Fifty Shades of Bland

Last night, I finished reading a trilogy that I am a little ashamed to admit I even read: the “Fifty Shades of Grey” love/hate/submissive/dominate saga.

I am not a book snob…you know the people: they turn their nose in the air and scoff at any book you may have just enjoyed. For the record, my eyes have absorbed every word of the “Twilight” series and hungrily devoured the entire collection that J.K. Rowling offered concerning Harry Potter.

I also have a deep appreciation for Austen and desire a fraction of the wit possessed by Dickens, but my favorite authors are a grab-bag mix of unrelated styles including Toni Morrison, Chuck Palahniuk, Stephen King, and, newly added to my list, Ellen Hopkins (thanks Meredith).

I am saying all of this in preparation to do something I don’t normally do: give a bad book review.

I do not do this because I rarely read books I don’t enjoy. First, you must wonder why I read the three books if I didn’t like them. Here is my lame answer: because they were quick, easy reads and I kept hoping and expecting them to go somewhere they never went.

SPOILER ALERT!!!! DO NOT READ ANY MORE IF YOU EVER WANT TO READ THIS SERIES!!!!

First of all, these books were a pornographic version of “Twilight.” Let me break it down in simple terms: ordinary, brown-haired virgin meets a super-rich, dangerous guy….he tries to warn her about himself, but she doesn’t listen and they fall in love, but the bad people from his past want to hurt them….he’s very stalker-ish and overprotective and doesn’t like her to have relationships with any men…especially dark-haired Native American men named Jacob….I mean, Mexican American men named Jose. Whatever.

Everyone who knows anything about these books knows they deal with the dominate/submissive lifestyle and they do touch the safest edges of that area of intimacy. If you are expecting some crazy, hardcore nonsense, then don’t hold your breath because our heroine is helping to cure Mr. Dominate of his evil tendencies one very descriptive scene at a time.

Speaking of that, you get bored of reading these scenes. I remember in the “Twilight” series when IT finally happened, there was very little actual description of the activity at all. You see, our own imaginations are more than capable of filling in the delicious details. James never gives us that opportunity because about 98% of the scenes are written from start to finish.

I began skimming over those parts to get back to the story: “then Christian….tongue…..Oh….kissed my thigh…..yes…..the next morning...FINALLY!”  Really, if there was going to be that much description, why not have them jump up and brush their teeth before locking lips first thing in the morning? That’s real life. Morning breath is a real thing. I can relate to that.

Speaking of repetition, how many times can you call a person “mercurial” in three books? I wish I would’ve counted because I know it had to be about 40 times that word was used. I looked up thesaurus.com to find some alternative words for future reference: temperamental, capricious, erratic, explosive, fickle, petulant, touchy, fiery, unpredictable, moody, neurotic, and volatile.

The actual story was pretty weak and not believable. This is coming from a person who can seriously suspend some belief. I’ve read about an alien living in the sewers and haunting kids by appearing as a freaky clown and it terrified the crap out of me! I’ve travelled with Tolkien across Middle Earth and been inside Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I’m willing to go on a journey, but the story has got to grab me and take me there. This story was bland from beginning to end. I found myself wanting to punish the characters…all of them. I wanted to bend them all over my knee and make them cry for being petulant whiners.

Listen, Ana: you were given a contract…a blueprint, if you will…of a relationship that this man wanted. Don’t act surprised when he wants what he asked you for! Seriously? We got 3 books out of this concept?

Anyway, I read them all so who is the bigger fool?

I’m off to read the latest Hopkins novels. I’m sure she will not disappoint. Poetry and pain wrapped in modern day abuse and trauma…..that is my new addiction.

I will put Fifty Shades to rest and go on with my life. I’m glad I read it and got it out of my system. That is about all I can say that is positive.

Save some of that for later

This past week, I saw possibly the most romantic thing ever on the Internet: an elaborate wedding proposal that was staged by a gentleman and about 60 of his closest family and friends. He ambushed his to-be fiancée with a lip-synced theatrical street performance of Bruno Mars’s song, “Marry You.”

At the end, the guy walks up and asks for his girlfriend’s hand in marriage.

Me being the big sap that I am, I was crying about 15 seconds into the clip. By the finale, I was a blubbering mass of snot and tears muttering, “That’s just so sweet.”

Here’s the faulty logic with this well-meaning gentleman’s adorable actions: he peaked too soon. Yes, unfortunately for him, his little stunt will be almost impossible to top for the rest of his relationship. Every anniversary, holiday, birthday, or any other celebration is going to pale in comparison to this one big moment, the day he popped the question.

The moral here is to pace yourself. You have to slow down and work up to the good stuff.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but way back when I was 17 and my husband, Chris, was 18-years-old, he asked me to marry him in ten years. See? I was excited he asked me, but mad that he thought I was going to wait around for 10 years. There was really nowhere to go but up with that beginning!

Chris has done some incredibly romantic things over the years. He once surprised me on our anniversary by having a limo pick us up and take us to Tampa for a hockey game (yes, I love hockey that much) then to the Seminole Hard Rock Casino.

The best part about pulling up to St. Pete Times Forum in a limo was that everyone in the crowd was expecting Vincent Lecavalier or Martin St. Louis to appear, but then a couple of “nobodies” from Sebring step out and the looks of disappointment on their faces were just priceless.

One Christmas, he bought me some very nice jewelry then hid it in the tree. When we all finished unwrapping our presents, he said, “Wait a second! What’s that hiding in the tree over here?”

I was shocked. It was unexpected and beautiful.

Another time, he planned a 3 day trip that included a museum and nights out and delicious restaurants. As a mom, it is nice not to have to plan anything and just be whisked away for some fun with my favorite person.

I don’t need him to do these things for me to love him, but I must admit, I do enjoy the surprises. Even now that we are on a budget, he still tries to find ways to remind me of how important I am to him.

Back to our romantic fellow from Oregon: you’re going to have to be on your best behavior. Now that you’ve busted out of the gate with this big display, scale back for a bit and do some dishes or give her a massage. In other words, lay low for a while.

I don’t know what your next move will be; maybe choreographed senior citizens dancing to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” or training a troop of toddlers to spell out “Let’s have a baby” with their Teddy bears.

One thing I do know for certain, that stunt you pulled will be a tough act to follow, but I’m pulling for you. Good luck!

Preparing for life after school

Now that I’m nearing the end of my educational journey, I am getting close to a point in time that I will begin working an actual job which means I’ll be faced with something I’m desperately dreading: the interview.

When I was accepted into the nursing program, I appealed to a local hospital for financial assistance. They agreed to help on the condition I sign a contract to work for them upon completion of my degree which I was more than happy to do.

I erroneously believed that I could just knock on the door of the Human Resource Director the day after my pinning ceremony and say, “Hey there! Remember me? I’m all done and ready to start working that job we discussed two years ago.”

This is, in fact, not the way things are going to happen at all.

As it turns out, I have to interview in front of a panel. I found this out the other day when a very friendly representative called me to deliver this distressing news.

I instantly felt all of the blood drain from my face. “Oh! So I get to interview! That’s wonderful!” I was saying this in the most unconvincing, high-pitched voice imaginable.

I don’t want to sound like I think interviews are similar to invasive exams a doctor performs with the curtain closed. In fact, they didn’t used to bother me at all. It’s just that I have not been interviewed for ten years and never by more than one person at a time.

I was obviously hired off that last interview, but the two I had before that one did not turn out so well.

One was an attorney who seemed to like me well enough, but he felt the other candidate was slightly more qualified. I knew he was making a big mistake because I was absolutely the best person for the job. He objected and I withdrew.

The interview before that was the worst interview of my life. It was for a position outside of my experience so I turned in a resume not really expecting to hear anything back. When I got the call to come interview, I was excited at the prospect of possibly getting this unattainable job.

When I went in, the man immediately reminded me of my dad. I turned into a five-year old kid who got caught stretching the truth and every question he asked me sounded like a complicated quadratic equation that I had to solve.

Even the easiest question stumped me: “You say you enjoy reading, even biographies. Tell me a book you’ve read about a person that you admire.”

I’ve read so many books in my life. I’ve read about civil rights leaders and presidents and great historical figures. For some reason, at that moment, I could not recall a single book I had read except the one I just finished. I blurted out, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!” Robbers and thieves: that’s who I admired.

He ended the interview by telling me that I wasn’t really qualified for the position, but I had written such an impressive resume that he wanted to meet the person who wrote it. I’m willing to bet that, to this day, he believes someone wrote it for me.

Next week, when I’m on display in the pressure cooker, my only hope is that my brain will communicate with my mouth. My resume is done. For the record, I did write it all by myself.

Living with unlovable pets

While I was out of town last month, our daughter was given two goldfish from a well-meaning person. The problem was we didn’t have any fish tanks lying around and by the time my husband, Chris, received them in a plastic baggie, it was already after 8pm and he had to work the next day.

Hoping they would survive 24 hours, he purchased a tank and supplies after work, but sadly the fish couldn’t handle the stress.

Lucky for us, our daughter had been picked up by her grandmother and was blissfully unaware that her first pets ever were already belly-up.

After discussing our options, we decided to nix the fish idea and return all of the equipment because we still owned a hamster cage. All we needed was food, bedding, and the animal.

My son had an adorable hamster named Peanut. She was everything we ever could’ve wanted in a rodent-sized critter. She never bit us and she was cute and fat and lovable. Her time on this earth was too short, as is the case with most small animals.

He also once had fish he’d won from the Highlands County fair around the same time. They were a huge pain in the butt. The tank was a cumbersome task to clean and the fish lived a long time considering the fact they came from the fair. I thought they’d never die.

Thinking we’d have another Peanut, I broke the news to my girl about the fish and watched her face crumple up into pre-tear sadness. Then I delivered the good part about her being able to pick out a cuddly hamster and she lit up like Christmas.

We drove to the pet store and searched all the hamster habitats for the right one. When we had a female chosen (I refuse to buy a male for certain anatomical reasons) the associate quickly steered us away from that one because it had a tendency to bite and directed us to the dwarf hamsters.

My sweetheart immediately fell in love with one and we took her home. She named her “Layla” which was kind of cool because she has no idea who Eric Clapton is.

We took Layla out of the cage to pet her being careful to box her in with our legs when she suddenly flattened-out under my knee and scurried down the hall into my daughter’s bedroom.

Thirty-five minutes later, I declared there would be no more petting sessions until I could figure out a better way to contain this animal who could somehow reach the speed of sound on legs that measure about 1 cm in length.

Now I’m afraid to clean the cage or open it to feed her. Layla always looks up at me as if to say, “I know how slow and clumsy you are and I’m just waiting for my next chance. I won’t make the mistake of running down the hall again.”

As if to flaunt her talent, when I peek in on her, she’ll dart up the side of the cage like she’s rocket-propelled. She runs on her wheel so fast that, when she stops, the wheel spins her around 2 or 3 more times and she stays stuck to the inside by centrifugal force alone.

I believe we aren’t a good family for Layla and I wish I didn’t have a cat allergy. Now that I’ve really had time to think about it, the fish weren’t such a bad idea after all.

The final push to the end

Although I’ve recently attended my own graduation ceremony to become a Registered Nurse, I’m not really finished with school. In fact, as I type this, my class actually has 27 more days until our pinning when our instructors will declare us officially ready to attempt our state boards.

Until this date, we have to complete online assignments, proficiency tests, and 120 hours of clinical time in real hospitals working with nurses who teach us and guide us in our final days as students.

For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to spend this time in an emergency room. I was lacking in certain skills, like I.V. insertions, that I thought I could learn fast in the emergency department.

Boy was I right!

Let me tell you something about I.V. lines: there are some people who can do them well and then there are those who can stick a garden hose through a straw and make it look easy. I can only hope that, one day, I can at least become proficient enough so that I have all my supplies ready when I need them instead of groping around for that one thing I left on the cart in the hall.

Aside from I.V.s, I have learned that gloves are your friends and it never hurts to pack your pockets with lots of alcohol pads. Also, patients really appreciate a warm blanket.

One thing I can’t believe is how nice everyone has been. The nurses and doctors and all the other staff have been wonderful. They may make funny faces behind my back, but I’m too busy being overwhelmed and bewildered to know it.

When I’m not tripping over my own shadow in the emergency room, I’m consumed with other nursing class assignments, studying, or in my chemistry class that I am also taking this semester. 

You may wonder if I have time for anything else right now and that answer would be “NO!” I don’t have time for my family, my friends, my favorite things, and barely enough time for a good night’s sleep.

Heck, I almost don’t have time to write this column.

My friend, Tonya, and I like to check-in with each other on Facebook. People may mistakenly think that, because we post something in an update, we are loafing around with nothing to do. In reality, we are taking sanity breaks from online testing marathons. Yesterday alone I answered over 600 questions in preparation for an upcoming comprehensive test.

After that many questions, if someone asked me my name, I’d probably respond, “You sound concerned. Would you like a warm blanket?”

If I were offered a snack, I’d say, “Broccoli is a source of calcium for someone who is lactose intolerant. Take iron supplements with orange juice. Stay away from aged cheeses, organ meats, and wines if you’re taking MAOIs because that is bad for some reason.”

Nursing students are pumped with so much information it is like we are on constant mental overload. Dumping syndrome is something people with gastric bypass surgery can experience, but it is also something that happens to the brain of a nursing student. You start packing in facts and figures and deleting birthdays, addresses, and phone numbers.

Right now, my eye is on the prize. I’m just hoping my family will remember me when it is over. Until then, don’t get too dehydrated over the next month. You never know who might start your I.V. in the ER.

Mom isn't always the best example

When I was a kid, one way to instantly stoke my mother’s ire was to act up in church. My brother, Jerry, was a horrible instigator and always the one to push the limits of Mom’s patience. It was him who spent the most time torturing our little sister, Meredith, never innocent me.

I believe that, during those formative years, we assisted our mother in perfecting what we refer to as her “evil mom look.” This is the ice-cold glare that had the ability to immediately stop time and stun children, essentially paralyzing us in whatever inappropriate behavior we happened to be undertaking at that moment.

Once we were frozen in place, she silently mouthed commands to “cease and desist” our bad deeds while promising future punishment that would commence as soon as witnesses were not present.

The remainder of the service would be spent in quiet reflection and abject terror. It always seemed like the pastor suddenly refocused his sermon and attention directly at us as we tried to sink down low in the pew as if attempting to hide from him and God.

Now that I’m a parent, I have the pleasure of policing my own kids during our church’s Sunday services. They only have to sit still until the offering is completed, then they stampede upstairs for children’s church like a couple of wild buffalo.

With all my mom duties, I really could’ve used some parenting myself last Sunday.

It all started with someone else’s kids. They stayed the whole service which isn’t a bad thing. The children were of toddler age and did remarkably well. My own kids would never have behaved through the whole service.

During communion, the crackers were passed around when one of the toddlers erupted with an angry-sounding verbal outburst, so her mother quickly carried her out of the sanctuary.

My husband, Chris, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “They must not like crackers.”

This resulted in a good chuckle out of me. He started to say something else and I said, “SHHH,” to which he replied: “Your ‘SHHH’ was really loud. I think everyone heard it.”

I told him firmly, “Listen, if you don’t stop it, I’m going to take YOU out of here.”

He said, “Only if you carry me out.”

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My brain flashed an instant detailed mental picture of me carrying my husband on my hip, like I do with my daughter. In fact, he was limp like kids are when they don’t want to be carried and they just kind of hang there on your side.

So in this image, here was my husband, who outweighs me by about 20 pounds or so, hanging on my hip with this pouty look on his bearded face and, for some reason, he had a Dutch-boy haircut.

I was laughing so hard that I was jiggling, but I was trying to be quiet at the same time. Chris put his arm around me, began patting my shoulder, and saying, “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay,” like he was comforting me as if I was simply overcome with emotion. From behind, it probably did look like I was sobbing.

I suppose I’ll go a little easier on my kids in the future. If their own mom can’t hold herself together in church, how can I possibly expect them to?  Mom, if you’re reading, I’ll try my hardest to behave better next week. I promise.

It's never too late to change your future

Tonight, May 3, 2012, I did something for the third time in my life: walked across the stage of the South Florida Community College’s Theatre for the Performing Arts to accept a degree.

The first time was way back in 1991 when I graduated Avon Park High School. It was a bittersweet night because I hadn’t exactly prepared for a future beyond my diploma. I had no clue what I planned on doing the next day, much less the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, my grades back then reflected the interest I had in my future.

In my senior year, I was dual enrolled in two college classes for reasons I still do not comprehend. Because of my general apathetic attitude towards anything that resembled homework and my inability to foresee consequences for this behavior, my first two college-level grades still mar my overall grade point average (GPA).

It was 1995 before I enrolled at Brevard Community College where I was told to pursue my Associate in Arts degree. The advisor directed me to take several classes, which I did, and my grades began improving, mainly because I was paying for the portion of my tuition not covered by financial aid. When your education hits your own pocketbook, homework becomes very important.

Of the 13 classes I completed, I made 3 “B’s” and the rest were all “A’s.” Suddenly, I had a decent GPA and this club called “Phi Theta Kappa,” an honor society, wanted me to join. I was pretty sure it would look good on a resume, so I signed up.

My degree was still in-process when I decided to stop everything and move to Washington State. Life took some twists and turns and I found myself in different jobs where I got comfortable with my unfinished education and, besides, I had a family and too much going on to deal with school.

That’s why, in 2009, when I signed up at SFCC to complete my A.A. degree and see if I might be able to get into the nursing program, I thought I might be crazy. 

When I walked that stage in 2010 to accept my A.A. degree that had been 15 years in the making, it felt good.

Tonight felt better.

I am now the recipient of an Associate in Science degree for Nursing; one of the most challenging and coveted programs offered at SFCC.

Not only did I have to pass an exam and meet the academic criteria to be chosen as one of the 25 students privileged enough to be accepted into the program, but I also had to maintain at least a “B” average (I made “A’s”) in all of my classes. The schedule was grueling and the clinical rotations were excitingly terrifying.

It is hard to believe that I was a slacker student who wouldn’t do homework to save her life. Now I’m studying like crazy to learn how to save other people’s lives. The irony is almost too much.

So, if you are a concerned parent who has a kid like I was back in 1991, give them a little time to taste the real world. If you’re an adult who doesn’t think they can go back to school, look at me: I’m a mom, a wife, and quickly closing in on 40 years old and I did it.

Never give up on yourself because the worst thing you can ever do is to not try. Trust me on this.