If anyone needs an outrageously expensive stuffed toy disemboweled in record time, Rufus is your man…errr…dog.
If anyone needs an outrageously expensive stuffed toy disemboweled in record time, Rufus is your man…errr…dog.
When I heard that moving and changing jobs were two of the items in the Most Stressful Life Events, I decided hey…I’ll do both at once.
To those of you who pull up roots and move across the country, kudos to you. That seems like a lot of fun (said no one, ever). Your accomplishment almost makes me feel badly for complaining about my semi-local move.
Now, I decided in all of my wisdom to take the new job first, and commute back and forth while arranging my physical move. Why not? How can it possibly be bad to slide into my new position, over an hour away, while trying to arrange moving companies, downsize my belongings, and pack for the move?
First, let me say that I am moving from an area with high tourism this time of year. Second, let me say, I hate tourists. Thank you, young family in the mini-van, for playing something on your car DVD player that I could watch while stuck in the bumper to bumper traffic during my commute. Thank you, as well, Mr. Older Gentleman in the baseball cap for keeping me safe by refusing to drive at the speed limit. And a special thanks to all those who somehow manage to crash their cars so perfectly that all travel lanes are blocked in all directions, at rush hour.
And did I mention that I live over a bridge? Not in the troll variety, but definitely in a pain-in-the-ass variety. As in a bridge that is the only way in and the only way out of my little piece of hell. Picture this, if you will, 10 to 12 toll lanes spread across an expansive highway, chock-full of vehicles as far as the eye can see, who, once through the toll lanes, ALL must merge down into two – count them, people, two! — tiny bridge lanes. It goes about as well as you would think. Fun and games, people, fun and games.
And let’s not forget the truckers … all of whom seem to travel at the same time (I mean, really!?) and all of whom, instead of coordinating their driving so that they all make their way through one end of the toll entrance or the other (I don’t care which, just pick one!) would rather spread out into numerous lanes across the vast sea of traffic and then, using their sheer size and apparent disregard for simple etiquette, squish whole lanes of vehicles into an untraversable funnel that keeps everyone involved from moving forward. What did I say above? Fun and games. I honestly think that if people truly knew how to take turns AND if trucks could please, for the love of God, just follow each other through the toll lanes, that traffic could be eradicated on the Bridge I hate so much. As it is, it’s like trying to pour mud through a pinhole.
When I finally complete my hour long, now turned three hours long, trip to the House of Forgotten Boxes, I need to organize, scrutinize and itemize my belongings before stuffing them all in bags with sticky notes that say, “Dining room,” “Bedroom,” and “Who cares? I should have tossed this out years ago.” I believe my belongings multiply in direct proportion to how many hours I have spent driving. Seriously, it’s true.
It’s amazing the things you convince yourself to keep when you are moving. What should be a purge instead becomes a stroll down memory lane. “Awww, the receipt from that one store I went to that one time somewhere I don’t quite remember, three years ago. Better keep that, I may need to return whatever the hell this was.” “Look, it’s my Halloween costume from sixteen years ago. I can use this again someday.” “It’s my favorite Crocs! Ummm…okay, never mind, I can throw these away.”
My new job is great, and the people are fantastic. I feel a little lost when they discuss local adventures; I feel that I almost understand, but then they throw some twist in there that makes me do a Google Search later. “Let’s get crabs at Dave’s after work, his lawn mower opened that chicken egg last Christmas.” I nod and smile. I may even try to act like I know. “Ah, yes, Dave certainly did pick that oyster out of the chimney.” Blank stares follow, and they all talk about me over the water cooler at lunch.
I haven’t learned the shortcuts of my commute yet, either, and when people ask how I get to work they offer all sorts of useless advice. “Oh, you should have turned at that snowball stand on the west corner of the dirt road.” One day I’ll get it, but for now, I am lost in every way. And that’s just the commute.
At work, in my new building, I am convinced that people randomly switch floor stickers in the elevator. I find myself wandering around the rooftop looking for the printer, or down in the basement with the janitor, who, as it turns out, is a lovely person despite his overall serial killer-like vibe. He gave me a wonderful recipe for salmon fritters.
At home, I am surrounded by boxes that clog once familiar doorways, causing me to get lost in my own house, which is saying something considering the size of this house (have you seen my house? It’s small … as in tiny, like Jerry’s mouse-hole tiny). I haven’t seen the kitchen in a week, but my daughter tells me it is still there.
I have been on the phone for about three weeks trying to schedule my new cable in my new house, and I have been assured a cable worker will be at my new home sometime between now and December 23, 2022. Somehow, my mail has been getting lost. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling the bill collectors, but I’m not sure how much longer they will keep buying it.
As stressful as all this is, I know it will be worth it in the end to be settled in my new home and job. But for now, I believe I may have crossed through the third gate of Hell.
And obviously, I can’t find my way back.
I may have mentioned a few days ago that my life was crazy right now. I’ll be sharing the gossip on that soon. I promise. In the meantime, I thought you’d be interested in the latest derailment fiery crash of the mental machinery that is my train of useless thought.
So, I was browsing the shelves at my local Hallmark (they’re not just for movies!) when I ran in to this little gem:
Now I have nothing against the bottle, it is a very pretty bottle (with a strong, positive quote, might I add) designed to hold…well, hydrating items. Call me old-fashioned or low-class, but to me, this is a simply a high-falutin’ Water Bottle. Let’s take a look at the evolution from water bottle to hydration bottle, shall we?
First, other liquids realized they were getting the short end of the stick in the capitalism game that retailers everywhere know – and play – so well. Gatorade led the battle for change, crying “Gatorade is liquid, too!” Kool-Aid quickly joined in, followed by fruit juices. There were protests in grocery stores across the nation and even a riot or two in Aisle 5 which leaked over into Aisle 4 and part of Aisle 6. Sadly, these protests were ineffective because the liquids had no containers and the protesters were quickly mopped up.
Now, things got a little sticky, in every sense of the word. Soup demanded to be included, which sparked even more debate and controversy. But is soup truly a liquid? Where does this leave chicken noodle soups, or stew? Gatorade and Kool-Aid fought back viciously. The gutters flowed with noodles during the Chicken Noodle War of 2018, now thought to be the worst soup war in history. Many valiant chicken chunks were lost to the cause.
The bottle itself, striving for peace and equality, struggled to make its voice heard. In many poignant interviews, the bottle pled to be called a liquid container. This, in turn, caused the soups to become agitated yet again as they tried to find their place in the world.
Finally, Congress, in all of their infinite wisdom, passed a law to exclude soup from being contained in the bottle, stating that only hydrating products qualified. The point was made that soup has its own exclusive container called a “thermos.” Soup is taking this decision to the Supreme Court citing that coffee, while a liquid, also gets to be contained in thermoses. I must say, they do have a point.
While awaiting a Supreme Court decision, the bottle has been relabeled a Hydration Bottle. The products allowed to be contained in this bottle are not clearly defined; therefore, it’s anyone’s game. Or container, if you will.
Gatorade is calling this a clear victory in liquid rights for juices, vitamin water, and electrolytes everywhere. Soup cannot be reached for comment, although more protests are scheduled in the future. We’re not sure where alcohol stands, because well, alcohol isn’t usually standing for anything for any length of time.
When you are drinking your hydration product from your Hydration Bottle, let us never forget the electrolytes and fruit juices who spilled…well, themselves…to secure the right to be contained in them.
It’s Mother’s Day and my son’s birthday today. Since I’ve already told my mother how I feel about her (don’t roll your eyes, it was nice … thoughtful even) and revealing how old my son is makes me old, I’m just going to talk about my cat. I mean, look at this cat. Normally Shaylee is the Queen of Refinement, the epitome of poise and grace. And here she is, right when the realization struck that she had rolled herself just an inch too close to the edge of the bed necessitating a very unladylike maneuver to keep her from meeting the floor a tad harder than she would’ve liked. Laughing at moments like these are just one more reason I’m going to meet a fiery end.
Too many cups, too little money.
Let me start by saying that nurses are some of the hardest working people on the planet. The garbage you all see and put up with is a constant source of amazement to me. I’d like to wish each nurse and med tech out there, Happy Nurse’s Week; you all deserve some recognition.
I’d like to give a special nod to one particular nurse who cared for my father after his recent back surgery (a big middle finger to cancer, by the way). Her bedside manner was quite appropriate … if we were all three-year olds. Picture yourself talking to a puppy or kitten; this is a good approximation of how she acted around us, or I should say, around my dad. To the rest of us, she was just “normal.” She was trying to be nice, I get that, she had an awesome bedside manner, but she came off as just a wee bit condescending … or sarcastic which is even better. Now, she was dealing with my dad so she should probably be forgiven, but I will say this: it was hilarious to the rest of us.
In the recovery room where he had to lay flat for like a gazillion hours straight, my father told her his back hurt, and she nodded in rapt understanding. “Do you know why that is?” she asked. We all leaned in, holding our collective breath, waiting for the medical pearls of wisdom we were sure she was about to share with us. She touched my dad’s hand ever so comfortingly and looked so wise, and then she told him, “Because you had that procedure on your back this morning.” And then she nodded sagely with the sweetest smile on her face. At that moment I realized: I, too, could be a nurse … I’ve got the sarcastic bedside manner down pat if not any form of medical training whatsoever. I wonder if she uses that same soothing-seemingly-helpful-yet-in-reality-sarcastic-kindergarten-teacher-type voice with all her patients, and I wonder if she uses it on her coworkers or in general daily interactions. If so, I like her more and more.
As you all are aware, my mind tends to wander, and we all know how dangerous that can be. As I watched the nurses scurry back and forth under the crushing demands of patients and doctors, I thought of ways I could brighten their day. Or, drive them crazy. Here is a short list of fun ideas I had.
Page fictional nurses and doctors: Nurse Ratchet, Dr. Who, Florence Nightingale, Dr. Doolittle…you get the idea.
Bring empty beer cans and stash them all over the room: Look innocent when the staff questions you.
Start doing a stand-up comedy routine on the overhead system: “What’s the deal with hospital food?”
Grab a set of scrubs and a clipboard and wander the hallway looking concerned: Added plus for muttering phrases like “That leech treatment sure didn’t work, I’m not sure what could’ve went wrong, they were fresh leeches” or “We never covered vampire bites in medical school.” Even more points if you tell a nurse to order a “Wingdang KPT frontal scan of the terrapin flimflam on Mrs. Smith. STAT!” Extra extra points if you stop a visitor, make up a disease and ask them what they think of your treatment plan for your patient.
Call fictional codes in areas of the hospital that don’t exist: Code purple pinstripe, rumpus room. Repeat, code purple pinstripe, rumpus room.
Clip a positive pregnancy test to a male patient’s chart: Yeah, this one’s just fun across the board.
Attach a page of Egyptian hieroglyphics to charts: It actually may be easier for them to read than the doctor’s hand writing.
Every time the overhead speaker is used, run to the nurse’s station: “Was that for me!? I missed it.”
Or, whenever the overhead speaker is used, act terrified: “The voices! They told me I wouldn’t hear the voices anymore!” or “God? Is that you?”
Stand backwards in the elevator: Loudly proclaim to all who enter that it is the longest elevator ride you have ever been on and you’ve been waiting for the doors to open for an hour.
Secretly replace all the names on the white board with celebrity names: The nurses get to take care of Madonna, Justin Timberlake, and Beyoncé all in the same shift! OR, better yet, Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po.
Attach sheets together to make a rope, put one end in the toilet, and hide under the bed: Listen to your nurse try to explain what happened to you to Security.
In all seriousness, though, I have this to say to all the nurses out there: YOU ALL ROCK! It takes a special kind of person to be a nurse. I sure don’t envy you your jobs, BUT I do appreciate that you are there, helping people. Every. Damn. Day. From the family members sitting next to our loved ones, anxious and afraid, Thank You for all you do. We need you, and we love you all.
Happy Nurse’s Week!
As you can see, Rufus is very tired. What you may not know, and certainly can’t really tell from this very badly taken photo, is that he’s exhausted from a long day of protecting hearth and home from … mail. Yes. Villainous mail. While I was out and about doing human things, Rufus was at home tearing up every bit of mail his snaggly little teeth could reach. You can see some of his work on the floor by his bed … the rest is under his blanket, which is why his blanket is so puffed up. It’s not that the blanket is resplendent in and of itself — it’s the shredded stash of destroyed bills, correspondence, and sales papers under the blanket that make it so poofy.
So, here’s to Rufus the Invincible, my knight in shining armor. Saving me, once again, from the evils of capitalism.