Geographically-challenged individuals

On Christmas day, the family and I were traveling Interstate 95 on Florida’s East Coast. Our destination was my brother’s house in Palm Bay, but we decided to take a quick trip to Melbourne before we drove back home to Highlands County.

After exiting the Interstate, my husband, Chris, pulled into a crowded gas station because our vehicle refuses to run on wishes. He went inside to grab some snacks and, while waiting in line, sees a pretty girl he guessed to be around 14-years old barge in through the door.

“What is this place?” She demanded more than asked anyone who was listening. There were a few chuckles, but someone said, “You’re in Melbourne.”

“Well how long is it to get back to Florida?” The whole place erupted into laughter.

I’m going to pause here and shamefully admit that, as soon as I had heard this much of the story, my mind immediately jumped to judgment. Considering the lack of good manners and the major metropolitan areas connected by I-95, I said to myself, “She’s either from Miami or New York City.”

Apparently, in the gas station, a good Samaritan was trying his best to help this girl. He asked, “Where are you trying to go, sweetie?” Her response: “Pompano Beach….FLORIDA!” Yes, the emphasis was on “Florida” as if no one would understand she meant the state and not some far off galaxy.

Another person said, “You’re in Melbourne…FLORIDA!”

As my husband was walking out the door, he heard her final response to the exchange. “Oh! I thought it was in the ocean!” This was followed by more laughter.

After I finished giggling and rolling my eyes, I felt many conflicting emotions in reaction to this incident. First, I think this girl knows there is a city somewhere in the world called Melbourne. She may not know it’s in Australia and probably doesn’t know it’s about 9,750 miles away, is not located in the Atlantic Ocean, and that you can’t get there by car.

I tried to imagine what she does in class all day and the only picture my mind would conjure is a girl chewing gum, texting her friends, and daydreaming about having a Kim Kardashian-style wedding.

I love history and geography, but I’m also in perpetual training in case I get the opportunity to be on “Jeopardy!” one day. Still, I decided to give my 11-year old son a quiz to see where he stands compared with “Miss Pompano Beach.”

When I asked him if he knew of another Melbourne in the world, he didn’t, but he acknowledged that there are places with the same names all over the world. I asked him what he knew about Australia and he began listing random facts including the disputed “island, country, continent” argument. He guessed that it was around 7,000 miles away from Florida.

I was worried when I asked him if you could drive to Australia because he said “Yes.” When I encouraged an explanation, he said that you could go up to Alaska, go across the ice into Russia, come down through Asia, and then drive a boat. “Or you could just drive a plane. That would be easier."

He also correctly identified cities in different areas of Florida, like Tallahassee being in the panhandle and Orlando located more in the center of the state.

I was proud and relieved that he listens and retains information in class. At a certain point, the schools can’t be expected to compensate for a student’s refusal to gain knowledge.

Ready, set, CHRISTMAS!

Tis the season to celebrate whichever holiday you wish, but in my house, Christmas reflects our personal beliefs. It is a time of reflection and the counting of blessings, not to mention a little gift dispersion to the family.

Though decorated trees have nothing historically to do with the true meaning of Christmas, the fragrance of murdered evergreen helps mask the odor of our 30-year old carpet. Also, the lights and ornaments are a pretty addition to our drab décor.

A few years ago, my mom gave me a box filled with a bunch of ornaments I had made as a child. She’d saved them all. Every single one of them.

My first internal thought was, “No, no, no! I made these for you! To keep forever!” I certainly didn’t plan on getting them back one day and, if I had, I would’ve done a better job on them in the first place. I’m not super sentimental about stuff like that, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out either.

One ornament I particularly can’t stand is an egg that was carefully emptied of its contents and glued over with tissue paper confetti in the ugliest colors of neon green and yellow. I seriously want to toss it in the garbage, but she stored an emptied egg shell in perfect condition for thirty years! How can I so blatantly disrespect that level of commitment?

One Christmas “tradition” I’ve never fully embraced is the whole Santa Claus production (spoiler alert to any parent who doesn’t want me to ruin this for their child). I’m not violently opposed to Santa and I know the story is sweet one and Saint Nicholas was a really great guy, but I think it distracts from the real meaning of Christmas.

I believed in Santa until I was in the third grade which has to be some kind of record for gullibility. I even convinced another little girl who had the sense to see through the ruse to believe again. Talk about having egg on your face in the fourth grade! Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that’s the same year I made that horrid egg ornament.

Back to Santa: parents say that Santa and his cohorts (the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy) give children a sense of imagination and belief in magic. My daughter plays teacher to her stuffed animals and makes her Barbies argue about who is going to drive the stylish, pink sports car while my son takes his Nerf gun and belly-crawls in the backyard to sneak up on unsuspecting terrorists. My kids aren’t lacking in imagination.

My sister is way more fun than me. One year, she dropped dog food on the front lawn and sprinkled it with glitter. This was reindeer poop, in case you’re anything like me and couldn’t piece that together in your head. This year, she bought the “Elf on the Shelf” which is a creepy stalker from the North Pole who reports to Santa on your child’s behavior, but also gets up to some mischief of his own (i.e. moving from shelf to shelf).

If someone is going to tell an imaginary man that my children have been rotten, I want it to come from me. I’m too much of a control freak to let some fake Santa spy do my job. Besides, I don’t want
“Tattle-tale Elf” ratting me out to Santa! Mommy really needs a new blender.

"Single-use only" clothing

Like many Americans, I’m not particularly thrilled with my current weight. For this reason, when I shop for clothes, I try to buy inexpensive items that deemphasize the more accentuated areas of my body. This profusely limits my choices and leads to bouts of depression.

I often find myself in a dressing room with two different sizes: the size I think I am and the next size larger. When the first fits, I’ll try on the second and, provided I’m not swallowed up by it, will end up purchasing the larger size. I do this based on the general rule that everything shrinks at least 10% after the first run through the washer and dryer.

My husband says I over-dry our laundry which may be related to the fact that a person could conceivably receive 2^nd degree burns from the clothing if they tried to empty my dryer. In my defense, our dryer possesses a fine line between “not enough” and “too much” which is ironically very much like my wardrobe.

My biggest issue with lower extremity apparel is the presence of “muffin tops.” This happens when a person’s abdominal girth exceeds the capacity of their waistband and, obeying the laws of physics, the fat has to go somewhere which is why it ends up bubbling out over the tops of their pants. I don’t like seeing this on other people and seriously cannot tolerate it on myself.

Contributing to the formation of muffin tops is the cantankerous attitude of blue jeans that have just exited the laundry cycle. Jeans will not fit well until they have been worn for about six hours. This is why I wear my jeans two or three times before I wash them again. It isn’t as gross as it sounds because I try my best not to get them dirty.

My love for jeans has forced me to make some strategic decisions regarding shirts that highlight my mid-section: don’t buy them.

Last summer, I picked up a new top for a bargain price and I was delighted because it was sleeveless, but did not reveal the mini-muffin tops produced in my armpits by my supportive undergarments. In addition to this feature, it also hung loosely around my waist in a flattering manner.

In my excitement, I forgot the cardinal rule of the dryer as well as the total disregard of the words “dry clean only” located discreetly on the underside of the tag. The first time I wore it was the best and it never got that good again.

I thought I’d wear it this past weekend because I love to torture myself with impossible tasks like ironing an uncooperative shirt. I was freshly showered, but after standing over the steaming iron for 20 minutes trying to smooth over the intricate details and around oddly-placed buttons, I was dripping with perspiration. Still, I was determined to make the top work for me one more time.

I put the shirt on and realize that if I bent over, I’d show more than I wanted to show at a child’s birthday party. After applying a safety pin, I was administering my deodorant when I noticed my bulging armpits peeking out at me. After readjusting several times, I tore off the offending article and grabbed a different shirt that I detested slightly less.

I never seem to cease learning lessons in my life. This time, I think the saying “buyer beware” has finally penetrated my cranium once and for all; at least, I sincerely hope so.

Special moments with a special sister

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, I had the honor of attending the wedding of my niece, Britany, in Melbourne, Florida.  She is the daughter of my sister, Kim, who informed me that she reads all my articles and reminded me that Meredith is not my only sister.

My family tree gets a little complicated to say the least.

When I was three-years old, I had three older siblings, David, Kim, and Jerry. My younger sister and brother are Meredith and Adam. Since I’m the sole DNA recipient of my mother and father, all five of my siblings are biologically halves and steps, but to me, they will always will be my family.

Currently, I have other stepsisters and one or two stepbrothers, but the only one I really know is Sarah. When you get older and your parents remarry, it is weird to suddenly have extra family. Also, you find yourself including close friends as family so let’s just imagine that my family tree has become more like a vine that keeps growing and spreading in all directions.

Kim is truly one of a kind. She lived with us for a while back when I was around 13-years old. I have two fond memories of her from that time in our lives; the first is a special Halloween and the other involves a courting cowboy.

My little brother, Adam, was all set to trick-or-treat as Oscar the Grouch. He was pretty adorable back then and had a real thing for Sesame Street. At the time, I felt that I was too old to ask for candy and Kim was a young adult so we figured that cute, little Adam would bring back a lion’s share of sweets to share with his favorite sisters. We were wrong.

Adam returned in a selfish mood and Kim and I could not convince Mom to make him share so we did what we were forced to do: dressed Kim in the Oscar costume while I chaperoned her through the neighborhood.

Even though I was younger than her, I stood about 5 feet 10 inches tall while Kim had stopped growing at around 5 feet nothing. She fit in the costume perfectly and the candy was totally worth it, not to mention that it was comical to see Oscar the Grouch driving a car.

The courting cowboy was a gentleman who was vying for Kim’s attention. He was a really nice guy and, one night, he decided to come to the house and bring a couple of Cokes for Kim and me.

The reason I’ll never forget him is that he showed up in flip flops and the poor guy had the ugliest toes Kim and I had ever seen in our lives which led to a bad case of the giggles. We started strategically laughing at every little joke he told because, given the way he stretched his legs out, his toes were kept on constant display like a funky puppet show. Kim never went out with him again.

As a public service, I’d like to take this opportunity to inform all you nice men who happen to have unfortunate-looking foot digits to please wear closed-toed shoes until after the wedding.

Speaking of weddings, my niece was a beautiful bride and the deal was sealed with a kiss. The food was excellent and my brothers, David and Adam, ensured a steady stream of laughter flowed from our table. I couldn’t have asked for better company.

Escaping from the womb

I turned 38-years old on December 1^st. Birthdays are not some kind of accomplishment because they come and go whether you want them to or not until they stop one day which is not usually good news for anyone.

I can’t say that I’ve ever felt an age so much as a weight and this year is slightly uneventful because my age isn’t a standard landmark like 40, 50, or 100. To celebrate my non-milestone, I decided to take a peek into what life was like back when, as my friend Tonya says, I escaped from my mother’s womb in 1973.

Our President, Richard Nixon, was knee-deep in the Watergate scandal and, due to his own paranoia, thought it would be a good idea to record every conversation that had anything to do with him and his cohorts breaking the law. We all know how that worked out for him. He was still in office on my birthday and spent the evening at a movie called “The Last of Sheila” which I’ve never had the pleasure of viewing.

Speaking of entertainment, two of the most horrifying movies I’ve ever seen were released in 1973: “The Exorcist” and “Deliverance.” Both were deeply disturbing for different reasons and one convinced me that I never want go canoeing unless I’m heavily armed. On December 1^st, “Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World” debuted. Apparently the movie was based on a sheep dog eating a bowl of misplaced “Project X” and hilarity ensued.

Our country was struggling with gas prices which skyrocketed to about 40 cents a gallon thanks to an embargo imposed by OPEC. An average house would set you back around $32,500 and a year’s salary was close to $13,000.

In other news, Secretariat captured the coveted Triple Crown, U.S. troops began withdrawing from Vietnam, the Miami Dolphins won the Super Bowl, and the World Trade Center was the tallest building in the world. The Grateful Dead played a concert at Boston Music Hall on the day of my birth, but it was the Carpenters who topped the charts that week with their song “Top of the World.”

In 1994, my husband and I saw the Grateful Dead in Miami. The parking lot had a carnival-like atmosphere and women wearing long, flowing skirts were literally spinning in the hallways. My husband was doing his best to avoid them because his arm was in a sling and he really didn’t want to chance an impact. This was the first and last Dead show we attended.

Some interesting personalities share my birthday too, though not the same year. Bette Midler, Richard Pryor, Madame Tussaud, and Carol Alt were all born on December 1^st.  One incredibly notorious character also has the same birthday: Pablo Escobar, a Colombian drug lord and all around bad guy. He was killed the day after his 44^th birthday. His existence proves that not all Sagittarius try to make people laugh.

My actual birthday this year was wonderful. My classmates threw a little party for me on lunch break at school and all signed a card that was pleasantly inappropriate; nursing students possess a sick sense of humor.

When I got home, my husband took me to The Spa at Hammock Falls where I received an incredible massage and pedicure. I highly recommend this business to anyone interested, but you will leave with a bad case of the yawns. A perfect end to a perfect day.

The high cost of entertainment

Thanksgiving has come and gone once again. If you’re anything like me, you love to spend turkey day afternoon lazily pawing through the Black Friday ads to see what kind of preposterous deals a handful of people will be able to snag in the wee hours of the morning.

I’ve been on both sides of the counter on Black Friday. I must say it is much more fun being a customer at 5 in the morning than the employee who would have loved to grab an extra bit of shut-eye after spending the previous day in a state of extreme binge eating.

When everyone settles down after all their bargain shopping, many people like to head to the local movie theater and catch a new flick. Being too exhausted, I don’t think I’ve ever done this myself, but I did go see a matinee movie this past Monday.

First, I will not apologize for seeing the movie I saw. I am an avid reader of almost every genre of novels available and enjoy contrasting Hollywood’s interpretation with my own imagination. Yes, I am one of those people who annoyingly states, “The book was SO much better than the movie.”

Second, my sister paid for my ticket for which I am grateful considering the cash flow situation in my house. Third, I’m on “Team Jacob” and I don’t care that he has only recently come of age because Edward looks like an emotional heroin addict.

With my conscious now mostly cleared, I’ll grudgingly admit that I did enjoy the movie, but I will neither confirm nor deny whether or not I shed a tear or two towards the end. That is my own business.

One thing that does bring a tear to my eye is the cost of going to the movies. I guess I’ve been hiding under a rock because I was astounded to realize that, for two people to go see a matinee, then get 2 drinks and popcorn or candy, it will empty your wallet of at least thirty dollars!

I normally head to the Gate Station and grab some discounted candy and soda to smuggle into the theater, but we were on an artificial time limit. I say “artificial” because the movie was scheduled to begin at 4:30 which translated into the reality of 5:00.

It irks me that we have to pay $15 and still watch a half hour of commercials! I don’t mind movie previews; at least they let me know about upcoming releases that I would’ve missed because, thanks to my DVR at home, I rarely even watch commercials anymore.

I just don’t believe I should pay to watch a Honda ad or Sprint promotions or, for goodness sake, a Coca Cola commercial! Coca Cola the brand sold in the lobby! Why advertise when you’ve already narrowed the market?

All the people who work at the theater are really very nice and make the financial pain a little less severe. I don’t think I could say “That will be $10.50 for a medium coke and a bag of M&Ms” and keep a straight face, much less smile while I said it. The M&M bag did come in a protective box and the bag itself was uncharacteristically white which must mean those candy bits are somehow more flavorful than their convenience store counterparts.

Going with my sister was the true highlight and I’m glad I had the opportunity to spend a couple hours with her. Next time, I’ll (grudgingly) pay for the tickets.

Reflections on the past year

It has been a year since I began writing this weekly column for the Highlands Today and I believe that I have covered a wide range of topics including: carpet cleaning, road rage, raising children, nursing school, canned cheeseburgers, the Sebring races, and many more. I thought I’d celebrate this milestone with a moment of reflection.

At this time last year, I was about three months into my first year of nursing school. Aside from endless studying, all I had accomplished in the clinical setting was the administration of four flu shots at the VFW and taking blood pressure at a health fair.

Blood pressure is a funny thing because, when you first learn how to do it, you feel like you are listening for some vague sounds that do not really exist. I remember several incidents when I repositioned or reinflated the cuff a few times before I halfway trusted myself to write down a reading.

I must say, the general population is really quite tolerant when it comes to allowing a fumbling student the privilege of using them for practice. For that, I thank the fine people of Highlands County and I’m glad I never seriously harmed any of you.

My daughter was thoroughly enjoying pre-K at Faith Child Development Center last November. She has come a long way in a year’s time with her behavior, as well as her speech impediment that doesn’t seem to faze her one bit. Sometimes I wonder if her speech has improved at all or if she has just brainwashed all of us into bending to her will in understanding her unique language.

My son was and still is in the HARRT program at Woodlawn Elementary where he spends his days making jokes and charming the girls. It is scary how fast he’s growing up and I can now see in his face a shadow of the man he will be one day. I’m just hoping he can start controlling his constant release of gas and maybe try to restrict it to the bathroom.

My husband is still taking classes and supporting the family. I don’t think either of us could have ever imagined how broke we would be, but he is getting us by and paying all the necessities. Even though we’ve been together a long time, I still find new things to love about him. When I finish school in June and stand on the stage while he places the pin on my shirt symbolically declaring me to be a nurse, I know that this difficult time will have been worth it.

There were lots of ups and downs over the past year too. The highest point was finishing that first year and having a few weeks to spend with the kids before the fall semester began. The lowest point was the loss of a family friend, Steve. Words could never do justice to describe how sad we were with his passing. If anything, it reinforces the importance of telling the people in our lives how much they truly mean to us.

As for the house, we have had an increase in size of the sandy patches in our yard and our dog has found new things to bark at like squirrels and birds and slight changes in the wind.  Our air-conditioning system is living on borrowed time and our carpet isn’t worth cleaning anymore, but we’re happy and never stop looking towards the bright future we know awaits us. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy the present.

Life in the slow lane

Since the onset of my medical issues last month and my “professionally advised restriction” concerning the operation of a vehicle, I have not been behind the wheel of a car for 31 days. It’s like I’m 16-years old all over again and being driven around by my friends (Karen in particular).

My mom jokingly reminded me that, back when I was a teenager, I declared to her that I did not need to learn how to drive because I was going to have a personal chauffer once I made all my money. I had big dreams back then, but my current reality is a poor representation of the fantastical plans I had developed.

What I miss most is the alone-time I enjoyed after I dropped the kids off at school in the morning. I’d crank up my music and imagine I was a racecar driver speeding along the back roads on my way to class. I loved to experiment with the maximal borderline-safe speed with which I could take a ninety degree corner while mentally noting where the “decoy” police car would be parked that week so I wouldn’t have to alter my bad behavior.

My husband would occasionally comment about my average miles per gallon and how they could be so much higher if only I’d release my lead foot from the gas pedal. That’s the thing about newer vehicles: they rat you out with their digital memories that can be easily displayed and viewed with the push of a tiny button.

He’d also comment on the condition of our tires and wonder why we went through 4 sets in five years. In my defense, they were really lousy tires, but thanks to the warranty, we didn’t have to fork over too much money to replace them.

There’s freedom in driving. The roads, streets, highways, and Interstates are connected like the body’s blood vessels and they cry out for me to navigate their meandering paths.

When I was a kid traveling back and forth across Florida with my parents on Highways 98 or 60, I’d see little roads that trailed off into the woods and think, “One day, when I can drive, I’m going to come back here and go down that road.” Sure I was disappointed to later find out that nothing special was really on those roads, but I solved the mystery anyway.

I remember taking a trip with my mom, sister, and grandparents to North Florida for the Respress family reunion and taking a picture of a sign that declared we were entering Alabama. I had officially been out of the state and no one sent the authorities after me. Little did I know then that, one day, I would live on the other side of the country.

I still find it incredible that I can hypothetically pull out of my driveway in the morning and (provided I have the financial backing) go just about anywhere in this hemisphere of the world: the beach, Seattle, New York, the Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls, or just Frostproof to visit relatives.

For crying out loud, I even miss having road rage! It just isn’t the same when I’m the passenger because my heart isn’t in it.

Still, I’m not bitter about my predicament at all. In fact, when I get the green light to drive again, I think I’ll fully appreciate the entire spectrum of the driving experience. It really is true what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

How to lose any election

Last week, several of my classmates and I had the honor of attending the Florida Nursing Students Association (FNSA) annual convention in Daytona. I served as a Delegate which means I had to be present at the business meetings.

For some reason, I was talked into running for a spot as Corresponding Secretary on the FNSA board. I had one person as my competition and erroneously felt that I had a 50/50 shot at victory. That’s when it occurred to me that I was making a big decision and I did not bother to run it by my husband! I couldn’t back out, but I was terrified that I’d win while wanting nothing more than to win. Lucky for me, I didn’t.

Following are several tips on how to effectively lose an election:

1). Enter the race late.

The serious candidates who took the time to mull over a run for office were pre-slated a month ago. When I threw my hat in the ring, I had 6 hours to prepare for the meet-and-greet Friday evening. Voting was Saturday at 7 am.

2). Do little to no campaigning.

I spent an hour or so throwing together a Power Point presentation on my laptop. It was nice and professional, but the title was “Why Me?” which, perhaps, did not reveal the level of enthusiasm I was feeling at the time.

I also wanted to print handouts, but the free hotel printer was not working when I attempted to print them. After experiencing a small “fit” of frustration, my instructor escorted me to the “not free” business center where we had to pay $7 to obtain the handouts. Then we went to dinner. I did not campaign at all until the candidate presentations began at 7 pm.

3). Disagree with a current board member.

After I set up my laptop to loop the Power Point, a board member asked where my poster was. I told her I did not need a poster because I had a laptop. She said I did. I said, “Where does it say in the bylaws that I need to have a poster?” When she found a handbook, it turned out that the poster was “suggested” and not “necessary.” Score one for me at my expense.

4). Lack a clear understanding of the position desired.

Imagine my disappointment when I learned that my idea to revamp the website and Facebook page were outside the parameters of Corresponding Secretary. I could have sworn I read it somewhere, but when it was pointed out in the handbook that this was not so, I lost a little credibility.

5). Abandon your prewritten speech.

I’m not sure what happened when I got onstage in front of all those people, but I do know that I did not trust my ability to read my prepared speech. I made a joke about not falling on the way up the stairs and then sounded desperate for 45 seconds. Everyone said it was a good speech, but I could see the lie in their eyes.

6). Talk up your opponent.

My competition was a very nice person and I did not hesitate to tell people this. I’d like to think that I was her “pseudo-campaign manager” and that she won, in part, due to my influence.

That is how I lost my shot at the FNSA Corresponding Secretary position. I did sign up for the communications committee which assists with website and social media outreach. In the end, I feel like I won.

Some cheap brands don't cut it

Since my family has been on a budget, we’ve been doing our grocery shopping around town at a few discount stores. At first, it was weird buying the off-brands, foreign-brands, and questionably legal brands that are sold at these locations, but like any necessity, we’re adjusting.

For years I told my husband that I refused to eat cereal out of a bag because it reminded me too much of dog food bags; though, much smaller and easier to open. At this very moment, there is a humongous bag of cereal in our pantry that is quite tasty, but it is making a liar out of me. Chips are exempt from the bag prejudice because, unless you have a tube of Pringles, they all come in bags.

I must say that I have been pleasantly surprised to discover that most all of the products we now purchase are equal to, if not better than, our brand name originals. Having said that, there are two exceptions to this revelation: certain types of chips and dish soap.

The original Doritos Nacho Cheese Flavored Tortilla Chips are unmatched by any imposter brand. I’m so devoted to this particular Dorito taste that I don’t even like their alternative products and consider all of their flavor experiments to be epic fails. This list includes, but is not limited to Pizza Supreme, Spicy Sweet Chili, Cheese Burger, and my least favorite, Cool Ranch. I just cannot comprehend why Frito Lay would tamper with something that is the perfect combination of flavor Heaven.

Frito Lay has cornered the market on all my chip needs by also producing their Classic chip, Ruffles, Cheddar and Sour Cream Potato Chips, and Scoops which are unmatched when it comes to cradling chili con queso dip.

Discount chips simply do not cut the mustard when it comes to palatability. The plain chips are too salty and their take on nacho cheese tortilla chips is laughable at best. There exists in those off-brands a sweet, alien flavor that leaves an unfulfilling residue on your tongue and finger tips. Whatever Frito Lay is doing, they have one loyal customer who would rather go without than settle for a reduced copy.

Dish soap is a mix of chemicals that I had mistakenly thought was readily available to anyone who wanted to make the concoction. There are several major brands I’ll purchase depending what is on sale, but last week we paid about a dollar for a 2 liter-sized (exaggeration) container of bubbly degreaser. The problem being, it is neither bubbly nor a degreaser.

To get the suds, it requires about 1/8 cup of liquid to make any noticeable difference in the dish water outside of tinting it the color blue which does nothing to clean cutlery. I tried washing a pan that had earlier been used to cook bacon only to smear artistic circular ridges on the bottom.

I come from a frame of mind that figures more has got to be better so, after squirting the dyed gel directly onto the pan, I tried again. There still remained a greasy film. I pondered the low cost of the huge jug compared with the higher-priced brands and figured that I’m getting my money’s worth sticking with the well-known products.

Before I started school and catapulted our family into financial ruin, I always thought we were being frugal. I now know how erroneous my thinking was at that time. Still, I think I’ll splurge on those two particular items.

A once in a lifetime offer just for me

There is something fishy going on in the African country of Burkina Faso and, in particular, the capital of Ouagadougou (which I pronounce in my American accent “oooga doooga”). Actually, I think that Ouagadougou was my very first word, but my parents clearly did not know I was already interested in learning my world capitals.

Like many people living in today’s high tech society, I have more than one email account. My newest email is the very one I created to receive any potential feedback concerning this column. For some reason, I imagined hordes of angry people taking a few minutes to anonymously tell me what a horrible writer I am, but so far that hasn’t happened.

Because my email filter is set to “high,” I have to comb through my junk file every so often to search for mislabeled friendly mail. In doing this, I have discovered that I receive a large quantity of scam email with the majority requesting that I correspond with some fortuitous, if not slightly shady, bank auditor who accidentally stumbled upon millions of dollars while combing through the records of some poorly run financial institution in Ouagadougou. This trustworthy guy or gal wants to share the wealth with me because they can’t get all that money out of the country without my help.

ME! Here in Highlands County, Florida! Astonishing.

Now here’s the kicker: the only requirement of me is that I send them every last piece of personal information including my American bank account number because, you know, they have to wire all that money somewhere.

Sometimes, I actually want to send it just to let them be disappointed to find that my personal checking account at Bank of America has a whopping $0.24 in it. No, that is not a misplaced decimal. I long to see the look on Manila Mohamed Hassan M. Nur’s face when he drains my account dry. What would he spend his fortune on? If he could borrow a penny, he’d have a quarter, provided that the bank didn’t charge a withdrawal fee.

In another email from Mis Ehivet Kafoumba, she writes: “Hello Dear, How are you doing? Hope fine. Im Mis ehivet” (Note: all spelling and punctuation are hers). There is also something posted at the bottom, but it is in another language so I’m afraid to share it because it might mean something offensive about gullible Americans. If I emailed her back, I’m sure I’d get the bank auditing story all over again.

Miss Joy Kipkalya Kones of Kenya has recently lost her father in a plane accident. Her wicked step mother has taken all the inheritance except for her father’s briefcase that she “fined.” In his briefcase was a deposit slip for eight and a half million United States dollars which was placed in a bank in, guess where! Burkina Faso! Her name is listed as “next of skin.”

Joy is not only looking for someone to help her get all that money, but also needs a husband. I get a surprising amount of junk email from people who think I’m a man.

Lately, I have also been receiving several emails that appear to be written in Mandarin Chinese, but I have no hope of deciphering them.

Today’s column has been a public service announcement. Please don’t open or respond to those emails. The only reason they are sent is because they have worked at least once. You’re better off keeping your hard-earned money stuffed in your mattress.

And now for something totally different

For the people who read my weekly column, you know that I tend to share every minor detail of my life. This week is no different, but I’ll warn you now that there is not as much humor in this story as there usually is.

Early Saturday morning, while still sleeping, I had a seizure that lasted about ten minutes. Though I don’t remember the episode, I’ll never forget when I gained consciousness and saw the concerned look on my husband’s face. He was telling me crazy stuff about calling an ambulance and asking me what day it was.

My son had a seizure when he was four years old, so I had an idea what had happened to me, including the cloudy haze my mind was struggling to overcome. I’ve always been pretty healthy despite all of my hard work packing on extra pounds, you know, for a caloric reserve in case Florida gets hit with some kind of freak blizzard.

It didn’t matter how uncooperative my brain was acting, I knew for certain that, though the EMT personnel were top notch, I was not going to set foot in their ambulance so I could later receive a bill reflecting the most high-cost fare in town just to go a mere five miles.

My husband loaded the kids and me into the family car and drove us to Florida Hospital where I received excellent care that began in the Emergency Department and ended in a room on the 2^nd floor where my fellow students and I attend our clinical rotations.

Being a nursing student-turned-patient was a surreal experience. I was attended to by several nurses who were grads of the very program at SFCC that I am currently enrolled.

The bad news came when I met with the neurologist. I had my “Medical-Surgical Nursing” text book from home (I wasn’t going to let a seizure keep me from studying) and had already researched the topic to discover that, since June, I have been having what are called “focal seizures.” These minute-long brain hiccups always involved a phantom smell followed by a wave of nausea.

The neurologist confirmed what I had read and informed me that the big seizure that morning was one my brain couldn’t stop.

My life is taking a slightly altered course for a while in that I will be on anti-seizure medication, maybe for the rest of my life, and I cannot drive for six months! When he said I couldn’t drive was when I started crying like a baby. For some reason, this seemed worse than having to take drugs to survive.

During my three day stay at the hospital, I received several phone calls and visitors wishing me the best. One of my teachers, Mrs. Greenwald, said that many of my classmates were already volunteering to drive me wherever I needed to go and actually started a sign-up list so that “Driving Miss Damara” could be shared amongst them.

I cannot express how my heart swelled to know how much people really care about me. Sometimes, life feels a bit lonely and then something like this happens to put it all back into perspective.

My daughter drew me lots of pictures and both the children made sure to snuggle with me a little extra. My husband is my hero and I thank God for him and all the other wonderful people in my life. I don’t think I’ll ever allow myself to feel lonely or ungrateful again.

An annoying person's pet peeves

In honor of Andy Rooney’s retirement from “60 Minutes,” I have decided to expose my inner crotchety old woman and share a short list of my pet peeves. The fact that I have a list should suffice as homage to Mr. Rooney.

1). People who talk in movies. My brother used to do this when he was a kid. He’d loudly discuss what just happened as if the rest of us didn’t see the exact same scene at the exact same time he did. It was almost like he felt we required an explanation because our tender minds couldn’t possibly comprehend a simple movie plot on its own. It was so torturous, that I had to sit several rows away from him.

Genetics is a cruel and complicated subject in that, somehow, my brother’s most bothersome childhood behaviors have resurfaced in my own son. You almost have to be cruel to get the boy to keep his mouth shut during a television show. He even laughs like my brother. God loves a good joke; particularly the kind that plays out over many years with a punch line that is seldom appreciated.

2). The drop-off loop at the elementary school. This is where parents part with their precious children for the day. I embrace the moment that I can relish in a little exile from my kids, but it would seem that some parents feel the loop is the perfect place to engage in excessive conversation!

I’d like to invent a type of ejection system that would assist my children in exiting the vehicle faster; something that I’d have to barely reduce my speed to accomplish. The loop is not the place for long goodbyes or for writing that lunch money check. There is an ideal area that you could effectively utilize called a parking space.

3). People who complain about everything. These are the folks who see the world through brown-tinged spectacles. If you comment on how nice the weather is, they respond, “Yeah, if it weren’t for the bright sun and cool breeze!” When you say “Happy birthday,” they inevitably retort, “What’s so great about it? I’m just another day closer to death.” I’m not sure how these people survived long enough to complain so much, but I am positive that their existence serves some weird universe-balancing purpose.

4). People who use their cell phones everywhere. I used to waitress and one of the rudest behaviors that a customer could execute was to wave you over only to answer their cell and disregard your presence. It is bad enough that the people around them are forced to overhear the trials and tribulations of a perfect stranger’s life. Though I love the flexibility of having a mobile connection device, I sometimes miss the days when a person had to be at home to receive a phone call. There was a freedom to it that today’s youth could never understand.

5). The methodical murder of the English language. I text quite a bit because it saves me from having to talk on the phone, hence, getting my ear all sweaty, but I possess a strong belief that numbers should never take the place of words. There is a distinct difference between “to” and “too,” neither of which should be substituted by “2” (unless you are the artist formerly known as Prince in search of a title for your new album).

Retire well, Mr. Rooney. There are many of us who will attempt to carry your torch in order to illuminate that which is ridiculous. Your legacy shall survive and flourish.

Learning to live with tone deafness

“She has the voice of an angel” is a comment that will never grace my ears unless I happen to be lurking nearby someone else who is the intended recipient. I have the voice of a buffalo with a nasty cold which means that I’m always irrationally jealous of people who have an innate ability to sing well. I once considered voice lessons, but I have come to truly believe there are just people in the world who need to fulfill the role of listener.

I first realized that my voice had an undesirable quality to it when I was in elementary school. I was one of those kids with a speech impediment specifically concerning the letter “R.” For some reason, the speech therapist thought it would be helpful if I could hear myself talking wrong so she stuck this contraption on my noggin which I can only describe as a carved-out, plastic-shelled headset. When I talked, the sound of my improperly pronounced words carried to my own ears.

Intelligent is not a word I would have used to describe my voice. From my perspective, I sounded like a cross between Eeyore and Chewbacca. This did nothing to help with my already low self-esteem and, instead, catapulted me into a bout of chronic shyness.

You can’t keep a cap on an active geyser forever and, by the time I entered the sixth grade, I began to emerge from my shell. On one particular occasion, my friend, Leilani, and I decided to loudly belt out a popular 80s tune on the school bus at approximately 7:15 am. People are generally not ready for impromptu a cappella performances that early in the morning. Unfortunate for us, our rendition of the Beastie Boys’ “Paul Revere” captured the attention of the neighborhood bully who threatened to beat us up if we didn’t stop. I suppose music appreciation was not something she practiced with any degree of regularity.

Though I tackled and overcame my “R” problem, my singing voice never did mature. I restricted my faulty pipes to the shower and the car until I discovered the liberating bliss of karaoke.

Originally, I was known to be highly opinionated about people singing karaoke and frequently discussed the possibility of carrying a license for the privilege, but then I realized that singing can be so much more fun if you change the style of the song. My breakout performance was a punk rendition of the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song. Since then, I have perfected a twangy Southern song voice along with the ability to play a mean air guitar.

Though I’m no stranger to public humiliation, I just can’t bring myself to destroy the beautiful sound of our congregation singing together at church. Most of the time, I barely whisper the hymns unless I have one or two empty rows in front of me.

In addition to my inability to carry a tune in a bucket, I also sound mannish, especially on the phone. When I worked in accounts receivable, people would call and ask to speak to the gentleman they had just been talking with about their bill.

Sometimes, customers would say “Yes, sir” and then I’d have to embarrass them with the correction of my gender, but they could never disguise the surprise in their voice. I wouldn’t even bother correcting a few people as long as they paid their account in full.

Like many who are destined to have a face for radio, I suppose I possess a voice for print. Not a bad trade if you ask me.

My nursing school family

Nursing school is back in full swing which means that the 2^nd year students are being unleashed upon the area hospitals so we can practice on patients, instead of mannequins, all the procedures and information that we’ve been methodically cataloging in our mental file cabinets.

One of the perks in choosing nursing as a career is that, if you are motivated, you can pretty much pick whichever area you feel a passion towards. There are a few of my fellow students who are being pulled in the direction of pediatrics, a couple who are fascinated by wound care, some very special individuals who want to work in hospice, several ER addicts, and one who seems to want to scope any available orifice. As for myself; I love the heart and everything cardiac-related never ceases to amaze me.

My first clinical experience of the school year will be located in a pediatric unit at a hospital outside of my Highlands County home. I must say that I am suffering some serious trepidation about being in this particular nursing environment because taking care of sick and injured children requires a different type of preparation in one’s mind.

As much as I claim that kids are clingy little germ spreaders, I secretly adore them and can’t help but wonder if this is an area of medical care that will force me to face the biggest challenge yet in my educational journey.

The only thing possibly more daunting than sick children is the fact that my classmates and I have to endure each other for one more year. We are like a family; we didn’t get to pick each other and, similar to many families, we are dysfunctional at the core.

All in all, we actually get along fairly well together which a good thing is considering the fact that I get to share a hotel room with three of my “sisters” this week. The last time I had a roommate was in Tallahassee with my friend, Amy. Girls get all weird and goofy when we’re alone and frequently fall into fits of uncontrollable giggles.

At one point, Amy and I were on separate beds, no more than five feet apart, commenting on each other’s Facebook posts and finding it all quite hysterical. I don’t think that scenario could be recreated if we tried, but knowing us, we could probably go crazy with a couple of soup cans attached by a string.

The rest of this semester will be filled with local clinical adventures, a lot of exams, some volunteer opportunities, and pretending that my home finances will hold up until I get a job.

Also, I am now the official President of the Student Nurses’ Association which should lead to some interesting and unique opportunities for embarrassment due to the fact that possession of said title means that I will be forced into giving too many speeches in front of an uncomfortable amount of people. I’ve already executed a couple of oratory performances and I must say that the nervous effect it has on me is not yet reduced by the number of times I’ve done it.

From what I can tell, nursing seems to be full of challenging experiences, unlimited opportunities, and of continually being forced outside of our comfort zones. In my immediate future, I’m going to clear my head and work on bringing a smile to a hospitalized child’s face. If I accomplish that, the rest should be a walk in the park.

Sibling rites of passage

Growing up, I spent almost every school break with my mom on a cattle ranch just outside the city limits of Avon Park. My older brother, Jerry, and I wasted countless hours roaming through the pastures, climbing trees, playing with cars and riding his Shetland pony, Cricket, all over the place.

Some of our pastimes were questionable in nature, including those spent fighting, armed with anything from sand spurs to dried cow patties. All of these altercations were, of course, initiated by Jerry because I would never have thought to utilize these nefarious devices on another person without his influence.

One of our more disturbing games was “bug dungeon.” We’d turn over rotted logs and catch whatever species of insect we thought could be contained in our hand-dug dirt pit. With its rhinoceros-looking horns, our prized catch was the ox beetle. For some reason, every time we found one, my brother immediately named it “J.R.” which, I suppose, originated from the T.V. show, “Dallas.”

On one summer break when I was around 8 years old, Jerry showed me the crowned jewel of nightmarish creepy, crawling discoveries: a large population of banana spiders (a.k.a. Golden Orb Weavers) thriving in a stand of palm trees. If you’ve never had the opportunity to see one of these monstrosities, count yourself lucky.

For those with weak constitutions concerning arachnids, I’m sorry to say that their leg span surpasses that of a large person’s hand and they have the audacity to grow prickly, black hair around the joints of their appendages, like some type of hell-spun leg warmers. Their golden abdomens, speckled with white splotches, are too large for comfort while their heads have a white coating that makes it look eerily like a human skull.

The weaver’s webs are so strong, they can catch small birds. Make no mistake, if these suckers were any bigger, they’d find a way to take over the world.

Our previous attempts to trap spiders in the bug dungeon were unsuccessful, but Jerry had another, really stupid idea for the Golden Orb Weaver. He thought our tree house could use a little sprucing up and decided to transport several of these menacing spiders.

I was the containment unit and he was the catcher. My red Salvation Army shirt with my name stenciled on the back was fashioned into a make-shift pouch by folding up the bottom half to hold tightly against my body. Jerry would grab a spider and I’d snap open the pouch as he dropped it in. I could feel their spiky legs poking me in the stomach and managed to hold it together until, all of a sudden, something foreign (which I later discovered to be a loose string) brushed across my upper thigh.

My nerves sent an impulse to my brain that said, “Hey, smarty pants, one of those death spiders is crawling down your leg at this very moment!” I panicked. The pouch was flung open and, as I was hopping around screaming, I batted my arms in a downward fashion hoping to sweep away any persistent spider still clinging to me.

Jerry’s initial disappointment in me didn’t stop him from accomplishing his goal and the tree house in which we used to play soon became an obstacle of horror packed with dozens of spiders watching us with scores of beady, black eyes.

To this day, I still have nightmares about overgrown Golden Orb Weavers coming to get me. Big brother’s mission accomplished.

A new school year brings new challenges

Last week, my family returned to school. I began my last year of the nursing program, my husband is taking more classes towards his degree, my son entered the 5^th grade and my daughter started kindergarten. This makes my house officially “homework central” so please don’t come over unless you want to help fold laundry.

My husband and I exhibited good behavior in our classes, but my son and daughter had a few tricks up their sleeves that were revealed on the fourth day. It appears that most elementary teachers are generous enough to give children a 3 day “free pass” on their actions. This would explain the positive comments in both of their daily reports.

My son is a talker and I was already anticipating that this issue would be addressed before too long. He’s in the HAART program and maintains high grades, but, like his mom, he has a difficult time cutting off the chatter when he’s on a role. Fortunately, minimal time and energy was expelled in the correction of his motor mouth tendencies.

My daughter, otherwise known as the “X” factor, had her own agenda. Her daily reports are based on a color system: green means satisfactory, yellow stands for warning and red represents the implementation of a time out.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were all green days, but by Thursday, her cooperation level dropped and she began talking back which earned her a yellow warning. I discussed the importance of respect for one’s elders, but this had little effect because she dipped into the red zone on Friday complete with a phone call to my husband.

We decided a behavior chart would be an appropriate method of addressing both children’s issues so I picked up some cheap toys and put them in a container. Every day there are no teacher complaints, they each get to put a sticker on the chart. Once all five weekdays are filled, they get to choose a toy. Both displayed enthusiasm and excitement over this possibility and eagerly debated on which toy they’d pick first.

This week began well for both, but it would appear that 3 days is just too long to be good. While my son was busy not staying on task, my little girl was given green marks by her teacher, but in aftercare, she had an altercation with another child. Not content to resolve their problems with an adult, my daughter decided that biting was well within reason and left a mark on the other child’s arm.

I’ve never seen such an abundant flow of manufactured tears as I did from this child when I picked her up. She sobbed her way to the car and was sent to her room when we arrived home where she promptly fell asleep. Playing “Jaws” is pretty exhausting work.

When my husband got home and heard the report, he asked her to tell him what happened. Though she can’t normally contain her usual ear-blasting conversation level, she managed to whisper a barely audible translation of events that included a game of tag gone wrong and being bothered by this other child whom I have come to think of as “the victim.”

No rewards this week.

Kindergarten is a big adjustment for some kids. My own memories are hazy at best and involve finger painting and dressing as the letter “U” for parent night. I can only hope this is a phase that will pass. In the meantime, steel mesh uniforms might not be a bad idea.

Mostly honest is better than totally lying

I’ve never been a good liar. In my youth, I tried dishonesty like other teens tried drinking, but my conscience is too tenacious. I have vivid memories of all the lies I’ve ever told because they hang like a sinful weight on my soul; therefore, fear of potential guilt curbs my desire to weave inaccurate tales.

I also don’t like to be untruthful for other reasons. One is that I’d have to remember all the details surrounding my story and another is that my body physically reacts to lying in an undesirable way that involves cold sweats, a flushed face, and the words “I’m a liar” appearing in bright neon across my forehead.

Though I’m not cut out for deceit, there are types of fibbing that don’t bother me at all. For instance, when I waited tables, I’d regularly spout lies to customers concerning the superior flavor of certain menu items. One place I worked was Chili’s which has served their “Awesome Blossom” (a deep-fried onion) for years and almost everyone who tried it loved it. I don’t care for onions nor do I care for dipping sauces that could possibly contain a mayonnaise base. This covers a wide spectrum of non-mayo products including ranch dressing, guacamole, and “Awesome Blossom” dipping sauce.

The only thing worse than misrepresenting my own personal tastes is hearing a server say, “Gosh, I’ve never tried that dish, but to my knowledge no one has been hospitalized after eating it so I guess it’s okay.”

Since I strive to be as honest as a person with customer service employment history can be, it surprises me how easy it is to lie to my own children.

I have inadvertently lied to them, like the time I took my daughter in for shots and told my 5 year old son that he didn’t need any. When the nurse scanned his chart, it was brought to my attention that he required four shots!

He was innocently sitting in the waiting area because he didn’t want to hear his baby sister cry when she got stuck with the needle. I called him into the room and said, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” He requested to hear the bad news first and I regretfully told him the shot situation. He immediately began tearing up and asked in a shaky voice for the good news.

The problem was that I didn’t have any positive developments to report. I guess I should’ve used a different lead-in; instead, I said, “I’m sorry, son. There really isn’t any good news.”

To this day, I don’t think he has ever forgiven me for those surprise vaccinations.

I have purposely lied when it comes to my kids and food which is par for the course with my restaurant background. For some reason, they never put up much fuss if dinner included chicken so I just started calling meats “beef chicken” and “pork chicken.” We had salmon one night and I told my son it was “river chicken.” Needless to say, that description didn’t help him appreciate salmon at all.

Being mostly honest isn’t always easy. If people ask for my opinion, I try to deliver it without hurting feelings, but that isn’t always possible.  You’ll know that I’m struggling with an answer when I start to look at the sky, attempt to change the subject, or suddenly have bad stomach cramping and have to run to the bathroom.

In order to be my friend, you must understand: if you don’t want to hear it, then don’t make me say it. If you can live with that then we’re sure to get along just fine.

Fashion disaster on public display

“Mom, you aren’t going out dressed like that, are you?”

This was uttered by my son after I snatched the car keys off the kitchen table to drive him to school. He was obviously concerned someone would see me. When I looked down at myself, I saw sleep shorts that had fit much better six months ago and a dumpy tank top that wasn’t supporting anything. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me that my hair was doing something unnatural and disturbing.

“It’s not like I’m getting out of the car! I’ll just drop you off and drive away; no harm, no foul.”

My feeling was that, worst case scenario, one of the safety patrol kids would help my boy with the passenger door and catch a glimpse of such horror they’d have to go wash their eyes out with industrial strength hand soap.

When we got in the car and headed up the street, I saw the glowing, orange idiot light in the shape of a gas station pump: a helpful invention telling oblivious people to fill up soon if they don’t want to get stranded on the side of the highway while they wait for their aggravated husband to come rescue them. The light had come on the previous day and I tried to calculate how much further I could drive before I pushed fate too far.

My mind flashed back to 1990 when my brother, Adam, and I drove to Atlanta for a concert. Adam’s car didn’t have that particular warning light and, in my frantic dash to make up for lost time, I had neglected to catch sight of the indicator needle slipping beneath “E.”

Running out of gas was bad enough, but doing it in front of your younger brother in his car was maddeningly embarrassing.

After leaving my son at school, I decided to drive to the closest gas station and take care of my vehicle’s dehydration status. A truck was getting gassed up so I pulled into a slot where the pump would hide most of my disheveled self. I thanked my good fortune when I slipped on a jacket I’d found in the car then quickly filled ten bucks in the tank before speeding off to the privacy of my home.

You’d think I would have learned a valuable lesson from all this, but (like my friend, Amy) I’m pretty stubborn when it comes to learning lessons.

Last week, my sister agreed to watch my kids while my husband and I went to his 20 year high school reunion “meet-and-greet” at Cowpoke’s Watering Hole. Since I like to take showers in peace (without hearing my kids scream at each other in the background), I figured I’d drive them to Meredith’s house first. Her one stipulation was to pick up pizza.

I threw on some old gym clothes and decided my son was plenty old enough to walk into Little Caesar’s by himself and pay for a couple of their “Hot-N-Ready” pizzas.

Friday at 5:30 in the evening is apparently a popular time to get pizza because he waited for almost 30 minutes before he took possession of them. He walked to the door, and, due to his inexperience in dealing with awkward, flat boxes, tried to open the door with one hand while holding the precious pizzas in the other. The pepperoni didn’t make the transition and ended up face-down on the dirty sidewalk. Lucky for us, the good people of Little Caesar’s handed him a fresh pizza with no questions asked.

Maybe, from now on, I might not leave the house if I’m not presentable to the public, but I wouldn’t put my money on it.

Misadventures in pet sitting

Animal sitting is not cut out for just anyone. There are two qualifications that absolutely must be met: (1) the potential critter sitter must be a wonderful, generous person; and (2) said sitter has no plans to leave town for a while. A third prerequisite is that this person has to be a die-hard lover of animals, but that is more of a guideline than a hard-wired rule.

Seeing as how I fulfilled the first two requirements, I recently got stuck with quadruple animal duties.

First, my friend, Michele, was heading down to the Keys for the 4^th of July weekend and needed my help with her rabbit, Twitch, and teacup pot-bellied pig, Chops. “Teacup” is a relative term when dealing with swine, because this sucker is close to 60 pounds. I gave Chops and Twitch evening feedings at her house because a pig in my backyard was not going to fly with my husband or our dog.

Then, my sister, Meredith, left for a week’s stay in Miami on the Friday before Independence Day. I had to check her mail and make sure her cat didn’t dehydrate or starve. Cats are so easy, really. I’d have a cat myself if I weren’t highly allergic to them.

Lucky for me, her Shepard-mix canine, Haze, was going to enjoy a visit with a friend of Meredith’s who has two other pooches. I was set up as “Plan B” in case Haze didn’t jive with those other dogs. Little did we know the nefarious plot that was being hatched inside the intestinal tract of this mongrel.

Meredith left on a Friday and Haze made it all the way to Wednesday before the nastiness occurred. My belief is that the dog ate something that totally disagreed with her internal constitution, because on Tuesday night, she managed to come down with a case of explosive diarrhea.

Shepard-sized feces is bad enough all on its own, but the fact that Meredith’s friend has white carpet and white furniture just added to it. Haze’s homage to Jackson Pollock was inadvertently tracked from the contamination zone throughout the rest of the house which resulted in a midnight steam cleaning.

Wednesday morning, I picked up Haze, who still looked guilty, and transported her to my own backyard thinking the worst that could happen would be a little extra fertilizer for my dying grass.

Never challenge Fate when it comes to things having the capability of rapid deterioration.

My family loves to cool off in our 12 foot vinyl pool. Apparently, Haze saw our poor pool as a giant chew toy because that is exactly what she did to it on Wednesday evening. She also shredded a water noodle, but we weren’t sentimentally attached to that particular item.

I glared at Haze with murder in my eyes and told her that I hoped she was happy. She cocked her head to the side with that look dogs give when they’re playing dumb. Our own dog acted like she was above that type of juvenile canine shenanigans.

As for Michele’s beasts, Chops has an affinity for using his pool as a toilet and Twitch managed to escape her cage. My kids and I had to corral and catch her which was pretty hard to do considering how out of shape I am. My son found it hysterical watching me lumber around Michele’s backyard.

I finished my critter sitter sentence on Friday morning when I happily placed Haze in my sister’s living room. Haze and the cat were in the midst of an emotional reunion when I locked the dead bolt and drove away. I’m going to try and fill up my schedule a little better next year.

It’s a backyard boy’s life

My sister-in-law, Ali Lomneck, has been having some trouble with loud barking coming from the backyards of two separate neighbors. As one might expect, a canine is responsible for some of the noise, but, surprisingly, a young boy is the source of the other bark.

I found this amusing because it reminded me of my own son barking at our neighbors when we first moved into our house. He was around 4 years old at the time and our neighbors had two sons: one was my son’s age and the other was a few years older. Needless to say, he was never invited over to play at their house.

Of course, neighbors are not what they used to be. I remember knowing everyone on my street as well as the adjoining roads when I was a kid. If I were a paranoid person, I would think that, these days, people must be hiding some secret life behind their bolted doors like drug trafficking or Russian espionage, but I digress.

I had a fear that my son was going to turn into “the weird kid.” The barking was one thing, but he also exhibited an array of other questionable behaviors like shoving Fruit Loops up his nose.

The first sport he played was soccer which, as any soccer parent will tell you, is like watching a cluster of stampeding kids run up and down the field accidentally kicking each other’s shins rather than the soccer ball because they are so closely packed together.

My son was rarely ever running with the pack. Chances were you’d spy him twirling around a goal post or staring up into the sky in search of rainbows and butterflies. If he wasn’t doing that, he was giving his shirt intense quality stretch checks by repeatedly pulling it down over his knees.

This was all very difficult for my husband to tolerate. He would watch helplessly at the abundance of athletic potential being wasted on tomfoolery in the dew-covered grass during those unbearably muggy Saturday mornings.

I thought basketball would be a better fit, but that turned into an outlet for him to demonstrate his love of raw, untrained ballet moves. Any time the ball went out of bounds, he’d scramble over to the referee so he could throw the ball back in the game, but not to his team; instead, he’d catapult the ball over their heads and into the hands of the opposing team.

I should have known he was different when, at around 18 months, I caught him raiding the fridge. He wasn’t looking for cheese or grapes, but did manage to locate a stick of butter and shove it in his mouth before I could wrestle it out of his hands. Why waste time with the bread when all you really want is the spread? Take my word for it: butter is very hard to snatch out of someone’s hands.

My boy is now almost 11 and anxiously awaiting the onset of puberty so he can focus all his attention on girls who are, unfortunately, already seeking his attention. If you ask, he’ll tell you a shockingly long list of “girlfriends” he’s had since the 1^st grade. He’s quite adorable (all bias aside) and is one of the tallest boys in his school, so I suppose it is only natural that the girls have taken notice.

Even though he’s in a hurry to grow up, he still likes to cuddle with his mom, but, at his size, having him plop down on my lap is kind of like having an enthusiastic Labrador jump on my abdomen. I try to tolerate it as long as possible, but I eventually have to breathe. Sometimes, it is worth the lack of oxygen.

Lateral violence: immaturity in the workplace

On Wednesday, June 15, something wonderful is going to happen at South Florida Community College: a new crop of Registered Nurses will be getting pinned. I’m excited because my sister, Meredith Eastham, as well as some friends, like Amy Wuthrich, will be included in this prestigious group.

I know myself well enough to prepare for this ceremony by bringing a plentiful supply of tissues (me being the absolute cry baby that I am).

I just filled my purse with tissues this past Wednesday because my daughter was “graduating” Pre-K and I knew, as soon as I saw her in that miniature cap and gown, the waterworks would commence, but my angel spared me any emotional embarrassment when she got onstage and began repeatedly smacking a little boy in the face until my husband finally made her stop. It is hard to cry when you see your child acting like a little bully.

This brings me to a topic that seems to be the open secret of the nursing world: lateral violence. It can take many forms including verbal or physical abuse as well as persistent gossiping about a coworker. There is even a saying, “Nurses eat their young,” which is well known in the medical community. 

When I first heard that lateral violence was an issue, I thought of the 7 years I spent at a subcontractor’s office. I remember training a woman who was going to replace me while I was out for maternity leave. She broke into tears when someone was a little rude to her. Though I thought she’d be great for the job, I told her if her feelings were hurt by something like that, then it would only get worse from there. She left that day never to be seen again and 14 more people flowed through that position until I finally returned.

I have a theory about workplace bullying that is eerily similar to my views on prison life: take out the biggest jerk on the first day to earn their respect and no one will bother you again. If you can’t take them out, then become their friend.

For some reason, I’m naturally pulled towards “assertive” individuals. There is an honesty about them that I can’t resist. For instance, you never have to worry about walking around with lettuce in your teeth because these people have no compunction about letting you know. I appreciate nice people too, but if they are too nice, you can forget about putting them in charge of the office and you can never trust their opinion on clothing.

This brings me back to my sister.

I’m not worried about her having an issue with lateral violence because, as the older sister, I have trained her well throughout her life in preparation for the possibility of workplace bullying. I may not have realized it while I was crushing her spirit when she was younger, but I now know that she has me to thank for her toughness. I’ll go ahead and say a preemptive “You’re welcome” in case she is too overcome with emotion to thank me herself.

Though I can still make her cry at will, my sister is one of the strongest people I know. She has had 2 years of personal adversity and overwhelming disappointment to overcome in addition to attending nursing school. She is a survivor; an inspiration.

I love you, Meredith. Congratulations to you and the rest of SFCC’s 2011 graduate nurses for completing such a challenging endeavor. You’re all on your way to better days.

If some mean nurse tries to figuratively eat any of you, be sure to make them choke on the way down!

There really is no place like home

Every now and then, I let my imagination wander and begin fantasizing about living in a big city like New York or Seattle. I’d own a luxury condo furnished in a modern, minimalist style with huge, glass windows overlooking whichever sprawling metropolis and its appropriate natural background.

The part of my brain responsible for reason knows I’ll never pull this off without buckets of cash at my disposal and way more patience than I currently possess; especially when it comes to my little road rage issue.

Thanks to my husband’s hard work and determination along with the generosity of Southeast Toyota and their annual banquet honoring their top sales people, once a year, he and I get to live the high life for a few days.

The latest trip was to Miami’s South Beach where we spent 3 days and 2 nights in a hotel room complete with a view of the beautiful Atlantic shoreline. We would never spend our own money on something so lavish. In fact, any time we get a big chunk of cash, it gets funneled away towards paying bills.

On the long trip South, I was happy as a clam to drive until the stop-and-go traffic of the major roadways conspired to push me over the edge, but the fact that aggressive Miami drivers cut in front of me without bothering to signal with their blinkers really fired up my anger center.

I think car companies should be applauded for placing the blinker switch so ergonomically that you don’t even have to take your hands off the steering wheel to engage the device. Rethink the blinker: it is safe, convenient, and may stop crazed motorists from following you home.

Another thing I don’t think I could overcome with Miami is my sense of sticker shock. A daiquiri sounded like a good idea until I discovered the price of said drink was 15 dollars! It didn’t even come in a carved coconut or fancy glass either; just a 12 ounce plastic cup of overpriced frozen beverage.

Hitting the beach on our second day, I was under the impression that the hotel provided those comfortable-looking lounge chairs and shady umbrellas, but I was wrong. It seems that another company rents out these commodities: 10 bucks a piece for the chairs and 15 bucks for the umbrella. Since my blanket was tucked under my arm at the cost of free, we decided those chairs were too shabby for the asking price and continued on our way to the sparkling, blue ocean.

We saw some adventurers on jet skis and parasails and thought we’d peek at the cost. If it was reasonable, why not splurge a little?

The jet skis rented at 80 dollars for a half hour! At that price, I want a dolphin escort to an island of gold. Parasailing was double that cost. I figured that I could drive around Miami and get the same sinking feeling in my stomach for the bargain price of a few gallons of gas.

Ultimately, the beach was relaxing until the clear water revealed to my husband a UFO (unidentified floating object).

Another deterrent keeping me from being a Miami resident is that, when you drive through the regular, non-gated neighborhoods, there are bars on all the windows. I can’t comprehend waking up each day to the morning sun casting jail-bar shadows across the floor, even if I imagined myself as the warden.

All in all, the hotel was above par and the people we met were wonderful. My final rating for Miami’s South Beach is: nice place to visit, but couldn’t afford to stay longer than a couple of days. Thank heavens we didn’t.