No more monkey's swingin' on the bed!

I spent half a lifetime working on the Pediatric unit at the local hospital.

The children on this unit are never critical but can be really sick.

One of my 2 year olds, (James T.) , had been there for several days and had just turned the corner from really sick to just sick. He had been a model patient, laying quietly in his crib, hooked up to his monitors and IV fluids , watching TV and playing with his cars. Parents are encouraged to stay at the child's bedside but this little boy had 5 siblings age 0-6  , and his mom wasn't able to stay with him. Still, he was pretty compliant and never tried to escape his crib with plastic extended sides and lid 4 feet above the mattress- pretty much a cage.

I used to make rounds frequently on the kids, especially those without parents bedside or in Isolation and James T. was no exception.

 James T. was within ear shot of my nursing station, in an Isolation room, but not in line of sight. I heard an unusual noise coming from his room. I went to check and he was laying there all smiles. Left, went back to the desk, and hear the noise again. Checking on James T., He is laying at the opposite side of the bed, IV line twisted. Straighten him out, chat with him and settle him down. After a few more minutes, the noise reoccurs. This time, I was just outside James' room and walk right in. Shocked to see him hanging on the upper bar of his crib, swinging on it like a trapeze artist, getting his feet planted firmly on the cribs side rail for leverage. He has almost worked his head through the plastic roof and ready to hang himself. Horror of horrors! He is still all smiles and pleased at his new found ability and the possibility of escape. Somehow, he found what little bounce was left in the old crib mattress.  He has been caught and now we need to find a safer solution for confinement.

I discussed James T. near escape and hanging with his physician. A plan was made. He got a room upgrade, a bedside playmate (volunteer) and plans for an early discharge. A happy ending for all of us.

No more monkeys swingin' on the bed!

EXCUUUUUSE ME!

I was enjoying a therapeutic shopping day with a friend. She accompanies me occasionally to provide clucking encouragement and discerning judgment when mine fails me. 
 I have my handful of stores that give me joy just to walk around in  and look . I'm not a big shopper and when I do shop, I make sure one of my favorite stores is included in the shopping rounds.
We found ourselves walking through a store enjoying its music selection. (Hobby Lobby) . Neither one of us were finding anything we were really looking for but we strolled down each aisle pushing our empty carts along just in case we did.
My way was blocked in the middle of one aisle by a woman and her cart. The woman was texting on her cell phone and didn't move aside when she saw me.
 "Excuse me", I said. No response or movement.
"Ugh, pardon me". Still no response.
I tapped her on the shoulder and asked, "could I get by you?"
Her reply; "You'll have to wait until I'm done texting here."
I look behind me at my friend to share an indignant glance , and a scowling squint, with  lower lip bite. I turn back to deal with the aisle blocker. . .  I freakin' don't think so! I shoved Ms. Texter aside with my cart, using it as a plow.

She gives me a LOOK which is no match for mine. It took all of my self  control to stop from grabbing her phone and smacking her on the head with it .

I'm not sure what the correct etiquette is for this behavior. I didn't have Emily Posts book handy.  Guess I'll write my own!

If the shoe fits....

I have freakishly large feet. It has always been so.

Shopping for shoes as a child was a horror show. My mother could not understand why my feet kept growing. It got to the point that she had to drive me and my two fat feet all the way to another county, where there was a "special" shoe store for people like me

I know the shoe store was intended to shod people with orthotics, flat feet, stumpy feet, crippled feet.

It carried few shoes in my size range and I usually had the choice of 2-3 pretty ugly shoes. The trip to the specialty shoe store was an all day affair, ending in frustration and tears from my mother, fits of refusal from me and the purchase of an expensive, ugly pair of shoes that I was only to wear to school so they would last longer. Thankfully, my feet grew extensively longer and fatter and I only had the ugly shoes less than a year if I was lucky.

My father told me to wear shoe boxes and made me a pair of shoebox shoes as a joke. Glad that it was only a joke but I was equally glad to have gone barefoot for most of my outdoor days or wear flip flops every single day of summer. A perpetual bloody stubbed toe was my badge of honor and survival.

I had to turn down being a bridesmaid in 2 weddings because of the required footwear for the occasion. Humiliating but true.

I wore mens sneakers and sandals (still do) every day unless there was a special occasion or I was forced into a dress for school. For band recitals, when long dresses and nice shoes were required, I wore way too small shoes that came off the second the concert was over and I walked barefooted to the car.

As an adult, the quest for footwear has been just as difficult. Not so much the length any longer. Thankfully, women have grown taller and their feet longer; its the width that proves the challenge.

We all have our little imperfections to deal with as we grow up. Feet were mine. Forget acne, split ends, jelly belly or cellulite. Feelings of nausea and insecurity still strike me as I enter any shoe store.

I relive the days of shoe managers and salesmen making horrid comments about my feet. The last was at a Nordstroms where the manager was called to deal with me and told me they could not help me there so I would have to find another shoe store to order my shoes. That was a pivotal day for me. The first time I stood up for me and my feet, offering to stick one in his mouth or up his rear. . . his choice. I also wrote to the company. Although it only got me an apology and I was still shoeless.

Now that we have worldwide internet, my hours and days spent seeking shoes are shrunk. I have had much better success and suffered no further assault to my psyche.

I have to give a shout out to PAYLESS SHOES who have carried super sizes for women for decades and helped in my quest of appropriate shoes by calling associate stores. The shoes are never comfy, but suffice, are inexpensive and last.

 If you hate odd feet, have a little foot fetish or consider any shoe size over an 11 WWW to be abhorrent, keep your comments to yourselves or risk impalement by flying foot.

I am what I am, I stand tall and upright with my feet planted firmly on the ground. If the shoe fits, I wear it- Mens or womens.

Make the most of the dash

I read a quote today that I have read before but didn't give it too much consideration.

"Your life is made of two dates and a dash. 
  Make the most of the dash."

This made me stop and really soak in the words. Best case scenario, I get to live the second half of my life in perfect health and mind, experiencing all those activities on my bucket list. I'm already past the half century mark and realistically, I only have a third of my life left!

What have I done to make that dash between my beginning and end really stand out?
It seems as if I've been waiting for a period of my life to  wind down so I could do something super awesome, but its always put off because I am waiting on another life change to occur.
My life has definitely been subdivided. . . . College, marriage, have children, grow the children, launch the children, career and the race to retirement. Now what?

Now that there's time in my days,  I am running out of them and the stuff I really want to fill them in with is pricey - like touring Europe, cruising around famous islands, climbing Mt. Whitney, going on a shopping spree and only shopping from the non-clearance items. Flying around the world visiting friends and family instead a occasional texts or phone calls.

I'm hoping for out of reach hopes and dreams to appear. . .like owning an amazing house on a hill with a breath taking view to decorate and the invention of a body molder that sucks off the fat and tones your muscles until you look like a 27 year old poster girl for Women's Health magazine. Pipe dreams yes, but great dash fillers.

I It's time to make my mark in this wide world and figure out what God's purpose for me here is. Surely there is more. I hope so! Other wise my dash is done and I have lost my opportunity.

I am proclaiming the year of 2016 the beginning of a new dash chapter. Join me. Don't let your dash end with unresolved dreams and hopes. I'm sure going to give it my best!

Crawling under cars

Back in my teens, I purchased my first car, a Honda civic. It was small and manageable and got me where I needed to go. It wasn't my dream car but it was what I could afford then....$3,899 brand new with upgraded interior.....blue plaid insets. No A/C or radio but it was mine. I was instructed to change the oil in it after its first 1,000 miles. Not having a clue how to do that, I drove it over to my best friends house (who I would later marry and call Mr. Man), and asked him to help me.

Mr. Man and his father spent their days rebuilding engines and crawling under cars looking up into their guts.

I was instructed to don the coveralls, assemble my oil , a metal pan , plastic funnel and given a little wrench to undo the oil plug. I wish I had a photo of the 3 of us grouped under that little bitty car. Just our heads fit under it. I successfully drained the oil into the tin pan, added new oil and learned how to read an oil stick. I didn't like getting oil on my hands or washing it off with the gunk -be-gone cleanser and I certainly didn't like looking at my cars under belly but it was a valuable lesson that was as essential as learning to rotate my tires and change out the battery.

 Mr. Man has tired of tinkering with the cars. It was never his passion. He logged a lot of hours under the hood and spent bonding moments with his dad under those cars. It cemented their relationship as father -son and gave them a common interest.

 If I hadn't gotten under that car and paid attention to Mr. Z, I doubt he would have given me the time of day, even after I was joined into his family and became the chatty daughter-in-law.

 Since those 40 years ago, Mr. Z reminded  me about my auto repair lessons held in what is now my own garage and driveway-
Every time I went out to his own auto garage  to check up what was new with the place, there was always one car that seemed to be in a constant state of repair, engine removal or up on "blocks". 
Sadly, I never convinced him that his new hobby could  be the restoration of a 1945 Chevy Truck for me to drive around.

My daughters have learned the same lessons from their grand father . He was thrilled that they never hesitated to crawl under the car and learn the same methods of the oil change , battery check and spark plug install the old school way. I don't think the man ever considered a jiffy lube or a Big O tire for his own cars. He was a patient and knowledgeable teacher.


The cars have never run smoother.

Good lessons for every one.

Thanks Dad.

It's raining. What do we do now?

Year 4 of the California drought.

Neighbors have had their lawns removed and replaced with "desert landscape" looking as if they really are in the Mojave desert. (They look ridiculous.)

Water conservation efforts are at full operation and the cities are imposing a high fine for any household exceeding their predetermined water allotment. (I have yet to exceed mine but I am water savvy conscious!)

If you have a green lawn, or blossoming flowers a neighborhood narc group will report you to the city to find out why and HOW.

Lakes are well below their lowest points. You have to hike a mile to get to water. Boat launches are no longer necessary.

Fish are dying off. 

No snow base in the High Sierras to determine if we will ever have water to sprinkle again.
Farmers are allowing the crops to revert to dust and can no longer afford to water the crops which drives the cost of food up even higher.

You've been hearing this all on the news. We are going to dry up and blow away.

Now, we are awaiting "El Nino".- Weeks long of storm after storm, cold weather and flooding.
All the local TV channels are a-buzz with STORM WATCH 2016. A few drops send this event to national news. Cautionary tales to continue to conserve your water. . . or else!

Moisture drips from the sky and everyone starts running around in circles not knowing what to do first.

Mothers pack their children in zip-locks and run screaming with the children to avoid getting wet. (It may melt your skin. acid rain is real)

Motorists skid out of control as their tires hit oily pavement and slide across the highway.

Windshield wiper blades, formerly used only to do a quick swipe now and then to remove morning mist, are now found to be shredding and ineffective when needed to perform against rain falling for more than 5 minutes. Auto shops are holding seminars on how to purchase-install-and use wiper blades.

I too have fallen into the crazed state of wondering what to do when so much water befalls us in such a short time. Add the lightening and thunder and we all assume its an earthquake- we know what to do for that act of nature.

As my swimming pool overflowed and the yard drains obviously plugged up from the foreign occurance of water gushing into them , I was scrambling to create a dike and sand bag effect to keep the rising water at bay and out of the house.

I scoffed at myself to have been caught so unprepared at the watery onslaught. Within seconds I was wet to the core and stripped off the pants weighing me down and got into flip flops. What a sight as I scrambled around in the frigid rain and kept it up until my teeth were chattering and Mr. Man got home to save the day. His comments about me outside in underwear and flip flops was unwelcomed. If any neighbor is looking out at me scrambling to save the house by myself without offering any assistance then shame on them!

Donning his only water proof jacket available, a red hooded windbreaker you could see through, a long sleeved Columbia hike shirt designed to wick away moisture, snow pants from the last ski trip circa mid 1990's when the waist line was in the LOW 30's and hiking boots, he forged out and began the clearing of the drains.

Removing a tree root as long as a foot ball field and a sludge-root mass the size of a bowling ball, we achieved yard drain success as the entire yard began to swirl like an enormous toilet bowl and slurp down the multiple drains now cleared.

Lips blue and teeth chattering, the 3 hour drain clean out left Mr. Man hypothermic and waiting for hot soup and hot shower simultaneously.

I had to laugh at him as he started removing the wet clothing, and peeling off the soaked "waterproof" ski pants but especially laughed at the dismal failure of the pricey Columbia brand hike shirt that absolutely could not wick away a drop of the water it had absorbed nor provide any kind of thermal relief from the freezing rain.  Even the hiking boots proved a fail and I expected fish to fall out of them when they had the water dumped out.

Yup. You know you are a true Southern Californian when the best rain coat you've got is a GLAD Trash bag. Even my golf and beach umbrella proved insufficiently waterproof.

Now that the yard and house are saved, we are ready for the next STORM, coming this way in 2 days. I can safely sit back and revel in it.

I love the rain. I love to dance in it. I love to listen to it and watch it make drip rings in the pool. I've already got the next rain outfit picked out. It covers more body real estate, its warmer and my rain barrels are upright and ready. Bring it!

Here's my take on the old hand clap and jump rope song . . . .

"Say say oh playmate, come out and play with me.

And bring your doggies three,

Climb up my big palm trees.
Jump into my rain barrels,
Slip slide into my French doors.
And we'll be rainy day friends,
Forever more----one, two, three, four."

"So sorry playmate,

I cannot play with you.
Ive sadly got the flu,
I cough until I'm blue.
Ain't got a rain barrel,
and only a sliding glass door,
But we can still be friends,
Forever more--one, two three, four."

10,000 uses for Duct tape- # 976

Mr. Man and I were having a busy and productive morning de-decking the halls and boxing up the lights and garland. We have it down to a pretty decent efficiency level and it's always easier to take it down then put it up.

Our Christmas tree, which was one of the best in near memory, lush with full, deep green bows, stayed fragrant and beautiful until December 30. This is the day it shriveled up, folded itself up like a big beach umbrella and pretty much removed its own decorations all at once! Guess it knew when it was time to  leave! I hauled it out to the curb by myself, recalling how it took the two of us to wrangle it indoors from the truck and how heavy it was. Now, it weighed about 5 pounds. This began our prompt to start the clean up and put away process a little earlier than usual.

 So, as Mr. Man removes lights, cables, and elves from our roof  he hands them down to me and we get the job done double-time. Up on the roof, he has a birds eye view and tells me there is a couple walking their dog in a weird stroller so call in Captain Morgan.

I turn to watch the couple advance. Not a dog or a stroller. It is a pink Little Tyke scooter that has a handle attachment in the back for the parent to push the kid along. The kid in this case is a darling 10 month old baby girl bundled up in a furry hoodie. Her mom and dad are very young. . . teenagers, and thrilled that all my tree ornamental balls are blowing about the yard and bouncing merrily down the sidewalk. Baby is holding one they captured on its way down the block.

We exchange pleasantries and I notice that the baby has been duct taped into the scooter seat and her legs duct-tapped to the sides to keep them off the ground. Pointing this out to mom that it may be illegal to duct tape an infant into a scooter, she laughs and says,
 "Isn't it great? She was dragging her feet on the ground and we couldn't get any where or she would fall off the seat! Now we can walk fast! I even brought the roll of tape in case she starts to slip. Duct tape is the best!"

Wishing I had my camera to capture this oddity, they are gleefully waving goodbye, pushing fur coated baby with zebra tights and red shoes wiggling as they continue their walk down the block.
Mr. Man has been watching from his rooftop perch. He says, "I think that's illegal?"

I'm not sure. The baby is happy, her legs and arms weren't blue. Her little red shoes showed active toe wiggling and her  Mom and dad were happy. I think its okay if there isn't duct tape over the mouth or face.

What do you think?