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Archive for the ‘Humorous’ Category
Murphy’s Law
Thursday, June 2nd, 2011
Fighting My Dragon
Thursday, May 26th, 2011
 I know. Everyone says, “I hate going to the dentist.” But not everyone says it in the screaming, overemphasized, “I HATE GOING TO THE DENTIST!!!!” way that I say it. Most people, though they are uncomfortable with instruments, drills and hands in their mouths, suck it up, grit those teeth on their good side and stoically march to the dental chair with the air of one heading to an execution. I, however, hold each side of the doorway moulding with fingers of steel, while wedging my feet at each corner of the bottom of the door frame and dare anyone to push or pull me through. There is no screaming. There is no crying. There is just a resolute, “uh-uh – not gonna do it.”  I believe the beginning of this abnormal relationship with dentistry began when I was six years old. It was at that time I determined, with what little deductive reasoning a first grader may possess, that [parents = gift after dentist = pain → parents = good such that dentists = mean]. My first journey into this equation involved the fact that my baby teeth were falling out in God’s time and not Man’s time. Because Man’s time is the guage most depended upon by the medical community, it was decided that a few of my teeth had to go, in order to make room for those adult teeth which God’s time had not even produced yet. That encounter gleaned me a small, shiny, red bike with training wheels. A few years later, my final “dental trip-equals-gift” experience also included removing baby teeth but I had progressed to the fourth grade and wasn’t so easy to bribe. I had graduated to a full meal at my favorite McDonald’s Hamburger restaurant and the movie, FLIPPER, on the big screen. It was later that I realized that my parents and my dentist were in cahoots and I no longer cut my parents any slack.  In the summer after eighth grade – at that awkward age of 14 – my parents took me to a dentist who then sent me to an orthodontist. I had no clue what that was, but because the dentist didn’t do anything to me except clean my teeth, I figured this new kind of doctor couldn’t be all bad. The orthodontist ‘ummed’ and ‘ohhhed’ as he pulled my cheeks back, pushed my gums and tapped different teeth. My parents tried to squash the tendency to lean over to look at what he was observing. Finally, the awful verdict was issued and my parents checked me into a hospital to have MORE teeth extracted and wires put under my gums around hidden canines with a prognosis of 5 years in braces. My parents let me start high school, the angst of every budding teen, with stitches in my gums, unable to smile and with lips the size of a cartoon character. Several weeks later came the inevitable ‘railroad tracks’ which then became my nickname. And to make matters worse, there was no prize, no gift, no bribe to lift my self-esteem. Evidently, I had “grown up”. To add to my misery, I had to stretch tiny little rubber bands from a metal hook attached to the wire under my gum on each side of my upper mouth to a metal hook on a band around a bottom molar on each side of my lower jaw. These rubber bands were no bigger around than the end of a large pencil and so the pressure on them was enormous. Teachers and friends alike had to pay attention where they were standing in proximity to my face because when I spoke, it was not unusual for my mouth to shoot a rubber band with the accuracy of a slingshot. “Humiliation” became a new variable in dentistry for me. I wore those braces through my first year in college and today, as a result of all that effort and humiliation and thousands of dollars, I can smile with a mouthful of fewer teeth, visible canines and pearly-not-so-whites that look like a row of dominoes after a minor earthquake.  Then came the extraction of four wisdom teeth which also had to be done in the hospital because it was in the stone-age, also known as the ‘70’s. The young man who was next in line for surgery, lying on his gurney outside the surgery room door, could hear the surgeon grunting and yelling because my mouth was so small and my teeth were so big. That evening, this same young man came to my room to see how I was doing (and to brag that he was getting a steak from Steak and Ale), only to find me with a swollen face, bruised cheeks, mouth split at each corner and begging for morphine. Two dry sockets later, I vowed that dentistry was akin to torture. My disgust for all things dentist was established for life. Fast forward to last week. I had broken a tooth – I’m talkin’ 2/3 of that sucker was gone. I wasn’t crazy about our family dentist office and I figured it was time for a change. So, I found a new dentist, in the Yellow Pages, whose sole attraction was the words, “Comfortable and Stress-Free.” Comfortable and Stress-Free is good! And they really are gentle at OKC Smiles in Oklahoma City. I loved the office workers. Those people were so nice and they made great effort to make me feel comfortable and welcome. I got my teeth cleaned without the usual bleeding gums, swollen cheeks and uncomfortable throb throughout the next day. I was not the least bit perturbed about this dentist working on my teeth because the atmosphere was so relaxing. That is, until I was informed that the broken tooth would involve a root canal. A root canal? I had heard of those things and nothing about them had been good. In fact, I had heard horror stories about them and so, when my new dentist friend informed me that he does “sedation dentistry” my answer to his question of , “Do you want to be sedated?” was, “How stupid do I look? Ok, don’t answer that question. Yes.” I was given a little blue pill and sent home with directions to take it one hour prior to my next appointment. Oh yes, and Mr. Fix-It was to be my designated driver. On the day of my major surgery – ok, so when it comes to dental work, I like to exaggerate – Mr. Fix-It and I headed out the door to drive the nearly hour it takes to get to my new dentist. I had taken the pill and was happily waiting for it to kick in. Halfway to the office, Mr. Fix-It realized that he didn’t know where he was going and turned to ask me directions. My chin was slumped against my chest. I was snoring. He managed to wake me to get spotty information and attempted to find the dental clinic. He was smart – or just lucky, but he found it and helped me out of the car. I did not hold to the door frame or refuse to enter, but obediently shuffled into the plush waiting room to sit down with Mr. Fix-It at my side. From that point on, all I have is Mr. Fix-It’s version of the story. According to him, my head lolled downward and to the side when, all of a sudden, I hiccupped. I didn’t just do a little hiccup. I let loose with a high-pitched, body-wrenching, air-gulping hiccup and my head flew backwards. My chin then dropped back down onto my chest and I hiccupped again, going through the same motions of head pitching backward and then slumping forward. This continued as my dear husband, who is supposed to be my advocate and protector, could not contain himself and exploded into gales of laughter. Another patient, a man, entered the waiting area and sat down across from us just as I let loose with another jarring hiccup. He looked embarrassed for me and Mr. Fix-It said, “She’s sedated. She gets these hiccups sometimes.” I let loose with a big one. Mr. Fix-It giggled loudly. Thankfully, the nurse ushered me to the dental chair and got the hiccups stopped. My kindly dentist did his work, determining that I did not need a root canal after all. Tooth temporarily capped, I was carefully monitored for blood pressure and heart rate and the hiccups commenced again. Mr. Fix-It assured me that they reverberated throughout the entire building. I am wondering what the office personnel are saying about that day. Do they have conversations that begin with, “Did you hear that lady….?” or “Was that hilarious or what?!” I have to go back to have the permanent cap affixed. I am not sure I can show my face.  All I know is that dentists and I have a very strained relationship. However, I think that if this new one will still have me, I will stay in his care because I have to admit that my experience there has been the most pleasant of any. I will say, though, I don’t think I’ll be taking any of those little blue pills again. As I told Mr. Fix-It, while still in an inebriated state, I think, next time, I’ll take some of that “Noxious Oxide” instead. Somehow, I have a feeling that my inserting “noxious” for “nitrous” is a harbinger of things to come. |
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A Few Shells Short of a Box
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2011
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You get the picture – not hitting on all cylinders. You know? Mr. Fix-It got this video by email today from a friend – also a male – with the accompanying comment which kinda ruffled my tailfeathers, “You just don’t find good wives like this anymore.” Well, yeah. Thank goodness for suffrage! What gets me is that this lady looks happy. She obviously took that part about “love, honor and obey” seriously!! I can just hear that guy from the movie shorts of the ’30’s, in his nasally voice intoning, “And here we have Mrs. Not-Too-Smart and hubby having a lovely Saturday afternoon in the park. After games they’ll be hitting the bar for a couple of “shooters”. And then again, maybe they went there first!” From a 1932 test of bullet proof glass! I just had to share it with you – oh, and location unknown – except that it can’t be Oklahoma!! We Okies aren’t this dumb: Care to add any other idioms? |
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Chicken and Broccoli Bake
Thursday, March 31st, 2011
 Once in awhile I get a wild hair and just start experimenting. Like splashing paint randomly on a canvas, I’ll play a game of “pull out what you have, throw it together and pretend it’s good!!” Most of the time, the result is pretty successful, but once in awhile I’ll end up with a disaster like my ‘seafood casserole’ which has been the subject of really bad jokes for the past 10 years. Or at least I think they are bad. For some reason, at family get togethers, that meal always finds its way into the conversation. That casserole was big enough to feed our family of six and all the neighbors up the road and across the road. Unfortunately, the kids took one bite and asked when I had started combining WWII MREs for dinner. Actually, WWII MREs would have tasted better. Mr. Fix-It, always the gentleman, smiled through gritted teeth and pretended to chew. I gave the casserole to our Labrador, Toby, who is the canine equivalent of “He likes it! Heh, Mikey!” (The Life commercial, silly!) Toby sniffed the casserole and looked at me with those big, brown, soulful eyes that silently queried, “When did you start combining WWII MREs for dinner?” He didn’t eat it either. Mr. Fix-It is my restaurant critic. No thumbs up from him or five stars. It’s number of helpings that determines the quality of my concoctions. One helping that is barely touched is a signal that failure is the operative word while two helpings is the, “Old gal, you did it!!” Well, this was a ‘Mr. Fix-It Two Helping Recipe” and so I thought that I would share it with you. And please, if you don’t like it, don’t tell me. Just go buy a Labrador! 
 Salt and pepper chicken breasts and brown in 2 tbsp olive oil  Place chicken in a baking dish. Lay broccoli around and on top of the chicken breasts  In the same skillet of drippings, sauté onions and garlic until just clear.  Add mushrooms and cook until tender and browned  Add prepared gravy mix. I like using the mix because it is lower in calories and fat, but you can make a white gravy mix from scratch, in a saucepan, using equal amounts of melted butter (or other fat) and flour, adding milk a little at a time and stirring until gravy is thickened. Add salt and pepper to taste.  And stir until everything is incorporated  Pour mushroom sauce over the chicken and broccoli and spread to cover and sprinkle parmesan cheese over the sauce  Cover and bake in 350º oven for 30 – 45 minutes until brown and bubbly
 In a large saucepan add bouillon to water and add turmeric  Bring water to a boil and add rice. Cover, reduce heat to simmer for 20 minutes  Toss rice and cover to let stand for 5 minutes.  Serve one breast and broccoli with sauce per person. And of course, you’ve gotta have that homemade whole wheat bread!  If you have leftovers, pop them into plastic trays, wrap with foil, label and freeze and you have your own ‘TV Dinners’. This is one chicken breast split into two dinners! Can we say, “Lunch?” |
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Hubby Bragging
Thursday, March 17th, 2011
 I just have to brag on the smartest member of our team, my husband, Mr. Fix-It. He never ceases to amaze me. As a side note, by way of explanation, I have a few herniated discs in my back and so I have discovered this awesome creation of technology called The TENS unit. It is the equivalent of sticking your finger into a light socket on purpose and enjoying it. This little unit comes with 9 volt batteries that send juice through lengthy wires to electrodes that you place on various and sundry parts of your body. At the turn of the dials, waves of electric shock pulse through those nerve endings that have decided to let you know you are in pain, and gently put them to sleep. Pretty soon, you’re signing up for an aerobics class and thinking about flying lessons. It’s great.  That is, unless you turn it up too high or an electrode loosens. Then, you are dancing around the room, squeaking, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as you grab for the little battery box in an attempt to turn it off. It is worse, however, when one of the little wires begins to burn up. Such was the case with my TENS unit. One of the wires evidently had a tiny break in it and the thing finally burned up. In the interim, I didn’t realize it and so I couldn’t figure out why I got shocked at really inconvenient intervals. Nothing like carrying on a converstation and letting out a squawk while doing a poor imitation of the “Freddy”! You young ones will have to look that up! Finally, the unit died and I was not a happy camper. In comes Mr. Fix-It, in cape and leotards – ok, well, jeans and tool belt – and began major surgery on the offending wire. I watched, fascinated, as he used a meter to touch every spot along this really, really skinny wire to find the break. With an “aha!” he got his wire cutters and clipped a section right behind the piece that goes into the battery pack of the TENS unit. There it was – all burned up inside its plastic sheathing. With a soldering iron, some solder, my extra hands, and a new plastic sheath, he put it all back together good as new. Now I can go back to zapping myself with no interruptions. I am totally blessed!! What a guy. 
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Aging Gracefully?
Monday, February 21st, 2011
 I thought that I would take a moment away from all things cooking and maybe wax philosophical. I’m really bad about not waxing the floors, but I wax philosophical quite frequently. Just ask Mr. Fix-It.  I have the blessed joy of having had experiences in life that many people only read about in books. Some of those experiences weren’t so hot, but I always learned something in the doing. I’m not so old that I don’t remember being 18, but I’m not so young that I can bend backwards, and walk on my hands and feet like a crab. You know, we DID have to do that in high school gym class, in our younger days, and I always wondered how it was supposed to affect my outlook on life besides feeling dumb and seeing everything upside down. Well, I’ll tell you. It DID affect my life as I now have two herniated discs in my lower back and two in my neck. I am certain that walking like a crab did it. I never noticed it until a few years ago, but I KNOW the culprit. Thanks, Coach Cox. Had nothing to do with all that hay bale tossing. But my point? I’m no spring chicken.  On that note, I heard a very disturbing bit of info on the news this past week. Very disturbing. It seems, according to the headlines, that women become invisible at the age of 50. I pondered on that for awhile and I just couldn’t believe it. I mean, it’s at the age of 50 that women start getting bigger without any effort at all. It seems impossible that we could be getting bigger AND invisible at the same time, but evidently men really just can’t see us. That would explain alot. It would explain why the son, home on a visit, doesn’t answer the questions I ask him. I can now understand why Mr. Fix-It didn’t inform me that I was leaving the house in my old, ragged, backless tennis shoes (in which I informally flip-flop around), while dressed in a fancy frock for a luncheon. I was invisible!! It gives total understanding to the actions of the young bag-boy at our local grocery who asks, “Paper or plastic?” and upon my request for paper, immediately begins bagging my groceries in plastic. I think he just asks the question out of habit, because it is obvious that he can’t see or hear me.  But do you realize the advantage that we middle-aged women have now that we have found out the truth? There is no end to the possibilities this new revelation has provided!! I can sit in front of the doctor and eat a triple-decker, mayonnaise laden hamburger WITH cheese and he won’t say a word! He can’t see me!! I can buy a 1963 baby blue Impala for $15000 and bring it home and won’t have to hear about it because nobody will know where it came from since I’m invisible!! Shoot! That means I can’t get a ticket driving that 1963 baby blue Impala because the policeman can’t see me!! Oh my gosh. I can’t get my head wrapped around all of this. But wait…as I read along in the article, I now see that women only THINK that men find them invisible. That’s not very scientific. One of the ladies interviewed even shot the theory down by stating, “Even when I met the man who is now my [third] husband, I assumed he wouldn’t fancy me.” Well, he proved her wrong. He married her didn’t he?? Seems like he pretty much saw her!  More than half of the women surveyed felt that advertisements give them unrealistic expectations of how they are supposed to look beyond age 50. I can’t imagine why. The advertising world works hard to portray us women over 50 with not a gray hair on our head, shaped like Miss Universe and usually galloping across green meadows astride a sinewy steed while explaining the heartbreak of psoriasis or the inconvenience of constipation. You know that’s me! And so, I have just come in from a much more scientific inquiry of Mr. Fix-It, regarding whether he finds me invisible. He gave me a big hug and said, “How can I not see you?” I’m going to have to think on that answer, but I have a sneaky suspicion that it could hinge on that ‘getting bigger after 50″ thingy I mentioned!  |
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That Crazy Government!
Thursday, January 27th, 2011
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 And speaking of all things country, a friend just sent me this article from the Wall Street Journal that had me laughing until I realized how sad it is!!! We have dairies in Oklahoma too and I’m wondering what our citizenry will do if WE have a milk spill. Imagine the disaster: In Western Oklahoma, our wheat farms would turn into giant bowls of cereal. In Southwestern Oklahoma, the windmill farms would churn it into massive quantities of butter that would clog all of the life-sustaining highway arteries between towns!! In Southern Oklahoma, a fisherman’s catch would come already dipped in milk and ready for breading! Here in Central Oklahoma, where our flour mill thrives and produces multiple mixes, people might be overtaken by huge masses of biscuit dough oozing through the streets like some whole wheat wall of lava. The visons are frightening! So get a load of what is being done in order to save us from these unimaginable ends: “President Obama says he wants to purge regulations that are “just plain dumb,” like his humorous State of the Union bit about salmon. So perhaps he should review a new rule that is supposed to prevent oil spills akin to the Gulf Coast disaster—at the nation’s dairy farms. Two weeks ago, the Environmental Protection Agency finalized a rule that subjects dairy producers to the Spill Prevention, Control and Countermeasure program, which was created in 1970 to prevent oil discharges in navigable waters or near shorelines. Naturally, it usually applies to oil and natural gas outfits. But the EPA has discovered that milk contains “a percentage of animal fat, which is a non-petroleum oil,” as the agency put it in the Federal Register. In other words, the EPA thinks the next blowout may happen in rural Vermont or Wisconsin. Other dangerous pollution risks that somehow haven’t made it onto the EPA docket include leaks from maple sugar taps and the vapors at Badger State breweries.  The EPA rule requires farms—as well as places that make cheese, butter, yogurt, ice cream and the like—to prepare and implement an emergency management plan in the event of a milk catastrophe. Among dozens of requirements, farmers must train first responders in cleanup protocol and build “containment facilities” such as dikes or berms to mitigate offshore dairy slicks. ![funny cow:] Pictures, Images and Photos](http://i568.photobucket.com/albums/ss123/angelicab22/cow.jpg) These plans must be in place by November, and the U.S. Department of Agriculture is even running a $3 million program “to help farmers and ranchers comply with on-farm oil spill regulations.” You cannot make this stuff up. The final rule is actually more lenient than the one the EPA originally proposed. The agency tried to claim jurisdiction over the design specifications of “milk containers and associated piping and appurtenances,” until the industry pointed out that such equipment was already overseen by the Food and Drug Administration, the USDA and state inspectors. The EPA conceded, “While these measures are not specifically intended for oil spill prevention, we believe they may prevent discharges of oil in quantities that are harmful.” We appreciate Mr. Obama’s call for more regulatory reason, but it would be more credible if one of his key agencies wasn’t literally crying over unspilled milk.” By the way, if you make a cow laugh, does milk come out of her nose?  |
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Two Dangerous Women
Tuesday, January 25th, 2011
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Proud  I am sure that you have heard of the Home and Garden Show that stations itself at every fairground in the US to encourage gardeners to grow pumpkins the size of a Smart Cars and to coerce nongardeners to envelope their homes in copper guttering which, at the price of copper today, will be removed within a week by some industrious n’er-do-well needing cash for a big screen tv. Well, my darling daughter had two exhibitors’ passes for this past weekend and she asked if I would like to go with her to this show of shows. Now, it’s a great thing to get to go to this yearly event, but for a daughter to actually be caught with her mother in public and on PURPOSE is a cause for celebration indeed! Of course, my answer to her invite was a definitive, “Do pigs fly?” which is a much more genteel response than the one asking what bears do in the woods even though it makes absolutely no sense at all. She knew what I meant.  And so we did what any two red-blooded, southern women do and bundled up against what we considered a life-threatening 32 degrees. We drove across town to the beautiful OKC Fairgrounds, parked the car and walked to the building that we decided was obviously the first of 5 total exhibition buildings. I thought it odd that the steps were full of men in camouflage, smoking cigarettes and huddling to discuss who-knows-what, but I attributed it to true southern gentlemen who had brought their wives to the show even though it would have taken one of the John Deere Zero Radius mowers, displayed at the show, to physically drag them into the actual building to look at the latest fiberglass hot tubs.  Now, I have to tell you here that there is a certain sense of power that goes with having “exhibitor” badges. One need only flash these jewels at the TSA wannabes manning the doors and you are waved through with an “Oh! Go on in!” as the poor slubs with tickets must stand there and watch you waltz through while they have their wrists stamped to prove that they are NOT exhibitors. Only, at that particular moment, our passes didn’t mean much. As we waved our badges, I instantly noted that it was almost all men in the building – men in camouflage – and there were tables and tables of every kind of weapon of mass destruction that any self-respecting varmint hunter would be proud to call his own. It was at that moment that I and the attendant announced at the same time, “Gun Show!” My daughter and I backed out and headed to the next group of buildings where we would find weapons equally as deadly to our pocketbooks and our health – waterless cookware, full goldfish ponds with 8 ft manmade waterfalls and German Cream Cheese Strudel. And you know what? When we finally found that first Home and Garden Show building, I thought it odd that standing on the steps to the entrance were huddled groups of men in camouflage, smoking cigarettes and discussing who-knows-what. Yep. This is good ol’ Oklahoma!! 
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Random Musings – Buttermilk Biscuits From Scratch
Wednesday, December 8th, 2010
 Isn’t it funny the things we say before we really realize how dumb we sound? Like the clerk who recently told my daughter that she didn’t think the grocery store carried poppy seeds anymore because of the opium in them – Huh?? Or how about someone near and dear to me who announced that the IPhone had an exciting new app that turns your IPhone into a walky-talky, allowing you to talk to other people over your IPhone!! Ya think? (Oh and that’s ‘application’ for those of you out-of-the-technologically-advanced-loop kinda fuddy-duddies) One of the best was stated by a sport’s caster announcing a Denver Bronco’s game, years ago, who marvelled, “He threw it with his left arm!! He threw it with his left arm!! He’s amphibious, you know!!!” I’ve had my major share of unengaged brain moments myself. There was the time I didn’t realize that I explained to a friend of ours, who had accompanied us to a reunion, not to be alarmed about one of our cousins who suffered from “necrophelia” (attraction to corpses). I couldn’t understand the shock and recoil of our guest until one of our children whispered to him, “She means narcolepsy“(sleeping disorder). Oh yes. I really said that. And then, there was the awful time that I got frustrated with one of the old timers who loved to kid me in the grocery store meat department where I worked years ago. Balancing a row of packaged chicken breasts, three deep, along my left arm as I was placing them in the bin, I picked up one package, waved it in front of his face and threatened, “Do you want some breasts in your mouth??!!” There was nothing to do but hide in the big cooler between the hanging sides of beef and pork until the coast was clear. My favorite story of all time, though, involves a very dear friend of mine (whose name I will change to protect the not-so-innocent), Claude. In that very same grocery that I mentioned as my place of employment, there was a very handsome, macho, young man – the brother of my boss and co-owner of the store – who worked the cash register every so often. His name was Gerald. My boss, had a delightful little tow-headed four year old son, who spent many days with us in the meat department. And his name was Jarod. One day, my friend Claude and his wife had come to the grocery store to shop. Seeing Jarod playing in front of the store, Claude’s wife mentioned, “Oh! There’s Jarod. When you get closer to him, be sure to play “Got’cher Nose” with him because he loves it.” If you have no idea what that game involves, it requires the adult to grab the youngster’s nose, and then, sticking the thumb between the index finger and the middle finger to present it as the stolen nose, the adult declares, “Got’cher nose!” to which the youngster screams in terror, “Give it back!! Give it back!!” It is solely for the sadistic pleasure of adults to terrify, frustrate and generally disturb the psyche of young children. Now Claude, dutiful husband that he was, pushed the cart around the store and loaded it with groceries alongside his wife. In order to pay for their loot, Claude stationed the buggy at the checkout stand manned by Gerald, my boss’s brother. Claude looked a little timid at first, but just as Gerald rang up the last item and stated how much was owed, Claude reached across the conveyor belt to Gerald’s nose, grabbed it and declared, “Got’cher nose!!” Now, Claude defends his actions by explaining that when his wife mentioned “Jarod”, he heard “Gerald”, and disaster ensued. Gerald, every bit the man’s man, stepped back in shock and stared at Claude in total confusion. Then Claude saw little Jarod and realized his mistake. Leaving groceries, cart, a stunned checkout clerk and a wife, who was in hysterics, Claude exited the grocery as fast as he could and waited in the car until his wife made it out with the groceries. It was quite awhile before Claude set foot in the place again, and those of us who worked in the grocery had a story and a laugh for weeks and weeks. Well, speaking of Claude – Claude, like Ernest in the old milk commercials, used to pop up at our home every morning because he knew that there would be fresh biscuits and sausage for the taking. He loved biscuits and he always made me feel so appreciated as he devoured a plateful. And so, it is in honor of Claude that I thought I’d post my biscuit recipe. Hey, Claude!! Got’cher nose! 2 cups flour (all purpose or whole wheat pastry flour) 1 tbsp + 1 tsp baking powder 1/4 tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt 6 tbsp shortening buttermilk oil butter               |
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Let The Blood-Letting Begin!
Friday, October 22nd, 2010
 Not that I am calling nurses vampires. Really. I love nurses. And I absolutely know that there is no such thing as a vampire…however, might I please be allowed to whine anyway? I love the Psalms because the Psalms let us hear even the “Apple of God’s Eye” whine. They also let us know that God hears our whining and gives a new perspective. So first, I’ll whine and THEN I’ll give my new perspective.  Such was the case today, and when the nurse finally called me back, trying to embrace the peace of the Lord, I skipped lightly to the Dracula seat, plopped down, grinned and said, “Hi! How are you?” The nurse did not respond or smile but, without a word, choked off the circulation in my arm with a rubber band. She finally said, “You’re here for a CBC, right?” Uh. No. I wasn’t there for a CBC – just thyroid. No, the nurse was sure I was there for a CBC. But I wasn’t, I assured her. “Are you Mary so-and-so?” “No. I’m not Mary so-and-so.” “Well, I need Mary so-and-so.” So I went back into the waiting room and told Mary-so-and-so that she was next in line for torture, not me. Mary So-And-So bounced in and bounced out in what seemed like 10 seconds. She waved me in as the next victim with a smile and a wave and all I could think was that it wasn’t fair. Back in the same chair and cinched with the same rubber band while gripping a green ball shaped like a heart – (I suppose that’s to give the patient the impression of squeezing his own green heart to make the blood come out faster?) – I endured the smacking, tapping and poking on my arm that I knew would result in the question, “Is your other arm any better?” To which I always answer, “No” at which point the rubber band is removed and placed on the other arm, anyway. With another smack, tap and poke comes the comment, “You’re right. This one isn’t any better.”  The nurse felt of the inside of my arm and said, “Is your other arm any better?” I told her, “No”. She took off the band and transferred it to my other arm and poked around and sighed, “You’re right.” But then, worst of all fears, she stated, “But we’re going to try it anyway.” I froze. I looked away as she put the needle in and was pleasantly surprised that it didn’t hurt. She was just fooling with me, though. She hadn’t hit anything, but was just going to find it once the needle was in. I gritted my teeth and squished my eyes closed. She mumbled something about just getting drip by drip. All of a sudden, a pain shot up and down my arm that I can only assume was caused by a blow torch that the nurse had hidden under her blouse ready for use the minute I turned my head. I let out a loud yelp and then “Oh! Oh! Oh!” to which she cried, “What? What? What?” She frantically gulped, “This has never happened to me before! I’m trying to get the needle out!” and of course, I’m gulping too – big gulps of air to keep from passing out.  Shaking from head to toe, from lack of food and what I considered at the time to be excessive stress, I tried very hard to look calm, composed and totally oblivious to the embarrassing squeals that I knew had escaped my lips. I knew this because the waiting room, which had been full, had suddenly cleared. Evidently, everyone had decided they really didn’t need lab tests after all. I feel bad about that, but I think after me, the nurse needed a day off anyway. And so, I wobbled – no – staggered to my car, crawled in and lay my head on the steering wheel, arm still pounding. It was tightly wrapped with gauze and tape but that did not hide the large blue bruise that was forming, giving me the appearance of a drug addict. I made the 45 minute drive home – after a stop at McDonald’s – yes, McDonald’s – don’t say a word.  Actually, I am most thankful to the Lord that the worst of my problems are veins the diameter of vermicelli. There are so many people who suffer daily from all manner of infirmities and pain, of whom we need to be aware and for whom we need to be praying, so it is with gratefulness that I can laugh in fun at my silly trial. God has been gracious. However, I will say that I have made a decision as a result of this ordeal. From now on, I am subscribing to the medieval method of leeches for extracting blood. Just stick those suckers on me and it’s up to the professionals to figure out how to get my blood out of them!! |
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