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.