A different Christmas story

A while back, I wrote about the romantic guy who elaborately proposed to his lady with the help of a bunch of friends and the Bruno Mars song, “Marry You.” I just saw an update on the couple and they have set a date in 2014 after she finishes nursing school.

My heart sank because I personally know how insane nursing school can make someone. Take me, for instance: I’m a fairly normal individual, but nursing school made my hair fall out, I started having seizures, and now I have a brain tumor. My marriage is lucky to have survived!

I wish the “Marry You” couple the best of luck because I still think that man is incredible, but today I want to tell you a different story about another guy who is also very wonderful, Shannon. He’s my sister, Meredith’s, boyfriend.

Meredith and Shannon started dating almost two years ago when she was just about to finish nursing school. Shannon is a great guy with an infectious smile who is a ton of fun to be around.

Meredith is similar to the other women in my family in that she doesn’t put up with much of anything. Some may call us intolerant, but I prefer “perfection driven.” We like things a certain way so we end up either complaining to ourselves or we call each other to vent. If something is exceptionally irksome, watch out because Mount Vesuvius will erupt! In other words, don’t overly irritate us and we’re fine.

Shannon loves to pick on Meredith for fun. If she yells at him, it doesn’t bother him at all and he just laughs it off. It is the weirdest thing because if my sister yells at me, I try to put maximum distance between us.

So it was Christmas day and they were unwrapping gifts. Shannon gave her a present. It was a picture frame that said “Family, all because two people fell in love.” How sweet.

He reached into the Christmas tree and pulled out a little black box. It looked suspiciously like a ring box.

As he handed it to her he asked, “Should I get down on one knee?”

She eyed him and said, “I don’t know. Do you need to?” He told her to open it and she did to discover a very ugly heart-shaped ring. She thought to herself, “He has horrible taste in jewelry.” While she put it on her finger, she noticed something else: the heart changed colors.

“This is a mood ring?” She asked.

“YES!” He joyously proclaimed as he began laughing. He then gave her another present, her real present, a Keurig coffee maker. He was very pleased with his little prank.

Now, I have to admit that I have been giggling ever since she told me the story. Our own mother said, “I like him more and more all the time,” when Meredith told her. I feel bad for laughing, but I just can’t believe he did it! I can’t believe he’s going to sleep next to her every night and feel safe!

If my husband had done that to me on Christmas, I probably would’ve stormed off to the bedroom and stayed there all day.

Shannon, you’re a brave and foolish man. I hope she keeps you around, but be careful with these stunts.

To the rest of you men out there, in the interest of your personal longevity, you are advised to never, ever attempt this!

Big decision for a little girl

In the ER, every now and then we get children as patients. I don’t enjoy dealing with kids mainly because I don’t like giving them shots or starting IVs on them. Some are pretty calm about it, but others go absolutely insane and it takes several people to hold them down which has got to be traumatizing no matter how soothing we try to make our voices sound.

I know for a fact that my daughter would be one of those fighters. If she gets a splinter in her finger, she goes off the deep end emotionally and when I try to simply take a look at it, she gets all distrustful and jerks her hand away like I’m hiding a screw driver up my sleeve.

I have never hurt this child outside of a spanking which was announced ahead of time, so I’m at a loss where she gets this attitude.

Because of her antics with the most minor of painful situations, when she broke the news last year that she wanted her ears pierced, I knew we had time.

First, I will say that I did not get her ears pierced when she was a baby because I wanted her to experience this rite of passage. I was seven when my own ears were done and I remember how exciting it was.

I’m not saying it is wrong for parents to have their baby girl’s ears pierced; I just wanted my daughter to be able to ask for this herself and go pick her first earrings and cherish that special time. I have friends who think I’m a big weenie about this, but that’s okay with me.

So after telling her about the procedure, she decided to wait a while longer and get clip-on earrings until she turned six.

Around her sixth birthday, she brought up the subject again so her dad took her to Claire’s in the mall to watch someone else get their ears done. She again decided to postpone.

This brings us to the present time. She was done waiting and wanted to forge ahead. She was ready to endure the pain and pestered us daily until we took her back to Claire’s this past Sunday.

She chose a set of flower earrings and sat in the chair. The piercer made little blue dots where the jewelry would be placed and gave our girl instructions about being very still. The left earring went in, “CACHUCK!”

The expression on her face suddenly changed. The woman immediately went to the other side, but our daughter wasn’t ready yet.

“No. Wait!” Her right shoulder went up protectively in front of her ear and her hands began frantically blocking. There would be trouble.

After a minute or so of scrambling around with her, the other earring was placed slightly higher than the first. It is barely noticeable.

She left with tears welled up in her eyes, but they never made it down her cheeks because she finally had earrings like all her friends.

The daily cleanings are a nightmare. For some reason, she’s convinced we are going to rip those flower posts out of her ear lobes. That kid!

After this past week and all the horrible news, I’m so thankful I am able to make these memories with my children. It truly saddens my heart to know that other parents are out there grieving the loss of their little ones. My prayers and thoughts are with them.

Cruising for some fun

Last week, my husband, Chris, and I celebrated the 23^rd anniversary of our very first date by doing something we’ve never done before: take a cruise on a boat to another country.

The first lesson one learns on a cruise ship is that you are essentially living in a floating hotel, but the rooms are much smaller and you never, ever leave the lid up on the toilet when you attempt to flush. I am not sure why this is a rule, but there is a lot of scary noise when the flushing occurs so I tend to believe it without question.

The second rule is that you must own some form of non-cash payment method because the ship only deals in room numbers that charge a credit account. This sounds wonderful, especially when all your meals are included in the original ticket price, but it doesn’t take very long to rack up an impressive amount with just drinks, even those of the nonalcoholic variety.

I have a third rule that is a normal etiquette I live by each day, but most people disregard it. Please, when using elevators, allow the people already on the elevator an opportunity to get off the elevator before you barge in. It is just the polite thing to do.

Royal Caribbean was the cruise line we chose thanks to the help of my pseudo-cousin, Wendy, who got us an excellent deal. We rode the “Monarch of the Seas” which is ending its career with the Royal Caribbean fleet in the near future.

Our first stop was in Nassau where we stayed for 12 hours. Chris rented us a scooter and I bravely rode on the back while he drove.

Bahamian traffic drives on the opposite side of the road and their potholes don’t seem to get much attention from repair crews. I spent most of the ride praying I wouldn’t fall off the back and get to experience the inside of an emergency room in Nassau.

We explored a couple of beaches and the inside of some caves where a couple of local kids showed us around. They were adorable and knowledgeable so we tipped them and headed to the Straw Market.

In the evening, we took a sunset catamaran cruise around Paradise Island and then had a late dinner at Senor Frog’s. That ended our time in Nassau.

The next morning placed us on the shores of Royal Caribbean’s private resort, Coco Cay. I chose to lie on the beach all day long and do absolutely nothing. We all have our goals in life.

Chris, on the other hand, he’s a real go-getter. He snorkeled the day away and went “swimming with the fishes” in a very non-mob style. He even found a marker that earned him a prize on the ship. What a lucky guy!

Though I’m confident I could learn to live my life on permanent vacation if I had the funds to support the lifestyle, I don’t think I could stay on a ship for any extended period of time. That feeling of being closed-in starts getting to me after a short while and there is nowhere to run but Open Ocean.

When we arrived back on dry land, I was most excited about returning to my own bed with its normal dimensions and pillow-soft top. I was happy about being back on the proper side of the road too.

Back home also means back to work. I suppose weird toilets and funky beds weren’t all that bad.

Spinning tunes from the past

Saturday, December 1^st was my 39^th birthday. I don’t normally feel much difference with the changing of each year, but I think this past year has heaped an unusual type of baggage in my mind and I spent a fair chunk of the day basking in nostalgia.

My husband, Chris, assisted with my walk down memory lane on Friday evening when he gave me an early birthday present which was something I’ve desired for a while: a record player.

I bought my first vinyl album when I was about 10 years old for the bargain price of eight bucks and I still have it. I saved all my old records through the years even though I haven’t owned anything to play them with since around 1992.

When our son was still a baby, we had a garage sale and a friend of ours dropped off several albums of his to sell, but I could not bring myself to let them go so I added them to my own collection instead.

I spent the evening on Friday and most of the day Saturday spinning tunes with records that have not felt a needle in 20 years or more.

My son was amazed by two things. The first was that sound could be produced by something so primitive-looking. The second was that I kept my property in such good condition for so long.

Of course, this is the same kid that can’t seem to make anything last for one day, much less one year, so I wasn’t really surprised that he couldn’t fathom me treasuring an 8 dollar item.

Prince, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, The Cars, The Police, and several other bands blasted through the house while my daughter spun and danced in the living room and my son critiqued each artist; for instance, his opinion that Elton John sounds a lot like a woman.

I didn’t care because I had been catapulted back in time to when I had to sit at my four foot tall, glass-encased stereo system, my blank cassette tape ready and my fingers hovering over the “record” and “play” buttons while I impatiently listened for the song to finally come on that the station had been promising for the last hour. This was how I ripped music in the eighties, the old fashioned way, right off the airwaves.

We took a break from the music marathon on Saturday to take our son to his first YMCA basketball game. He has been practicing every day after school and we were able to see all his efforts displayed on the court.

Chris and I were just about in tears to see him actually working hard and smiling while he did it. It was truly incredible. The focus he demonstrated was something we could barely believe he possessed!

As our daughter played Barbies with another little girl, I said to Chris, “If we could go back in time and show our 18-year old selves pictures of these beautiful kids, there’d be no question at all that we were supposed to be together.”

He said, “Yeah, as long as you didn’t show me a picture of myself now! I’d wonder what happened.”

I laughed because we are our own worst critics. I think he’s handsome, but when I compare myself now to then, I think of the blood pressure cuffs that keep inflating when they aren’t on someone’s arm.

My birthday was blessed, much like my life. Really, that is the greatest gift of all.

Online beats shopping in the stores

I almost got caught up in all the Black Friday hype last week. I say “almost” because there was a really great deal on a laptop that I wanted to buy for my husband, Chris. He’s returning to school in January and could benefit from a portable computer system.

I’m not ruining any surprise by discussing this right now because Chris already knows about this gift and, in fact, picked out the laptop himself.

When he bought my laptop a couple years ago, he asked what was important to me and I told him, “It must have a number pad.”

Chris has slightly more parameters that needed to be met. He knew exactly the amount of ROM and RAM and what type of processor and, for goodness sake, the kind of battery he preferred! I took notes, but I wanted him to double check the actual product to make absolute sure it would measure up to his expectations.

I won’t mention the winning store’s name, but I scoped out the lay of the land on Wednesday afternoon. I asked an employee exactly how crowd control would be handled and what time they expected the madness to begin before the doors were opened.

I was ready to go through the Friday morning hassle until I discovered I could get the exact same laptop for the same price with free shipping, minus the aggravation of the crowd, by ordering online at this store’s website on Thanksgiving morning.

Why on earth would I leave my house in the predawn hours?

The deal was sealed when I saw a delivery date for the following Tuesday which was one of my days off. This was perfect.

Tuesday arrived and I waited around the house all day watching reruns of “Americas Next Top Model.”

About 2:30, I got antsy and decided to check the delivery status. I logged onto the store’s site and saw the following: 3:18 AM-1 Items scanned and received; 7:58 AM-1 Items scanned to truck; 9:02 AM-Out for delivery; 9:06 AM-Not delivered, closed b/c holiday.

I was a tad bit bewildered by that last line. How could they be closed for a holiday on Tuesday? The transport company was one I never heard of before so I called the original online store to question the transaction.

The woman on the phone told me that my order had been rescheduled for Wednesday. I told her that would not work for me and asked what would happen if no one was home on Wednesday. She said that the order was set to be delivered on Wednesday. You can probably guess how things went from there.

After several minutes of no progress being made and none of my questions being answered (one of which was what holiday warranted the cancellation of my delivery), she asked if my needs had been met.

I said, “No. Consider my problem on pause. I may or may not call you back after I talk to the shipping company.”

The shipping company was more than helpful. It turns out that the “not delivered, closed b/c holiday” is a coding issue on their end to ensure packages are automatically placed on trucks for delivery the next day in case no one is home the first attempt. My blood pressure returned to normal in 10 seconds.

The laptop arrived at 3 pm and I finally took a shower. Now I can wrap it and make Chris wait until Christmas. I fully expect him to act surprised.

I have a what in my where?

It isn’t every day you learn you have a brain tumor. I have to admit, I was more than a little perturbed at this revelation.

The journey into my brain functioning began last year after I had a seizure and I suppose I should consider myself fairly fortunate that my neurologist has been so interested in keeping track of my grey matter.

I had an MRI last week and on Friday, I received a cryptic message to call my neurologist first thing on Monday morning, but to tell you the truth, any message left by a doctor’s office never sounds exciting.

I was working on Monday, but I called to make an appointment. They wanted me in there as soon as I could come. Could I make it today? No. How about tomorrow? No, I would be working then too. Would Wednesday work? Yes, first thing at 9 in the morning.

Even though I attempted to badger the receptionist, there would be nothing divulged over the phone. I knew this, but I thought I’d try anyway.

Then I remembered that I work in the hospital which had administered my MRI and all I had to do was go sign a little paper and they’d give me my results at the radiology desk. I would have to wait if I wanted a copy of the CD, but I wouldn’t know what I was looking at anyway so what would it matter?

One word popped out at me from the impression section of the results: schwannoma. Any word that ends in “oma” means tumor. My anxiety level exploded and I hit up Google for more information.

I learned that this tumor was usually benign, or not cancerous, and can be removed by surgical procedures.

A picture of a man in a mask with a hooked probe jabbing around in my brain flashed through my head, but I immediately blocked it out.

The measurement noted was 6 x 7 mm which is a little bigger than a pencil eraser so it wasn’t like I had some baseball-sized sac pushing out my eyeball. Good to know.

I went through all the stages of emotion: anger, sadness, denial, grief, and acceptance.

The wait was agonizing, but my sister accompanied me to my appointment. She got off work to go.

My neurologist walked in the room: “So, I brought you in today to talk with you about…”

I interrupted, “My schwannoma?”

He asked, “Who told you that?” I said, “I had my report printed from the MRI because I didn’t want to wait so don’t butter up the details, just tell me what this means and what the plan of action is.”

He responded, “You were supposed to come in here and let me tell you in a calming way so you didn’t get upset.”

My sister said, “Well, she didn’t let that happen, did she?”

The plan is to monitor for six months and see if and when we need to cut that sucker out. My friend, Tonya, has high hopes that its removal will change my political affiliation and help me become a better dancer. She is such an optimist.

In the meantime, everyone is being super supportive and I’m trying not to be too upset that I am carrying around a Coco Puff-sized lump that may or may not cause me some issues.

Let’s just say I’ve got my finger hovering over my mental panic button…for now.

Catching up with the pediatrician

My son has decided to participate in basketball which means he needed a dreaded sports physical.

This was his first one and I have been strictly forbidden from discussing the details in my column so I will refrain from doing so at this time.

What I will say is that, when we went to his pediatrician’s office, they did not have his file!

The woman at the desk asked when the last time was that he had visited and I really struggled to remember.

I am incredibly fortunate that my children are healthy overall. I know what a blessing this is and, believe me, I thank God that they rarely get sick and doctor visits usually only involve either a physical or immunizations.

That’s when I remembered his last appointment with this doctor was for immunizations! He received the most recent round of shots at the Health Department for financial reasons because we weren’t on insurance, so he was about 6 years old the last time he saw this pediatrician when they were located in their old office.

The funny thing about that visit was that we were there to get a check-up on his baby sister and she had to get 2 or 3 shots. He asked if he had to get shots and I said, “Not this time.” Then he requested to sit in the waiting room and watch cartoons so he wouldn’t have to hear his little sister cry when the nurse stuck her.

After he left, the nurse walked in and apologized because he was actually due for four shots! I had inadvertently lied to him, but I still felt bad.

His sister received her immunizations and I walked to the waiting room and called him over. I said, “Buddy, I got some good news and some bad news.” He actually asked for the bad news first.

“You need to get shots today.” His eyes immediately filled with tears and he sobbed as he asked how many. “Four,” I said.

“FOUR?” He practically shouted at me. “What’s the good news?”

My brain raced as I tried to think of something, but my mind went blank and what came out of my mouth was, “I’m sorry, I don’t have any good news.”

He cried so comically loud before the shots were given that the nurses and staff were suppressing giggles as they walked by the room. It was so dramatic. His baby sister stared at him like he just fell out of a spaceship from some exotic planet.

In those 6 years, this boy has only been sick a handful of times. Even when all of us came down with the flu last Christmas, he was only down for a day.

We don’t do anything special with him. He eats like a horse and it isn’t all good stuff. The boy can empty a bag of chips and a bag of apples at approximately the same rate.

As for this visit to the pediatrician, we figured out that they had been using paper records and they entered him in as a new patient with the understanding that his information exists in a box somewhere. He did get a shot for viral meningitis which he watched enter into his arm and barely changed his expression.

I guess he needed to redeem himself from the last time.

Hopefully, he won’t need to return until his next sports physical which he’s already not looking forward to, but you didn’t hear that from me.

Full of compassion and obstinacy

My day began at 3 in the morning. Why so early? I am unfortunate enough to be the recipient of my daughter’s upper respiratory infection, the same one that has kept her out of school for two days and landed us in the emergency room last Friday evening for a breathing treatment.

As much as I tried to push this kid away from me, she insisted on gluing herself to my side and even slept with me two nights. Parents get suckered into these things because we worry too much.

Also, when I was half asleep, she’d come plant a kiss on my lips and whisper “I love you, mommy,” so adorable yet so highly infectious.

Here I was in the predawn hours coughing my fool head off and drinking a dose of Nyquil to make it stop.

I know, Nyquil makes you sleepy and I had my alarm clock set for 5:30 so I could get ready for my 7:15 MRI at the hospital. Bad timing, right?

I turned off my alarm and moved to the couch. This was a problem because now I’d have no way to wake up on time.

Rewind to a couple weeks ago when my husband, Chris, and I received our new phones from Sprint. They are iPhones with touch screens and all the bells and whistles. I became instantly addicted and wondered how I ever existed before this technology except for one pesky issue: the phone alarm.

I asked Chris, “Honey, how the heck do I set my alarm?” He says, “It’s easy. Watch.” He pressed the big, round button and said, “Siri, set the alarm for 6.”

Siri, the iPhone assistant responded, “Do you want to set an alarm for 6 am?” Chris said, “Yes,” and Siri did it.

Well, I’m too stubborn to let some condescending phone maid take care of my personal business. I said, “How can I just set it myself? Why can’t I just do this from the settings or something?”

This sounds much sillier now that I type it out. I am having a standoff over this non-issue of programming my alarm and I paid the price this morning when I woke up late because I refuse to talk to Siri.

To try and redeem myself, there is also a problem with Siri calling me Chris instead of my name. When I tried to have a rational discussion with her about what she should call me, it ended badly. Siri and I are no longer on speaking terms.

Back to today, my daughter woke me up and I realized she is still too sick to go to school. She refused to eat breakfast and fought about taking her medication and everything else that involved interaction.

I left the house and arrived at the hospital in time to get in a long registration line. This made me a tad late for my MRI appointment, but they were being very patient with me.

Once I got everything filled out and paid for, I got to the radiology desk and they asked for my order.

Oh yeah! That thing that was sitting on my counter at home that I forgot to bring because I’m still fuzzy-headed from getting tipsy on Nyquil this morning! Great.

The MRI is now rescheduled and I’m contemplating making up with my phone maid. Maybe we can start over. Chris isn’t such a bad name to be called. I have been called worse.

Go away, no one's home

One day, while talking on the phone with my friend, Amy, she suddenly got real quiet. I asked what was going on and she whispered, “Someone is knocking on the door.”

I was a little worried about who might be at her door waiting to assault her, but when I inquired about the reason for her stealth, after she tucked herself safely into her closet so she could speak at a normal level, she replied, “It’s probably the church people. They come by all the time and I can never get rid of them once they’re here.” I asked where her daughter was and she said, “She knows to hide too.”

After chastising her for not politely, but firmly telling them she’s not interested, she said “Damara, you know I’m way too nice to ask someone to just leave!”

Though I laughed heartily at her predicament, I do understand. I am also polite to strangers and often answer my door even though every fiber in my being screams at me not to open it because, more often than not, it’s one of three people.

The first unsolicited door knockers are actually church people who are usually members of a certain religious following I am not inclined to become affiliated with at any point in my life.

I’m a firm believer in freedom of religion and it is one of the reasons I love the United States of America. I have my own church in town that I adore which means I’m really not looking to convert and no amount bullet-pointed handouts is going to change that.

I’d never think to be rude to anyone passionate about their beliefs, but I have been friends with someone from this religion and when I found out that he couldn’t celebrate his birthday or Christmas, well that sealed the deal for me. Sorry, but no thanks.

The next mysterious knocker is the meat-in-a-truck guy. He’s always got one or two extra slabs of steak that are leftovers from his stock and I am fortunate that he happened to be driving by to offer me this bargain.

I always buy our family’s meat supply from some type of stationary store. Years ago, a friend of ours worked for Schwan’s and we bought a few things once or twice, but I didn’t feel like we got an incredible deal. It seemed like an odd version of an ice cream truck, minus the loud, obnoxious music and not everything edible was sweet.

In any case, we never buy anything from the meat truck guy. I don’t trust it. Where is the meat from? How long has he been driving around with all that meat? Why don’t they have vegetable trucks?

The last group of unwanted solicitors is kids selling “fill-in-the-blank” of whatever item you currently do not need: gift wrap, candy bars, cookies, candles, magazines, etc. These children need to sell you this junk so that they can win a bicycle or some other prize from their school.

The worst ones are the teenagers who are attempting to finance a trip to Washington D.C. to meet the President or they are just five pot holders away from a summer field trip to Paris. This is their dream and I’m heartlessly crushing it to pieces.

Until Amy and I get security fences with video cameras monitoring the gates, if you come knocking, we’ll be hiding. Be so kind as to quietly leave us in peace.

He knows not what he does

Last weekend my kids and I were able to attend the Respress family reunion in Frostproof. These people encompass my mother’s side of the family and there were about 150 members of our extensive relations present.

The best part of our family gatherings, besides seeing how big the children are getting, is the food. I supplied Maryland Fried Chicken which is just about the best chicken you can get without making it yourself.

I also brought pink stuff; a concoction made of cottage cheese, cool whip, pineapple, pecans, and Jello mix. It usually tastes pretty good, but I made it wrong so I had a whole bunch of pink goo to take home and dump in the trash. It didn’t smell good after a couple days in the garbage.

I had to tell my son that all the girls at the reunion were related to him. I asked if he understood what that meant. He said yes, but I was skeptical.

Though the boy is only twelve, he has been getting himself into some situations lately that I’m not particularly happy about.

For instance, it seems like every other week since he started middle school, he has been calling a different girl his “girlfriend.” I use that term loosely because I had assumed this was fairly innocent being that the “relationship” was confined between the weekday hours of 8am until 3pm.

I mean, what harm could come from having a platonic relationship at school?

Then I caught him kissing a girl in the neighborhood.

Now things have completely changed.

I guess, as a parent, I viewed my son as this little boy who would be a bit shy about actually taking that next step with a girl. I was 14 when I first kissed a boy. I figured I’d have at least 2 more years before my son decided to try and contract oral herpes.

Suddenly, the freedoms he used to have with skateboarding and riding his bike to his buddy’s house have switched to “Call me when you get there” followed by me driving by to get a visual confirmation of his whereabouts like an undercover police officer on a stakeout.

If he doesn’t answer his phone, I go ballistic.

Tonight, he wants to go to a football game so he can sit with the new love of his life for this week. I’m sure he thinks I’m going to leave him there unattended, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m prepared to torture my tailbone on the bleachers and listen to his little sister point and stare at her big brother for two hours; all for the sake of saving him from himself.

Visual contact will be maintained at all times and there will be no bathroom breaks.

Respress boys are adorable and they grow up to be good-looking men. So do those Hutchins men.

When I look at my son and think of the entire DNA that went into making him such a tall, handsome boy, I wonder if there isn’t such a thing as an ugly stick that I could lovingly tap him with for a few years; strictly for his own good, of course.

Until then, girls, be warned. You are officially being put on alert, so don’t mess with my son. He’s still my baby and you can’t have him until we sign papers agreeing on his release conditions.

I’ll thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.

Good people do great things

About a month ago I had lunch with Hollie, a friend of mine who attended my alma mater, Avon Park High School. She was a year ahead of me, but we knew a lot of the same people.

I brought my yearbooks so we could reminisce about the good old days when girls teased their hair using lethal amounts of Aqua Net to hold it in place all day and guys still wore boat shoes.

I graduated in 1991 so we were at the tail-end of the 80s era and the grunge scene had yet to establish itself. I had memorized the movies “Sixteen Candles” and “The Breakfast Club” word-for-word and the “Hair Bands” that screeched and screamed their hard rock noise was my favorite music to annoy my mother and sister with.

Having started my high school journey at a larger school in Palm Bay where people were meaner and less forgiving of status, I came to Avon Park in my 10^th grade year with a chip on my shoulder ready for a battle. I was shocked when I didn’t receive it.

People were nice. Too nice. They invited me places and seemed to accept me even though I wore black T-shirts and acted sullen and disinterested.

I always thought they were welcoming to me because of my best friend, Damon. He grew up in Avon Park and everyone seemed to love him.

Well, most people loved him. There were a couple guys who bullied him and I still remember who they are. I’m sure they have moved on, but I won’t forget.

So despite my most earnest efforts, I made friends in Avon Park. I went there set on maintaining a wall of protection from caring about people and for some reason they just crept right into my heart when I wasn’t paying attention.

Years later, here I was flipping through my yearbook with Hollie feeling a little ashamed about some of the things that were written next to a few pictures of people I barely knew and some I knew well.

One friend wrote a comment next to a girl’s photo that still makes me mad. I didn’t write it, but I can’t believe he wrote it in my yearbook. I certainly never felt that way about her.

Another picture was a guy who was really sweet and I wrote one word that makes me feel bad to this day. He never did anything to me. I wish I could kick my 15-year old self for thinking it.

I blacked out the pic of my ex-boyfriend in the 11^th grade; forever erasing him from my records. He kind of deserved it. I don’t really regret that.

I say all of this to display how shallow and disrespectful and short-sighted teenagers can be. I know I was. This is why I am so incredibly proud of what Sebring High School did last week when they elected Samantha Alamo as their homecoming queen.

I was even more excited when I found out that Dalton Helvey escorted her. Dalton happens to be my niece’s half-brother and an all-around great kid. I couldn’t be more impressed.

I recently wrote an article about wishing things in the news didn’t happen in Florida. I want to gladly announce that I am overjoyed that this not only happened in Florida, but it happened right here in Highlands County; Sebring to be exact.

Please, tell everyone about it and don’t spare any details.

Manatee wrangler

Whenever I hear a strange or disturbing story in the news, I think to myself “Please don’t let this be something that happened in Florida.”

I make this plea to the powers that be because it seems that all the craziest, most off-the-wall news occurs right here in the Sunshine State and I really don’t like to believe that people from my home state can possibly be so deranged.

I once had a theory that the sun was actually to blame for higher levels of insanity because the closer you get to the equator in any given population around the world, there seems to be more violence, less clothing, and increased acts of psychotic behavior.

That doesn’t mean that some lone nut like a Ted Bundy can’t be spawned out of the Pacific Northwest, but he did make his way to Florida before he was captured.

This all leads up to the most recent in Florida’s shaming news: the manatee wrangler. This woman decided it would be okay to hop on top of one of these endangered mammal’s backs for a little ride.

When I read the headline, I knew it happened at one of our beaches because where else do they have manatees? The photo revealed that she was wearing a bikini top mismatched with a pair of swim shorts which screamed “FLORIDA!” without even having to confirm whether or not she was sporting a pair of flip flops, the footwear of choice for just about anyone calling our state home.

I will shamefully admit that I laughed aloud when I saw the pictures and I won’t even try to defend this reaction. Sometimes things are just funny, even when an adorable animal on the verge of extinction is being harassed.

For one thing, the woman did not look flattering in any way. One of my biggest fears is that someone will snap a photo of me in my bathing suit when I don’t know they are doing it. Heck, even if I do know, I wouldn’t like it. No view is a good view as far as I’m concerned because I’m not 22 years old anymore.

Anyway, she wasn’t exactly posing for the camera and she didn’t look to have very good control over the situation which is understandable considering the fact that she most likely forgot to bring her manatee riding gear to the beach that day.

The other reason the photo was humorous is that I have never in my wildest dreams thought to ride a sea cow! They seem to glide through the water at their own slow pace chewing on aquatic plants and basically don’t bother anyone.

Manatees remind me of myself on land; lumbering around unable to avoid running into anything that moves with any type of accelerated motion. Perhaps manatees are a bit more graceful in their underwater habitat than I am in my own, but they aren’t constantly trying to avoid my son’s skateboard carelessly discarded by the side door. Then again, I’m not always looking over my shoulder for oncoming propellers or women who think I’m some kind of entertainment recently escaped from a Sea World side show.

The manatee wrangler turned herself in to the authorities with the excuse that she is new to town and didn’t know any better.

I’m guessing the law will have to be changed because of this woman’s actions. I’m looking forward to seeing what those new signs will look like.

Out with the old carpet

The day has finally arrived! After seven years, thousands of footfalls, and a myriad of spills and stains, we are getting new carpet!

Okay, in the whole scheme of things like politics, world peace, and overall human suffering, this is very minor, but for my husband, Chris, and me, it is like we are getting an upgrade on our home.

Goodbye, red Gatorade stain. See you later, coffee splatters! No more worries about you, mysterious black spots that were here before we bought this house.

When we first moved into our place, we had huge ideas about things we wanted to do in each room. Carpet has always been on the list, but it kept getting pushed aside because it seemed that something more pressing would pop up that needed our attention.

Let me tell you the real reason that no one likes to mess with flooring, and I know this because we are experiencing it right now: you essentially have to completely move out of your house and then move back into your house over the span of a couple days.

This is a huge pain in the backside considering we have accumulated seven years worth of junk crammed into closets and under beds.

It isn’t like I haven’t purged things over this time period, but during the last three years while I was in school, our house has experienced an excess in build-up with minimal purging efforts.

What we need to do is have a huge yard sale. I started to make a pile in the shed last year. That pile is still waiting for the sale that is stuck in the future because the only thing I loathe more than sorting through all our belongings is having people pick through them in my carport only to make outlandishly low offers that I grudgingly accept just to get rid of both the item and the person.

It is a bit fun going through our old things. I made a conscious decision to part with a pair of paisley pants that don’t fit.

For a while, I flirted with the idea that they will fit me again one day, but I seriously pondered whether or not it would be a good idea to wear them when they do, so I decided against keeping them around.

I also tossed a couple things that have been broken for a long time and I’ve never fixed them even though I really thought I was going to get out the Super Glue and try. Evidently, it wasn’t that important and I never missed the objects around the house.

Out of all my shoes, I was only able to toss a couple pair because, let’s face it, I wear size 11 and I can’t go around taking a pair of shoes for granted. I need my shoes.

Tomorrow is the big day, so tonight Chris and I get to hurt our backs and lug our furniture into the carport. If anytime in our marriage is vulnerable, it is when we are moving heavy objects together.

The main problem is that I don’t like to do it and he thinks I possess an understanding of depth and width concerning door openings and irregularly-shaped objects.

If we can get through this evening, we can conquer anything.

By this weekend, I’ll be pampering my feet on new threads and yelling at the kids to take off their shoes at the door. Let the new reign of terror begin!

Learning the ropes in the ER

I’ve been working at my job as an emergency room nurse for about a month now and I have completely fallen in love with the job. My coworkers have been wonderful and my twelve hour shifts are over before I know it.

I truly do learn something new every day which isn’t surprising because I am a fresh out of school, but even seasoned nurses will tell you they never stop learning; there is just so much basic medical information, not to mention the continually changing world of technology and medicine.

My first few days on the floor following my preceptor felt unbelievable. Every time I pulled a medication from the med room to administer it to a patient, I’d pause to look over my shoulder and see if one of my instructors was going to walk up behind me to see if I was doing everything correctly.

The first time I pushed morphine into an I.V., I got a sinking feeling in my stomach like I was going to send the patient into immediate respiratory depression. I didn’t. I’d checked the dose and the patient, of course, but the computer also helped with a final check once I used the handy scanner.

Computers are wonderful until they turn on you. For instance, you are in the middle of complete madness and have fifteen things going on at once when your laptop shuts down because you forgot to plug it in for the last 4 hours. You only do that once.

I’m getting better at working the I.V. pumps and lines. The first few times I started a pump, I felt like I got caught in a spider web of tubing and I somehow made a knot that I had to untie. Luckily, I was in the privacy of the med room and no one witnessed it.

Speaking of tangles, I had to wrestle a bedside table to free the call light cord from one of the wheels the other day. I thought I could roll it off, but the table wasn’t cooperating and I ended up on my hands and knees, muttering to myself about the absurdity of the situation.

When I released the call light, I accidentally pulled it out of the wall which set off the signal that I needed assistance in the room.

“Sorry. The bedside table attacked me, but I’m okay now.” How often does that happen?

I’m improving my technique with starting an I.V. also. It is nice to think that my patient doesn’t need a blood transfusion when I’m done. Seriously, it wasn’t that bad, but when you get a really good vein on a person who is taking anticoagulants, you’d better be prepared to quickly apply pressure and have your supplies ready.

They say nurses grow their third arm at some point in time and I’m starting to realize what they mean. You have to do several things at once and it would look bad to put your foot on someone’s arm to stabilize it; really bad.

As for my patients, I can’t say much about them because I have to respect their privacy, but I will say that they are my priority. I look forward to helping them and thank them for allowing me to assist them. So far, they have all seemed to like me well enough.

I hope I never lose any of the love I have for nursing because I feel so fortunate to be doing this.

Making music in the house

The cacophony coming from my son’s bedroom sounds like a cross between a dying elephant and an old car horn, but we know he’s okay because that noise means he’s learning and progressing in band.

This past Tuesday, a whole bunch of parents escorted their sixth graders to the middle school’s common room in order to sign contracts that will hold us accountable to monthly payments making our children the proud renters by proxy of whatever musical instrument they fell in love with over the past couple of weeks.

My son picked the trombone.

At first, my husband, Chris, and I were worried about his selection because, aside from his skateboard, the boy has a less-than-stellar track record when it comes to sticking with new hobbies. Granted, band is a graded class which makes it slightly more influential when it comes to level of interest, but we have never once heard the child discuss a desire to ever touch or play a trombone.

Chris and I had pictured this active kid banging away on a snare drum or maybe just crashing some cymbals together like I did when I was in high school marching band. I would’ve done more in band, but I joined in the 10^th grade and couldn’t read music, so I got stuck with the “easy” stuff because no one wanted to bother teaching me from scratch so late in the game.

Chris played the flute and the French horn. Our son tried the flute, but his bottom lip is “substantial” in size and, because he couldn’t seem to sufficiently flatten it out, it kept flopping into the hole. The reed instruments, like the saxophone, were also posing a problem when it came to sound quality.

He declared that the trombone fits both his lips perfectly and, since he has long arms, he can reach all the notes. In addition, it was his feeling that the low brass sound is manlier than the high-pitched tone of the flute and the trumpet.

My best friend, Damon, played trombone in band. I remember all the spit that he used to have to empty out of it. My son was sure to request an old washcloth for this unfortunate consequence of his new passion.

Damon was also talented on piano and could sit down and play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” like it was the easiest song in the world. Who knows? Maybe the trombone will kick off a love affair with music for our offspring and we’ll get to see him perform a masterpiece on stage one day.

Part of being in middle school band is that the kids have to bring their instruments home to practice and the parents are supposed to be encouraging and supportive no matter what sound comes out of their horns.

In all seriousness, this boy is making some fairly decent noise with his trombone. I wish he wouldn’t suddenly blast it right when I was walking around the corner and scare the tar out of me, but he’s got some solid sounds happening which is more than I would’ve expected.

To all you other new band parents, I hope your children are as excited as my son is. I can only imagine what the trumpets are sounding like.

Kids, keep plugging away and don’t give up. You’ll be glad you did one day. I heard somewhere that children who learn to read music are smarter overall. A parent can certainly have her dreams.

Second vehicle gets an upgrade

A few months ago, my husband, Chris, took a financial leap by purchasing a new vehicle. Okay, it wasn’t 100% new because it was formerly owned, but I wouldn’t be stretching the truth at all by saying this 2007 Toyota FJ Cruiser was gently used.

I knew he was in “truck love” when he brought it home for a test drive which included a sleepover in front of our house. This made it possible to see the truck whenever we looked out the window.

I had to admit, it was a nice-looking vehicle. It seemed tough like a Tonka truck, but it was black so it didn’t scream “I’m an over-sized toy!” In fact, it was almost begging us to drive it through a mud pit so we could become aware of its full potential.

He finally took me out for a spin which involved a very bumpy road in the woods. He tore through sand and over what may have once been innocent animal dwellings, but we wouldn’t have known because this truck wanted to rip a trail through anything and anywhere we were willing to drive it.

I asked if we would have to buy it if we wrecked it in the woods. We were on a test drive, after all.

He told me not to worry about it.

I checked out the interior and noticed the leather seats and the almost utilitarian lack of anything resembling carpet or fabric on the floorboards. I thought how perfect this would be for the spilling of drinks and possible incidents of motion sickness that would inevitably occur if he continued to bounce me around like he was doing at that moment.

When we returned home, he was giving me the sales pitch again. Considering that he sells cars for a living, I shouldn’t be at all surprised that I was convinced he should make this purchase.

A few days later, his old truck was sold and he took the cash from that transaction, walked it directly into the Toyota finance office, and placed a down payment on the FJ. Talk about money changing hands!

I was kind of concerned that Chris was putting so much faith in the fact that I was supposedly going to have a steady income flowing into the household coffers. I mean, what if I turn out to be a horrible nurse like Ratched from “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” or something else happens beyond my control and I can no longer work?

Once he put my financial fears to rest, I began thinking about how much he really deserves to have something nice to drive. He keeps me in a newer car because I’m usually the one carting the kids around and he feels better knowing I’m piloting something safe and reliable. This is why he’s always been the one to sacrifice and drive the older vehicle with no payment.

People talk sometimes about “stepping up and being a man.” I take for granted that I don’t have to worry about this with Chris. We argue about things and disagree when we don’t see eye-to-eye on issues, but when it comes down to the wire and I need someone to lean on or arms to hold me tight or just want him to take my side and agree that someone else is a total tool, Chris is always the man.

Enjoy your truck, honey. Just try not to tear up the woods too much.

Drama is her middle name

My little girl is nothing like me when I was her age. If I got upset, my chin would quiver and my eyes would water, but if I wanted to let out a hardcore crying spell, I’d likely go find a private place to release my emotions; preferably my bedroom, with the door shut, leaking tears into my pillow.

She is the total opposite. She tends to have a flair for the dramatic with her emotional outbursts.

The other night, she lost her second tooth which I erroneously believed was not a big deal seeing as how this has happened once already and she made five bucks off the transaction. I was wrong.

She wouldn’t let us touch it, of course, and I didn’t pursue the matter. I told her to go look in the mirror and wiggle it a little. The tooth fell out of her mouth and we applauded her accomplishment, but we didn’t factor in the amount of bleeding that would be involved.

For some reason, there was a lot of blood. She wouldn’t stop assessing it. Her face contorted into extreme concern for her own well-being and we tried to reassure her that it would stop, but she kept pacing about the house crying inconsolably and drooling because she refused to swallow.

This went on for about a half an hour until she finally went to bed.

I slipped two dollars under her pillow before I left for work the next morning and she told her daddy that you’re supposed to get two dollars for your second tooth.

A few nights later, I told her to get in the bath. She was rattling around in the toys when I heard her yell and then she came running down the hallway stark naked.

I couldn’t understand most of what she said until one word popped out of her mouth, “SPIDER!”

I hate spiders. I’m a big chicken when I see them because they really creep me out, but I try to act tough in front of the kids so I told her to show me where it was.

She was real jittery when we got close to the bathroom. It would’ve been the perfect moment to freak her out by tickling the back of her leg, but I refrained from psychologically scarring her forever. Sometimes I’m a good mom.

She pointed to the toy closet. I asked how big it was and she said “Medium.” That gave me nothing to go on.

My son brought me one of my work shoes which have all these gaps in the soles and I knew it wouldn’t be very helpful. Flip flops are the best spider killers, but last week, I was able to eradicate one with the toilet plunger. It was oddly satisfying.

I dug around in the toy basket while my bowels loosened out of anticipated terror when I spied a shriveled tiny dead spider on the floor.

I called her in to look at it and asked if this was the medium-sized arachnid she saw. She acknowledged that this was indeed the spider that attacked her. I did a mental eye roll and tried to remember that she is only six.

A piece of tissue paper was all that was required to clear the area of the nuisance, much to my relief. I can’t believe that I got my heart racing for that, but I still saved the day in her eyes so it was worth it.

The real final exam

For those who don’t know, last Thursday I took the most difficult exam of my life, the NCLEX. The National Council Licensure Examination is set up to assess one’s knowledge of nursing and, when passed, earns the right to practice in your state.

Most of my classmates had already taken the test. I straggled behind due to my decision to postpone payment, but because I was President of my class, I began telling everyone that I was fulfilling my role as a true politician by sending the troops into the battlefield ahead of me while I safely brought up the rear.

It wouldn’t matter when I took the NCLEX because none of us had the same test; not that I’d know because the first rule of NCLEX is that you don’t talk about what is on the NCLEX. That is no joke. They make you sign a form and everything.

The test can range anywhere from 75 to 265 questions and it automatically cuts off when it knows you have passed or failed.

The night before, I reviewed a few systems that I knew were my areas of weakness. For instance, I took a quick peek at maternity and pediatrics. Don’t get me wrong, I love pregnant women and kids, but I really don’t want to specialize in these areas

I’ll neither confirm nor deny whether or not I had questions about pregnancy and children on the NCLEX, but I will say that I am extremely happy I took the time to look over these subjects.

I drove myself which may or may not have been a good idea. I had the radar detector hooked up so I could speed on my way to St. Petersburg.

Having the radar only lets you know you’re about to get a ticket. By the time you get zapped, the police officer has already tagged you as a speeder. I’m not sure why I find it comforting to have in the car.

I got to the Professional Plaza early and signed in. They fingerprinted me, scanned both hands several times, and took my photo. I was also monitored by video while taking the test in case I looked like I was cheating in any way.

The NCLEX is serious business.

While I clicked my way through each question, I could feel both my blood pressure and pulse increasing. My palms began to sweat and I felt like I was going to be sick.

At one point, I was certain that I was answering every question wrong. When the computer stopped at question number 75, I was positive I failed.

I cried to my sister and my friend, Tonya, then I called my mom, my husband and, finally, my friend, Candy; talk about emotional support therapy! They all assured me I passed, but I couldn’t believe it until I saw it the next morning on the Department of Health website.

I feel blessed and fortunate to have succeeded.

After talking with some seasoned nurses, I’m also lucky to have done this in the computer age when we have rapid results. Years ago, these exams went on for days and outcomes were mailed months later!

I know I’ve worked hard for this, but I truly could not have done it on my own. My husband, Chris, has been my rock through it all and my family and friends are the absolute greatest. To all of them: I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Busy making things happen

Life has been a little nutty around the Hutchins household lately. We’ve been caught up in a whirlwind of activity that has been pinned in a vice grip of stress with moments of pure elation scattered throughout.

To begin with, my new job has produced its first paycheck which catapulted me to cloud nine. For someone who has been out of work for two years and focused on school, the opportunity to punch in and out on a time clock feels like a special privilege.

As soon as my pay hit the bank account, I called my husband, Chris, to tell him the news that I was now officially contributing to our household income. He said, “That’s awesome, honey. I’m going to pay the mortgage.”

It was nice to see those funds in the account for the brief amount of time they were there.

The pressures associated with my job stem from the fact that I have only very recently taken the exam that will either grant or deny me a license to become a board-certified Registered Nurse. As I sit here typing, I do not have the official results so I’ll save any further elaboration on this topic for another day.

I will say that trying to study for this exam has been a steady drain on my mental health and well-being, as well as the contentment of my family. I mean, how could a person realistically study for something that could have anything included in it that you learned over the course of two years from the content of nine hefty text books? It is mind-numbing.

Next, we had a primary election.

I get excited about these things and I try to get the kids involved, but that is a challenge to say the least. I dragged them both down to the Masonic Lodge anyway and showed them the difference in the ballots. The lack of interest from my son was almost palpable.

Not letting those two dampen my spirits, I happily bubbled in my choices and fed my ballot to the machine. When the assistant asked if we wanted stickers, the children were suddenly interested again and we all left feeling like we did something important.

Chris and our son both had birthdays this week too. Chris is now 40 and our boy just turned 12 years old, his last year before he becomes an official teenager. Both of these milestones were obviously emotional, but for different reasons.

Finally, school begins next week and I was able to escort the children on tours of their new schools.

Middle school will be a change for my son because he gets to have several different teachers. I can only hope they are ready for him. Unfortunately, he can’t play basketball on the school’s team until next year. He’ll be over 6 foot tall by then. We need to get this kid on track to support us one day.

My daughter is out of kindergarten and on to elementary school. She is incredibly excited about the transition and wanted to hang out in her new classroom as long as I’d let her.

She walked over to the magnet tablet and spelled “mom” for me which melted my heart. This was so much better than her last adventure in spelling.  

That’s what a former coworker, Jim, would call the “scuttlebutt” of my life lately. Now that everyone’s caught up, I think I’ll try to catch up on some sleep.

Love to be social without the drama

I love Facebook. It is social media’s answer to the telephone, letter writing, and photography in a modern, instantly updated, drama-filled, interactive-screened shell.

I currently have 401 friends, but don’t jump to any conclusions because I don’t actually have this many friends in real life.

Sure, I’m personable, fairly easy to get along with, and extremely huggable when I allow people to touch me, but 401 is a big number and I am only one person with two kids, a husband, and not a lot of spare time these days.

In reality, most of these 401 “friends” are people who are alumni of either Avon Park or Palm Bay High School. It is pretty cool to keep track of how they have done over the years. I’ve never had any mortal enemies, so it isn’t like I am spying on anyone to see if they turned out bad.

Several of these school friends are people I actually run into fairly often. Thankfully, Facebook has taken away that awkward moment when you see someone at the grocery store and panic because your mind has failed in its search through dusty memory files to dig up that person’s name who knows yours, but for some reason, you can’t seem to recall theirs! I now know that person and where their daughter goes to dance class.

There are also family members on my friend list and Facebook makes it easy to hear how their lives are going and see their families growing daily instead of just on the holidays or sad occasions that draw us together.

There are also my friends who are former coworkers. Some of these are people I lost contact with and Facebook helped me find them again, years later, in different careers and on new, exciting paths in their lives.

Then there is another group I am friends with on Facebook with their own category: people I’ve never met. These are folks I’m pretty sure are safe to know in the virtual world and I suppose I wouldn’t mind meeting in person, but I’ve just never had the opportunity.

They are friends of friends who like the same things I like and think I said something funny to another friend or I thought they were funny. In short, we’re all pretty sarcastic and were drawn to each other based on this common trait.

On the down side, as I previously stated, Facebook can be full of drama. I love to debate and have discussion, but I don’t put people down and I don’t cuss on my page. Civilized disagreements should not be some kind of elusive dream.

Still, I was recently defriended twice because of my beliefs. Once was because I told someone I agreed with on a political viewpoint to stop calling another friend names who had the opposite belief. Yes, you read that correctly.

Another time, a friend defriended me because I was supporting a candidate from the other party instead of my own. Seriously.

For future reference, I love Facebook and I love debate for what they are, but I don’t love a political party enough to cuddle up with it at night and call it my partner forever and always. I married that person. His name is Chris. If anyone wants to see those papers, I keep them in a file for quick access.

If Facebook disappeared tomorrow, believe me, I’d be okay. I’ve really got all I need right here.