her hands upon initial entry into the curtained inner sanctum to feel around on Mom's face, did not re-wash on subsequent re-entries after leaving to consult her attending.
The whole episode reminded me of the scene in the original John Wayne True Grit, where Gaspargo is going to remove a bullet from Labeouf's hand, and Mattie Ross (of near Dardanelle in Yell County) says, "Aren't you going to wash first? Don't you wash your hands before you eat?" And Gaspargo says, "I'm not going to eat his hand."
I wash my hands of this hospital.
Unfortunately, that's where I have to go tomorrow to have blood drawn in the lab.
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