Don't do the drama

I've been rolling my eyes since I was a young monkey.  I'm pretty sure the reason I spent half my adult life trying to talk to school kids about safe sex and good relationships was because my karmic reward for each and every time I rolled my eyes at the Old Woman was to find myself receiving the eye roll from a whole classroom of brats.

But, I never managed to do the "mean girl" thing or drama.  I'm a drama free sort of monkey.  I much prefer all the dramas that touch my life to be those of other people.  (I also cannot stand bickering. Ugh.)

Mean Girls are an interesting study of human behavior.  Their actions are wholly intentional, but they operate under the illusion of plausible deniability.  They believe they are being calculatedly vicious.  I have a friend who teachers middle grades who once told me that little boys are like gorillas . . . pounding their chests and making as much noise as possible to establish their position with their peers.  But, she said that little girls were like cats  . . . quietly grooming themselves when really they are looking to sharpen their claws across your face the minute they think they can get away with it.

So, today we're leaving work, all of us at the same time which is rare.  I'm holding the door for my co workers and say "have a good weekend."  One co worker returns the sentiment but Problem Child employee stays silent, gets to the parking lot and very pointedly looks at the other co worker and says "bye" in the most exaggeratedly sweet voice she could muster.

Really?  If you're still thinking that being a Mean Girl at 25 is the way to go through life, I hope you never have children.

Hadn't thought of it that way before

Retail chain, Target, has gone to a genderless toy section.  And, as one might expect in this world devoid of calm and rational response to ANYTHING, some people have absolutely lost what was left of their pea-brains.  They seem to think that without a giant, overhead sign, they won't know if the toy they are about to buy for their sister's 3 year old is for a boy 3 year old or a girl 3 year old.

Someone pointed out a handy, easy to use guide these people can keep in mind . . . or write on an index card and tuck behind their phones in that over-sized case . . . 

if the toy is designed to teach nurturing or development of life . . . it's for a girl

and

if the toy is designed to leave the child with a god-like control over life and death or cause destruction . . . it's for a boy.

Which is so messed up, you should probably go have a bit of a lie-down.

In which I learn that I am, actually, a prude.

We are in NOLA.  We have had many drinks and lots of excellent food.  We tried three new bars and tiki seemed to be the theme of the trip.

BUT! Today, a convention has rolled into our hotel.  Swingers.  OLD SWINGERS.  I saw a woman, a good 15 years older than me and likely someone's grandmother, leave our hotel in a see-through nightie and panties. And, my gut reaction was not one of "meh."

I like to think that for the most part, I pretty much don't care about what other folks do in the privacy of their rooms.  Frankly, I don't really want to ever have to think about what other folks do in private.  I do, however, have all kinds of judgement for those who patronize "sex" businesses; largely because I know that the great majority of such establishments not only exploit their "workers" but also condone and encourage their customers to push boundaries of consent and decency.  I know that the women, young men, transpeople who work in such businesses are not safe.

I also have all kinds of judgement for people who force others to deal with their sex acts.  This is different from their sexuality . . . but if you're wacking it in public, or humping up on other people/critters/furniture where others can see you . . . or leading your partner around on a leash at the mall then you have violated the rights of others.

Frankly, this shouldn't make me a prude, but I guess it does.   You do you and I'll do me but don't make me see you doing IT.

The down side.

One of the down sides of social media is being exposed to the stupidity that is floating around in the world.  If not for social media, I could acknowledge that such existed, but not actually have to see it.

The shooting in Charleston has brought out some truly stupid crap in my facebook feed. One person had been dropped a couple of years ago because he decided he need to pick a fight with me over guns.  Tonight, he popped up on my company's facebook just to be a jerk.  I know him well enough to know that he just wanted to incite a fight.  He'd posted several "pro gun" bits/responses to the Charleston shooting, and then turned his sights on our page.  His desire to pick a fight just resulted in his irrelevant comment being deleted.  Sadly, our policies prevent us from blocking him from our feed . . . yet.

Then, on my personal page, someone's totally ignorant screed about the confederate flag got her unfriended.  If EVEN Lindsey Graham and Mitt Romney have realized that there are no points to be scored by continuing to cling to the "stars and bars" . . . then shouldn't the morons of the planet follow?

Sheesh.

Misery

Take a truly miserable human and relieve them of their job and then make them work off a two week notice . . . and you have the most miserable person on the planet.  She has taken to showing up late, refusing any interaction with co-workers, and stomping around to communicate her misery.  Sadly, it has nearly reached comical levels and rather than feeling bad, the co-workers find themselves rolling their eyes and exchanging meaningful looks.

I'm torn.  I am looking forward to having this person out of our office.  Before this "two week notice" she was toxic to the office.  She was incapable of basic levels of polite interaction, she was incompetent and I'm pretty sure she's lied to me.  But, she is out of a job right before the holiday season.  I hate that for anyone.

I know in a month, we'll hardly remember her . . . save for stories of her massive toilet paper habit.

The Prickly Patient

Remember the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine gets a note in her medical record that she's difficult and eventually no doctor will see her?  The Old Woman use to predict that such would happen to me, eventually.  And, I admit, my patience level is pretty low when dealing with medical personnel.

And, I promise, today, I really was working to restrain myself.  Really.

I had to see a new doctor at a new clinic today.  Never a pleasant prospect in my mind.  They started off annoying me and progressed to me muttering unpleasantries under my breath.

First, as you walk in, there is window and a staff person.  So, naturally, as a new patient, that's where I went.  This was wrong.  If I'd bothered to wander to the OTHER SIDE of the reception area, go around a corner, and look up, I would have seen signage instructing me to go to that window, not the one at the door.   Second, they had sent me all the usual forms to fill out and bring with me.  Cool, this should save time, right?

Third, they insisted on taking my picture for their records.  I've never had this done before, and you know I've seen more than my share of medical types this year.  They insisted it was a) routine and b) done by ALL THE DOCTORS.  humpf.

Then, the nurse proceeded to ask me all the questions on the forms they asked me to fill out prior to my coming in.  One of the things that will trigger me to annoyance really fast is wasting my time.  Don't ask me for the same information more than once.  Don't ask me questions when the written answers are in front of you.

They lost even more credibility when a rather round nurse lectured me on my bmi.  I did restrain myself from explaining to her that bmi has pretty much been dismissed as an indicator of over all health.

The thing that sent me from heavily sighed restraint to muttering unpleasantries was the fact their lab tech could not draw my blood.  I warned her that I was a difficult draw and indicated a spot that has been successful in the past.  She ignored me and went for a traditional spot, even though she had a very difficult finding the vein.  Then, she did that back and forth motion with the needle trying to find the vein that didn't want to be found . . . I hate that.  I'd rather be stuck again than have you play with a needle, tearing up my arm.  She decided to try to hit a tiny vein between my fourth finger and pinky finger knuckles.  I'll tell you this . . . if a lab tech ever tries this move on you, decline it.  It doesn't work and hurts.

She gave up after the knuckle failure and sent me over to the hospital.  They hunted, used a warmer, and finally was able to spear a vein.

As I tried to pay my co-pay, I found that the person working the check out window never has worked the check out window, didn't know how to accept a payment, and ended up calling another office and verbally giving them my card number for them to run the payment.

Frankly, I don't think I'm unjustified in my annoyance.  I may be the only sane one in the building.

Not Surprised.

I had this conversation last night with a friend.  The unrest and anger in Missouri were inevitable.  In the past few years. . . starting with 9/11 and continuing with Obama's election, open racism seems to be the norm.  Horrifyingly scary, threatening, and racist stuff gets posted from total nobodies and we all see it, hear it and react.  All too often, the racists find more than enough support from the imaginary peer group.  And, heaven help anyone who tries to point out that perhaps more polite discourse is called for? For calling out the racism, people are often treated to screams about 1st amendment rights and accusations of bullying.

Then, you have the talking heads on tv and radio who spew racist, vicious, classist, and threatening crap morning, noon, and night.  They just fuel the fire.  And, they give the nobodies a platform to both spew more hate and claim victimhood.

And, there are the 2nd amendment nuts.  The open carry wackos.  They are egged on by the talking heads and the powerful gun lobby.  They aren't victims because we don't want to look over in the baby section of mega-mart to see someone toting a weapon capable of killing everyone in the store.

Lastly, there are the elected officials who seem to chase the 24-hour news cycle with stupid statement followed by misinformed statement only to be compounded by hatefulness.

So, I'm not surprised that people have finally had enough.  I'm not surprised that people are standing up and demanding their rights be honored just as the wing nuts have been doing.

I am horrified that a whole section of our society seems to think that "public safety" waging warfare on American citizens is okay . . . so long as they are of color or poor.

I am surprised we haven't seen more uprisings.  The next civil war will be one over race and class.  And, I'm afraid there will be many more innocents lost to the nonsense the talking heads, wackos, elected officials/authorities, and gun nuts

1st World Problems, again

I'm getting ever closer to no longer looking like a jr. high first aid class got hold of me.  Only one, small, bandage left!!!

In anticipation of having no more open wounds on my gut, I'm looking for a swimsuit so I can add lap swimming into my exercise routine.  OH DAMN am I having a hard time finding a swimsuit.

First, there is a difference between a swim and BATHING suit.  A bathing suit leaves plenty of open space for tanning, flimsy straps that you can move to avoid various tan lines.  A swim suit needs to be functional.  I need straps that will stay in place.  I need a suit that I won't be fighting to keep in place as I move.  I need it to hold up in a gym pool for several months, if not years.  I need it to be comfortable for exercise.

I've looked at several sites and am completely befuddled about sizes.  The most common issue I have is that I will look at the sizing chart for the particular brand I'm exploring and then find that the sizes on their sizing chart don't match the sizes listed on their web site.  WTF!?  (I showed this to the Phenom and he agreed it was strange.)

Additionally, I have a long torso, meaning I need either adjustable straps or a suit made for my freakish body.  I find that if I can match up my torso measurement to a size, the hip or chest measurement doesn't match.

It's damn frustrating.  I want something more substantial than what mega mart offers . . . but I might have to just buy two or three cheapo suits and hope they hang on until the next swimsuit season rolls around.  No one wants wardrobe failure in the gym pool.

Damn it

I woke up in the middle of the night to discover the scar from the most recent surgery had opened up and oozing all over the place.  I jumped in the shower to clean off and drove myself to the emergency department.

Another CAT SCAN, and another ambulance ride to a big, university associated hospital.

However, this time, the "surgery" was so minor they did it in my room and with just localized numbing agents.  It does seem a tad cruel that you have a sore, tender spot and they want to insert a needle (and a big one at that) multiple times in just that spot.  But, it did the trick because I didn't even feel any of the actual cutting.

There is talk of sending me home tomorrow. And, in between baggies of meds being dripped into my arm, they are disconnecting me so I can move about on my own.

But, again with the drama and the hospital.

You'd think karma would have moved on after I popped a tire driving into a parking lot in a city 100 miles from home yesterday.  Stupid karma.

Healing of the body, rotting of the brain

We are getting close to being a functional monkey again!!  The wound vac will come off next week, to be replaced with an intricate pattern of bandages and tape.  But, even looking like a first aid class gone wrong, being without the wound vac offers more mobility.

This week, I was finally able to rejoin the SMLF table.  And, it was celebratory cherry mt dews for everyone.

But, now I need to wean myself off the media I've been consuming during my confinement.  I have become TLC's viewing monkey. . . which is not a good thing at all.

In the beginning, I was streaming shows from PBS.  And, of course shows from my favorite foodies.  But, then, there were those dark nights where I watched Say Yes To The Dress back to back.  Then, the prime availability for both the foodie shows and the wedding dress show disappeared and I had to find something else to watch.  I watched some crime shows, but I also fell into the TLC abyss.  Two "reality" shows involving over indulged southern men . . . some dude name Christley (I think) and a bunch of whiners in Charleston, SC.  Frankly, now that I write this, I don't even know if they are TLC shows . . . they just seem to be the TLC sort.

I also have given into reading comments on the interwebs.  Fortunately, Jezebel has the best comments ever.  The folks who read/comment seem thoughtful and willing to say they made a mistake and discuss . . . but they are also terribly funny.  This holds for news stories, opinions, and gossip stories.  I am hoping reading the clever comments on their site is balancing the harm done by my television habits.

But did you hear that one of the Dugger daughters is engaged?

The spiral to helplessness

I have a friend who runs a craft group for kids.  She is often dismayed that the kids she teaches often lack basic crafting skills . . . like gluing and cutting.  And these are kids ranging from 2nd - 7th grades.  She says that what is even more baffling is that they are incapable of following simple instructions.  She says that with each craft, she breaks them down to easy steps . . . and even then, the kids have a difficult time following what she's doing.  And, just as disheartening is that the kids in her group rarely work outside the prescribed template, they are fairly lacking in creativity.

We have had many a discussion about how we were learning to knit and sew and create large paper mache' sculptures at ages much younger than these kids.

I've got another example of this spiral into helplessness.

A class mate of a child I use to baby sit for has started a foodie blog.  She is newly into her 30s and has a real, grown up job.  She decided that it was about time she learned what that weird room with all the appliances really is for after all.

She writes that she printed out a simple recipe and was happily gathering ingredients in the grocery store t prepare her own dinner when she realized the instructions called for several hours between prep steps.  So, she googled something else to eat and came across two recipes that claimed to be quick.  So, she purchased entirely different ingredients and went home to start creating.

After chopping and throwing ingredients into the pot did she read the recipe enough to realize she'd already screwed it all up.  Her finished project, as much as it was a learning experience, wasn't actually food she wanted to eat.

But, what I saw was someone who couldn't be bothered to read past the first line of a recipe before finding herself lost. I think this is a phenomena particular to her generation . . . they don't read all the way through an article or recipe before launching head first into something.

Just wait until they have kids and need to assemble a bike on christmas morning.

Could be daylight, could be a train

Post op appointment today.  I'd, naturally, worked myself up in to a full frenzy, totally believing that the doctor lied to me before surgery and simply told me what he thought I wanted to hear.

Apparently, and I'm sure you're as surprised as I am, I over reacted.

He is scheduling me for a test (within the next few days) to make sure the bits they operated on have healed properly.  If the tests come back as he hopes they will, he will schedule me for the last surgery to reverse what they had to put in place to allow for healing.  He also says that by that time, the wound vac should be unnecessary, and I should be good to make my travel plans in mid-April!

Tomorrow, I will call his clinic to double check on the radiology appointment.  I don't trust the people in his clinic to actually follow up or do their work as they should . . . or bother to communicate with me.  They've got a terrible track record thus far, I'd be surprised if they break form now.

I still can't imagine that the stars are actually going to fall into place to allow me to travel in mid-April . . . but I've got some hope.  And, that hope is allowing me to have a bit more energy, a bit more drive to be more active.

And, my estimate of how much weight I've lost from this little misadventure was EXACTLY on.  As much fun as it has been to have a no veggie, all meat and carbs diet . . .. I'm sooooo looking forward to kale and cabbage and fruit again.  Oh, a salad . . . A SALAD!  I'll even share my bugs.

Nearing the next step

I'm being shoved out into the world tomorrow.  They have removed all but one tube.  I can eat a modified diet, but more than just liquids.  And, I've gone from sweet, easily drugged patient to the assertive monkey demanding appointments, and follow-up, and specific information about what to expect next. Apparently, I ask too much.

I've also gotten a chance to watch way too much TV.  I think I've actually worn myself out on Law and Order.  I did catch Rachel Ray's newest show "Three in the Bag."  She has one (very large) grocery bag and makes three meals from what fits in one bag.  The thing is, I think they told her that the show would be shown in Bulgaria and that the viewers would not understand English.  She speaks slowly, she repeats herself, she uses simple vocabulary, and WILD arm/hand gestures like she's supplementing the English the viewers can't understand with her own version of sign language.  Also, I'm pretty sure she could get a fourth meal prepared if the stopped lifting every ingredient over her head as she announces what it is . . . that extra time could really be used better.

But, the coffee shop makes yummy smoothies and if not for them, I'd not get anything to eat.



                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

CODE RED

Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit.  They may be on to me.

In the last of my pre-op appointments yesterday, the doctor used the phrase "unpredictable anatomy" in discussing the surgery.

They haven't said anything, hinted around, or even asked pointed questions that would lead me to think they have figured out I'm a monkey.  But, (and it's a big butt, pa-dum-dum) I'll be out cold and they will be mucking around . . . let's just hope that they will be focused enough on the surgery itself they won't start to realize that everything looks mostly familiar but just a little off.

If this is my last post, you'll know they figured it out and I'm stuck in a cage in a lab in an unknown government facility.  There won't likely be any fancy monkey sanctuary retirement for me.  It will be solitary confinement, for sure.

A funny relationship

Only a few humans (and monkeys) like pain.  Oh sure, there is drama pain . . . too many humans go seeking that sort of pain out.  But I'm talking OW pain.

I'm a craven coward.  I assume everything is going to hurt.  And, when you hurt me, I'm afraid I may, involuntarily, kick you in the shins.

When I had to learn how to give my self shots, I asked to have an appointment with the health educator because I knew if it were up to me to stab myself the first time. . . we'd still be waiting.  (Only my super macho ego outweighs my cowardice.)

When they removed my PIC line in the hospital, first thing I asked was "how much is it going to hurt?"  (It was a little creepy to feel the wire coming out from my chest through my arm, but didn't so much hurt.)  When they took out the cumbersome, painful, and terribly annoying medical device the other day . . . even though I was THRILLED to be parted with it, I hesitated because I thought it would hurt.  (Apparently, I'd long since ripped the anchoring stitches and it pulled out super easy.  If I'd known it would come out so easily, I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago and just been all like "the what?" when they asked about it.)

So, of course, I'm concerned about pain and pain management with this upcoming surgery.  I've already discussed my options for pain management with the doctor . . . and expressed my preference for having as much control as possible.

The doctor says they want to keep my pain in the "2-5" range on a 10 point scale.  Thing is, I am lousy at expressing my pain on that scale.  There are different kinds of pain.  I have a terrible time deciding if something is the most pain I've ever experienced .  .  . or could there have been something more painful I don't remember?  Also, I've been on pain meds for arthritis for years, and I have come to realize that I don't experience pain the same way humans must.

Last time, in the hospital, they kept offering me drugs and I kept turning them down because my usual meds took me from being "in pain" to "just uncomfortable" and I didn't see the point of taking more drugs for "just uncomfortable."  Apparently, humans never turn down drugs.

To assist in expressing my needs to the medical staff, I have made up a handout from Hyperbole and A Half's Better Pain Scale.  I've made up extra copies because I assume the nurses may want to keep it.  And, given the mean, horrible things they plan to do to me, I totally expect to accept all drugs.

Aw, you poked a sleeping bear

On January 26, I wrote about this bizarre medical issue that will require some rather extensive surgery to correct.  Well, I wrote about it about 2 weeks after it first occurred.  AND I STILL HAVE NOT HAD THE SURGERY.

The surgery is scheduled for next week.  It would not be scheduled already if I had not gone full monkey whine on the doctor's nurse.

I spent 3 weeks calling, nearly daily, the doctors (as I was instructed to do upon discharge from the hospital) to get an appointment.  Then, the weather got my appointment cancelled.  That's when I went full monkey whine on the nurse.  (Until that point, she treated me like some crazy person who was demanding surgery and I wasn't even a patient.)  She, to shut me up, promised to email the doctor (notice, even his nurse has to email him for information about patients) and see if there were any truth to my claims.  AND LO!  The doctor confirmed that not only am I patient, but yeah, schedule that surgery.

I have my first of two pre-op appointments tomorrow.  The second is because another surgeon from another practice will be assisting in fixing my monkeyness.

While the doctor has been seeing other patients and lolling around in the snow, I've been growing more and more annoyed.  I am pretty twerked up for this appointment.  I have questions written out.  (Another fun wrinkle is that they have told me the time and date of the surgery, but nothing else.  Can we say power and control issues?)  I am in no mood for bullshit.

At this point, I almost feel sorry for the doctor . . . not really.

A matter of taste

Look, I know you're madly in love.  I know that you've reached an age when you admit that the sexy-sexy happens.  I'm happy for you.

But, please, for the more prudish amongst us, please stop posting photos on facebook of your very hairy man, naked in the bed.

That is all.

Strange and Bizarre

I cannot believe it has been over a month since I wrote last.  Weird.  I can't remember going so long between sitting down and blathering on and on before.

There was the annual Christmas trip to NOLA.  Good food, many drinks, lots of fun conversations.

The highlight, for me, was Christmas night in a little dive bar just off Jackson Square.  It is a cash only establishment, only about 10 stools, and they run their beer lines through ice coolers to get it cold.  We like to talk to the bartenders at this bar . . . they are usually some very interesting women.  We'd visited the bar earlier in the trip and the bartender showed us these fake 10K bills someone left as a "tip."  We were appalled at the pre-meditated assholery they represented.

She mentioned that she would be working Christmas night, so we made a point of going in so we could make up some tips for her.

During the couple of hours we were at the bar, a man came in.  He was young, heavy, full beard, and looked as if he had lost his best friend and last dollar at the same time.  Others, regulars, in the bar knew him and tried to talk to him.  He just stared at the empty beer bottle he'd brought into the bar with him.

At some point, the talk turned to music and the bartender mentioned that the young man was a gifted singer.  Other tried to talk him into singing for the group, but he just said that someone would have to buy him a beer first.  So, I did.

And, he was a trained opera singer.  He belted out two pieces that were so powerful we were sure glass was going to break around us.  He translated the words, and talked about the composers.  This was clearly his passion and it cheered him up, for the moment.  And, it was amazing.

But, even more strange and bizarre . . . the events of the past few weeks.

A couple of weeks ago, I awoke one morning to a fairly bizarre physical condition.  I won't go into much detail other than to say . . . it was weird and immediately prompted a trip to the emergency department of our local hospital.  They assessed the situation and immediately sought to transfer me to a larger facility.  I ended up in a hospital a couple hours away for the next five days.  There were several CAT Scans and lots of blood drawn.  The doctors tell me that this condition is one that developed at birth but had remained undetected until now.  And, they say it is extremely rare and will require surgery to correct.

So, for now, I have a couple different medical devices attached to me to control the situation and am laid up at home until I can get a date from the surgeon.

Poor Phenom has been forced into the position of nursemaid and housekeeper.  A role that I suspect is shaving years off his life, but he is doing with as much care and consideration as one could ever ask for from any human.  Frankly, there have been times that I've wondered if I have ever taken as good care of the Phenom as he has take of me these past few weeks.

I don't really do the hashtag thing . . .

but

#headdesk #headdesk #headdesk

I can't really speak to why the need for my head to crash into my desk, yet at least.  But, now that I'm good and woozy, I'm going to go swig Jack Daniels from the bottle.

Momentary rant

ARRRGGGGHHHHHH

We are creating a generation of kids who don't know how to operate the most basic of equipment.  Last semester, we had ditzy intern who would send money orders to companies without her account number on them and assume they'd know who it was from and what it was for . . . and then throw away the receipt so she had no record of the account being paid . . . which resulted in her car being repossessed.

She couldn't figure out how to answer the phone.  There are two lines, the one that is ringing has a little light that blinks to let you know which line to pick up.  THIS ISN'T HARD.

The semester before last, we had an intern that could not figure out how to use a key to open a door.  I kid you not.  She jammed it in up-side-down and turned until the key broke off in the lock.

Now, we have an intern who also cannot figure out the phone.  I KNOW SHE WAS SHOWN HOW TO ANSWER THE PHONE at the start of the semester.  It was part of her orientation.  Again, loud noise, blinky light? . . . push the button next to the blinking light.

Now I know why old people are so crotchety.