A couple of weeks ago I traveled down the freeway to see my grandsons, Itty Bitty and The Boss Baby in the “Dome Home.” My kids have purchased and remodeled a 1986 “Dome” that sits on 6 acres of wooded land teaming with wild life (as in creatures) and adventure. A perfect place to raise two inventive spunky children with imaginations overflowing.

I was to spend a restful 3 days with my family, eating, shopping, sleeping and cuddling. What I didn’t realize until Friday evening was I would spend a considerable amount of time “dueling” with the oldest grandchild, seven year old Itty Bitty.

Somehow he has acquired two full sized, shiny silver plastic swords that, when you flip a small switch, actually makes clinking sounds when hit together. He bought these with his own birthday money and insisted on two because if he only had one who would he play with? Always thinking ahead, that one.

Upon my arrival and after a hello hug, he quickly thrust a sword in my hand and said, “Let’s play, Nana.” Okay, after a long drive down I wasn’t exactly at my finest but I’m game for anything with Itty Bitty so I assumed the stance and proceeded to lunge and parry.

Now, what the grandson didn’t know was that I took fencing in college and even though I learned with an epee instead of a sword, the principle was the same. This meant I knew the rules of engagement. I proceeded to inform Itty that I once took lessons in fencing and could teach him a thing or two. He was somewhat impressed that I knew what I was doing and could parry most of his thrusts. We played for quite a few minutes, with lots of clanging and clinking, swinging the swords around in the air and some pretty sneaky lunges by the Itty. At one point I had my back turned when I felt a plastic sword swipe across my backside. I immediately knew that my grandson was a back stabber.

ME: “Stop, that was not fair play. Nobody wants to play with a sneaky back stabber.”

ITTY: “What’s a sneaky back stabber?

ME: “You know what sneaky is, don’t you?”

ITTY: “Yes,”

ME: “You know what stabbing means?”

ITTY: “Yes.”

ME: “You know where the back is?”

ITTY: “Yes.”

ME: “Put them together.”

ITTY: “OH, that’s not good? But, I got you.”

ME: “True, but not in an honorable way.”

ITTY: Blank stare…

ME: “When you duel with an opponent you must do it honorably or the whole sport just crumbles.”

ITTY: Blank stare…

ME: “Well?”

ITTY: “What’s duel mean?”

ME: “It’s what we’re doing with our swords. It’s actually a sport, in the Olympics even. But before that it was the way gentlemen handled their arguments.”

ITTY: “Wow, that’s a pretty mean way to end an argument. When I fight with The Boss Baby I’m never allowed to stab him with a sword.”

ME: “True, not a good way to resolve a problem. That’s why it became a sport.”

ITTY: “Ok, so what’s honorable.”

ME: (I have waited just for a moment like this with him. I get to explain how to behave like a gentleman. Hope I don’t screw it up.) “Do you know what honesty means?”

ITTY: “Sure. If you want candy from the store you honestly have to pay for it.”

ME: (It’s a start.) “Okay, so honor is a part of honesty. You want people to trust and admire you. To have them know that you always play fair.”

ITTY: “Can we play again?”

ME: “With a few rules.”

ITTY: Big sigh. “What?”

ME: “Don’t stab me in the back, always make sure I’m ready and stop changing the “rules” in the middle of a match.”

ITTY: “Then it’s not going to be much fun, is it?”

ME: “Probably not.”

ITTY: “Do you want to watch a movie?”

ME: “Yeah, what do you want to watch?”

ITTY: “Robin Hood.”

I haven’t told him yet that I also took archery. I’m waiting until he busts out the bow and arrows.

My great aunt often told the story of a woman she knew who was the last century’s version of a hoarder. She, however, was very organized in her collections and labeled everything in sight. In one of her cupboards was found a mason jar stuffed with bits of string. The label bore the truth of the matter – “String too small to use.” The whys and wherefores of this are now lost forever but I find the label to be much more than first thought.

With life comes troubles and doubts and, hopefully, with these come much thought and reflection. I find myself at a crossroads in life and in trying to gather all my musings together in one cohesive ideation, I instead have threads of thought “too small to use.” My mind either flits about from subject to subject, never landing on any one long enough to solve; or it jumbles many thoughts into a maze. I travel each thought to what I consider the end only to find it has morphed into another and another and finally I can’t locate where I started. I am now lost in a cornfield of my own making and the stalks are too high for me to see over.

With introspection hopefully comes consideration and then reasoning. I can’t even arrive at introspection. And reasoning seems hundreds of miles away. At this point I just file everything away in the back of my mind and, like Scarlett O’Hara, vow to think about that tomorrow. But the next day new issues have evolved and I can’t wrap my head around them all, so I again push them back and muster on.

Not only that, but the threads of my mind are becoming frayed at the end due to overuse. Now, there is not much to these tiny pieces in the first place, so I really can’t afford to lose any to fraying. If these thought threads were to disappear without my permission, how will I come to a conclusion? How will I know how to come to grips with my doubts and find a solution? Is there a solution?

With that thought another snaps into place and finds a welcome home. Prayer – – my life-line to the only One who can counsel with truth and love. Prayer – – comforting and peaceful. It stops the pains in my chest, the aches in my head and the trembling of my hands. It heals and provides hope of a resolution. It is a God send, literally.

So, I travel on my mind’s highway, picking up the pieces of thread, mending the frayed ends, and knitting them together to make a comforter for the future where I know I’ll be taken care of on high.

And so ends this raggedy jumble of thoughts and feelings and worries and such. I’ll now be taking out my knitting needles and starting on the afghan with threads that were originally too small to use and are now magically transformed into strands of fibers with purpose.

It’s officially fall on the calendar, and here in Oregon the weather is evolving into autumn. The air is brisker, the nights cooler and Pumpkin Spice Latte’s are showing up all over the place.

True Oregonians, as a rule, love this change. The dog days of August are too hot and wear us down. People are grouchy, the landscape looks fried and we are sick of being hot and sticky. We are ready for a change. We want rain and several days of it. You should witness the folks donning their outer wear, stopping their automatic sprinklers, dreaming of the day they can quit mowing their lawn. The joy is palpable. People walk around celebrating the drops falling on their heads. Umbrellas are rarely seen as we are so glad of the moisture hitting our skin.

People now have a reason to wear their beanies. Not that Portlanders need a reason. This choice of head covering is worn rain or shine, hot or cold. It can be 100 degrees outside and somewhere in the city there are beanies being sported.

Speaking of Pumpkin Spice Lattes …I don’t care for them myself. Too sweet. Oh, I know, a lot of the Pacific Northwest population live for the day they come out on the menu. This big seller has come to identify the start of the season. For myself, I live for the day the Peppermint Mocha comes out. Truly my favorite. Yes, I realized you can have them mix this up any time of the year, but I wait  until it’s officially on the menu board. Sometimes waiting for something makes it that much sweeter.

With fall comes the rain. Sporadic sprinkles at first, greening up everything in sight. Then a little more, a little more, a lot more and suddenly it’s November and you need to get your hip boots resoled.

But, if we are lucky, we get to have an Indian summer. October can be a glorious month filled with crisp morning air, balmy afternoons and mild evenings. Or, it can be a beast and rain enough to float the Ark.  Either way, we are excited with the weather.

And no matter what may transpire, Oregonians love fall. School starts up again, with #2 pencils and notebooks filling backpacks; plaid flannel shirts are purchased and windshield wipers are replaced.

I have a theory, though . . .Oregonians only like their weather for three days at a time. Then we want a change. It doesn’t matter if it’s sunny, fair, snowy or rainy, we can only take if for three days without starting to complain. We are also worriers. During the summer we worry there won’t be enough water; and during the winter we worry there won’t be enough snow to have an adequate snow pack for the summer. Or we worry about too much snow, a wet spring and flooding of our rivers. We Pacific North Westerners are hand wringers. From year to year we marvel at the precipitation, the dampness, the gray clouds, the rise of the rivers, you name it we are amazed. Newscasters stand out in the most inclement weather reporting on snow fall, floods, winds, and rains. And we are riveted to the small screen as if nothing like this has ever happened before.

I love living in this part of the world, where the weather changes with the seasons and green can be found everywhere. I love how we both celebrate and grumble about the weather. Long live the Pacific Northwest and all hail to the rubber boot industry.

HABITS

It is said that doing anything consistently for two weeks can form a habit. Either good or bad, it’s the consistency that counts.

In most circumstances I find this to be true. I have consistently made my bed for the past month and now can’t leave it unmade. Score one for building a habit. I consistently clean the floor, bathrooms and do the laundry. Good habit. I get to work on time. Great habit.

But do you think I can make a habit of, oh say, exercising? Eating healthy? Buying everything I need at the grocery store in one trip? NOOOOOO. At no time in my life have I been able to do these things consistently for longer than a couple of months. What’s a magical mess to do?

I’ve joined a gym and gotten a trainer and this did hold me accountable til I couldn’t afford him anymore, lovely though he was. I’ve filled my pantry and fridge with healthy foods and then found myself eating chocolate chips out of the bag with a spoon. (Probably should have thrown those away, but the husband would have to pry them out of my cold, dead fingers to do that.) And Safeway is just way too close for me to be organized enough to plan a week full of meals.

So, I just take to heart the habits I can manage and endeavor to add the others on a day to day basis. But, after years and years of trying what are the chances?

P.S. You are probably asking yourself, why did the bed making habit come so late in life? I was a spoiled little magical mess and never had to do that chore. Then, when I grew up I found that making my side of the bed is like starting over every time. When I sleep it appears a hurricane overcomes me and I toss and turn and flip covers and reflip them. In the morning my bed resembles nothing like how it started out. Over the years, I just gave up on the chore. Every week when I washed the bed linens the bed would be beautifully made. Then came the nightly storms. But I love climbing in a freshly made bed, so hence the new habit. (You’re probably thinking I don’t sleep well, but amazingly enough, I wake refreshed, although confused as to what could have happened in the middle of the night. Guess I’m no Princess and the Pea.)

(Due to technical difficulties, mine no doubt, this post was supposed to be published before the “Side Note to Adult Colding.”  I add it now as it is the beginning to the duo.)

I am just recovering from a head cold that has been with  me for almost a week.  A week out of my life I’ll never get back.  A week spent sneezing, wheezing and generally feeling sorry for myself.  I still feel as if I could go back to bed but I’m pushing myself back to normal life.  I remember having colds in my twenties and it taking two to three days to recover.  Forty years later, it now takes me two to three weeks to get back to my former self.  I honestly don’t know when it became the norm for the sniffles to take over my life and put me down for the count, but it must have come on gradually.

When I was very young, having a cold meant having my mom braid my hair, put fresh jammies on me and tuck me in.  Being the nurse she was, my temperature was taken, a cooling bath was given and my feet were always kept warm.  I felt swaddled in her loving care.

As I grew in age, a cold meant going to bed, getting an Orange Julius (I thought this was the elixir that could cure everything), and a Seventeen Magazine.  I was doted on and cared for so much that I sprang back to life in only a few days.

Years went by and I had a child of my own that I doted on and cared for.  But, something else happened . . .my colds were ignored and I learned to work through them.  A mother has no other choice.  My son came first.  I would have liked to baby the husband, but he seemed determined to sweat it out by himself, so I left him alone.

Then came the time our home became an empty nest and I was again left to my own devices.  Is there nothing sexier than gazing over at the husband and realizing there is a tissue stuffed up your nose to stop the dripping.  You have on mismatched jammies, your hair is going 300 different directions and there is a touch of drool dripping from the corner of your mouth.  Ah, yes, you are truly magical.

Then comes the disturbing rasp emanating from your chest every time you breathe along with the feeling the top of your head is going to blow off.  Every cough sends a new spasm throughout your body and you pee yourself a little.  Your voice sounds like you have been smoking for the last 100 years.  And the magic just keeps moving on.

I think the most alarming and yet theatrical moment in the cold comes when you are ready to finally take a shower.  Enough is enough with being sweaty, gross and unwashed.  It’s time to take a hold of your life and clean away the stink.  But, as you climb into the steamy shower, something happens and you feel light-headed and slightly nauseous.

I remember one of these occasions quite vividly.  It was a week when my son and daughter-in-law were up to visit bringing with them their teacup Chihuahua.  (I called her “The Potato” as she was roughly the size of a Costco potato.)  They were hoping to train her to use a litter box, so, a pink container filled with cat litter was placed in my bathroom as it was the most central place for her to remember.

This sounded all well and good but what no one took into account was the mess that little spud was going to cause.  Oh, she entered the box with no problem but exiting was another matter.  Those tiny pieces of litter were strewn far and wide and she left a trail of them that wound down the hallway.  That was going to play a vital role in what happened next.

Not feeling well but determined to go to work anyway.  I turned on the faucet and entered the hot, steamy atmosphere.  In only a few minutes I realized this was not a good idea but by then I was already soaped up with a head full of shampoo.  I began to get dizzy and sick to my stomach but had the presence of mind to know I had to get out of there.  So, in one fluid move I not only stepped out of the shower but fell to the floor.  I remember my shoulder hitting the bath mat but nothing else for what seemed forever and in reality was only a few seconds.  I came to completely laid out on the floor and feeling a bit scratchy.  Scratchy, you ask?  Yes, because not only was I wet and soapy but I had rolled in the cat litter the Potato left only seconds after I stepped in the shower.

I basically felt like a chicken breast that had been dipped in batter and rolled in crumbs.  Cat litter “jimmies” covered me.  Yes, I was a “breaded” filet.  My only option was to get back in the hot, steamy shower.  I sat up to check the level of my dizziness.  Not too bad.  I got up on my knees and checked again.  Obviously the cool of the room had helped and the nausea had subsided.

I stood, reached in and in a moment of brilliance turned the temperature from hot to cool.  I then proceeded to “unbread” myself.  Soap, shampoo and jimmies cascaded down my body and into the tub.  Thank goodness the drain accepted it all and didn’t clog because one more glitch in my day would have sent me back to bed.  As it was I had to clean up the floor with about six towels and put them in the washing machine on soak.

Soon I was rid of all the goo and particles that seemed to have adhered to me and I was clean and steady.  Interestingly enough, I made it to work exactly on time.

Moral of the story — if ever you find yourself in a shower with a cat box just outside the tub, turn the water temperature way down.  That way you will not find yourself on the floor rolled, breaded and ready to be sautéed.

 

Come to find out, the muse also had a cold last weekend. It appears to be a relapse of one he had the week before. In comparing our symptoms and remedies, he mentioned he took a lot of NyQuil and probably should measure the bottle to see how much he consumed.

I acknowledged I too had consumed quite a lot over the past three days, in fact half a bottle was gone. It helped me sleep, hours and hours worth of sleep.

Then he goes and says it’s 50 proof. That means, he informed me, that it was 25% alcohol. WHAT??? How have I gotten this old and not realized that? I have treated my self with this for years and now I find out it’s loaded?

I have a rule, actually a self-imposed abstinence rule, I don’t drink alcohol. Don’t like it, don’t like what it does to me (which is put me to sleep… ah, now I see the correlation), don’t like the taste.

Don’t get me wrong, I tried it in my youth. Didn’t like the taste then unless it was mixed with a lot of fruity liquid. And an umbrella. If I were to ever drink again I think a Lemon Drop would be my choice. With an umbrella.

So, now I have a big question…does it count as breaking my rule if it is used for medicinal purposes? Am I now an imbiber? It really didn’t do anything to me except put me to sleep. Can I get by with still being dry?

Let me know what you think. Should I feel guilty or not?

Several years ago I became acquainted with a genre known as Steampunk. It is defined as part science fantasy, part Victorian Era, part industrial steam age, and part American Wild West. Lace, leather, hop hats, driving goggles, and mechanical parts abound. Think “The Wild, Wild West” television show from the 1960’s or the movie of the same name with Will Smith from 1999. Firefly, a favorite of mine, also applies. These are prime examples of this amalgamation.

So, this last Sunday I was privileged to be invited to a Steampunk wedding. It was fantastical, wonderful and tongue-in-cheek with not only the wedding party dressing up, but many of the guests participating also. Hats, lace gloves, vests, and boots were seen all over the place. In keeping with the spirit of things, the magical mess accessorized herself with pink goggles with two different lenses attached with a hose clamp and a bit of steampunk cat jewelry. I wore the goggles as a headband. I’m thinking of bringing them to work one day and putting them on when I have to take stitches out. Can’t wait to see the reaction from the patients.

Up in the Silver Falls forest we gathered and witnessed two lovely, quirky, kind, and original lovers vow to be one. It was a ceremony like none I’d ever attended. The bride, who tends to be late on a good day, was having issues with her hair and head piece. Thus, the wedding started forty minutes late. But instead of just sitting there looking at our watches, the officiant regaled us with the hokey pokey, Boy Scout camp sing-a-long songs, and a few jokes which included the following:

“What do you call a bunch of crows camping? Attempted murder.”

Some in the audience got it right away, but a few were in the dark. I’m not going to give you the insight but if you go look up what a group of crows is called, all will become clear.

The event finally started and was sweet and endearing, just like the bride and groom. There was a groom’s dog, flower fairies and a thicket of trees that was like a small wooded cathedral. Steampunk ruled the day and a union was made.

If ever I get invited to a Halloween party, I will be outfitting myself in the most resplendent garb befitting the theme. I’m already looking at sewing patterns. I’m thinking a corset, lace skirt, top hat and lace up boots. The magical mess can’t wait to go all in Steampunk.

WHY DO PEOPLE…?

The following are observations, questions, dare I say beefs we medical assistants have regarding our patients. These traits are shared by so many that they seem to have become the norm instead of the exception.

WE WOULD LIKE TO KNOW:

Why do people call at 4:55pm and request a refill of a prescription they ran out of and expect to pick it up that same day? We close at 5pm, folks, 5pm!

Why do people answer the phone while driving and then complain because you called them while they were driving? This one is simple . . . don’t answer the freaking phone!

Why do people expect you to look up their insurance co pay when they can just look at their card? We’re the medical assistant, not your personal secretary. In the time it took you to dial, wait on hold and actually speak with me, you could have looked at your card.

Why do people call a specialist’s office and expect to get in this afternoon? For knee pain they have had for two months. It’s a specialists office for pity sakes. And your knee pain is not an emergency.

Why do people wear tights, skinny jeans and boots when coming for a knee exam? You are going to have to peel all of that off and then put it back on at the end of the exam. Think, people, think.

Why, when I ask a patient about their knee pain, do they have to go back to their high school football career 50 years ago? Trust me, there are many more current reasons for your problem.

Why do men, when asked to get their height, act shocked they are not six feet any more? Dude, you’re seventy, shrinkage happens.

Or why do men declare they are six feet and, when measured, are no where close to that number? Unless you had a portion of your spine taken out, you are not going to shrink from six feet to five foot six inches. Not going to happen.

Why do people put their entire medical history in minuscule writing all over our questionnaire? We really only want to know about the problem` that brought you to us. Truthfully, we don’t care about anything else.

Why do people have to go the bathroom right after checking in at the front desk? Then we have to wait for them, all the while staring at the bathroom. This makes us both feel creepy.

Why do people wear long sleeves when coming in for a flu shot? These are the same people who wear tights, skinny jeans and boots for the knee exam.

Why do people insist they have strep throat when they’ve only had a sore throat for an hour? Have you heard of nasal drainage?

Why do people come to urgent care when they think they are having a heart attack? Call 911, people, call 911!

Why, when people are already late for their appointment, do they demand to know when they will be seen? You’ll be seen late, because you are late.

Why do people think their scheduled appointment time is just a suggestion and they can come whenever they want? Waltzing in a half hour late does not endear you to us. If you want to know a secret, we sometimes make you wait longer because you were late in the first place. Yes, we are bad.

These are just some of life’s questions that plague our minds. Will we ever get them answered? Probably not. Will these behaviors change? Probably not. Should I have chosen a different line of work? Probably so.

In closing I leave you these words of wisdom: when telling someone ALL of your problems, remember neither one of you is any better off.

I recently saw this posted on Facebook. Thought it’s worthy of the magical mess.

 

FOR TODAY:

Drink your coffee

Stay focused and positive

Don’t freak out

Remember, stabbing people is wrong

Are you wearing pants?

 

The first time I read this word I was sure it had something to do with World War II weapons. It sounds Germanic and a little harsh, like it might be used to maim and destroy. But, in the context it was being used that definition didn’t add up. This confused me, so as is my usual habit, I looked up the word.

Well, color me surprised.  It pertains to a woman having a full, rounded figure; plump in other words. I now had found a word that described me to a tee but it sounded like such a rude little word. Where in the world did it come from, I wondered.

Back to the internet I went and looked up the origin of ZAFTIG. It seems to originate from the Yiddish Zaftik which means “juicy or succulent.” I found I liked this description so much better than the word “plump”. I may be rounded and full figured but my soul is juicy and succulent.

As pudgy women everywhere, we struggle daily with the world’s perception of us. Fat, buxom, obese, all accurate words to describe us but words that do us a great deal of harm to our delicate feelings and self worth.

Long ago we would have been thought of as the women who artists choose to immortalize; women who came from upper class homes; women who’s husbands loved and doted on us.

But, in modern times that has all gone the way of the snood. (look that one up.) Thin became “in” and plump was derided as lazy and gross. Not a good way to define a woman. Lately, though, I think this is being changed by women, plump and thin alike, who are not going to put up with being labeled and categorized. Women who want the world to see beyond the flesh and look into the soul. Women who want to be respected.

Also, men are changing their own sexes perception as to desirableness of the female form. I have asked my own husband what modern men think and he tells me most of the friends he has enjoy “something to hold onto”, which a skinny woman doesn’t have.

Fashion magazines are coming out with “real” women who have a full form. Could the world be changing?

While waiting for a revolution of sorts, I will continue to get healthy and find a weight that supports that goal. I will continue to encourage the women I meet to feel good about themselves no matter what “container” they come in. I will continue to look at people’s soul and not judge the outside.

Please join me in celebrating ladies in all sizes. And remember, the more zaftig the girl, usually the jollier the soul.