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.