humor

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Mother thinks my kitchen is a deli.  She always checks my kitchen counter for a biscuit to go with her coffee when she comes in the back door.  At the end of every visit, she snags another to take home for a snack as well as raiding  the fridge before leaving.  I caught this picture of her leaving yesterday.  You see the eggs in her hand.  In her hobo’s bundle, she has a container of fruit salad, another of turkey salad, and a piece of pound cake.  Last week she had a surprise lunch guest and couldn’t wait to tell me what a fine lunch she’d whipped up: turkey and dressing, canned fruit, and cake. It was my home-canned turkey, my home-made dressing, and sour cream pound cake.  I do believe she had to spring for the peas.  I’ll bet she never breathed a word of where all that food came from.  Of course, she had a plate of my pickled veggies on the side.

Anyway, that is not the story I set out to tell.  For Mother, leaving is a process.  First, she announces she’s leaving and gathers her gleanings from my kitchen.  Then, I go out to turn her car around and take the first load of stuff.  She follows to watch.  She has a little trouble backing out around our vehicles and camper trailer.  She keeps an eagle eye on me, then heads back to use the bathroom one last time before heading that long seven miles home, or wherever is next on her agenda.  She has to pet Buzzy a bit and hunt Bud up from wherever he’s escaped to say “Goodbye,” because she might not see him for a day or two.  Then she has two get a drink of water and talks a minute on the way out.  Sometimes she gets all the way to the car before remembering she’s left her jacket, phone, or maybe an obituary or newspaper article she brought to show me.  That necessitates a little more visiting.  Eventually, she makes it all the way to her car.  It’s not over yet!  Finally settled in, she makes a phone call or two before hitting the road, unless she’s forgotten to tell me something and has to come back in for a minute.  Her average leaving time is eleven minutes, though it’s not unusual to take thirteen.  She’s so little she has to sit on three cushions!

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Death by Bed Bath

It’s a good thing people are harder to kill than I thought in my nursing student days.  In my first few weeks, I thought I’d killed several.  My first great scare was in my first day on a clinical unit.  I was assigned to give a bed bath to a poor old lady who’d had a leg amputation.  I did NOT want to give that woman, or any patient for that matter, a bath in the bed or otherwise.  Of course we’d practiced bed baths in the lab till we were sick of it.  I dreaded clinical that day, knowing bed bathing would not be put off any longer.  I gathered my supplies, a bed pad, two sheets, a mattress cover, four bath cloths, four towels and a blanket.  In the room I introduced myself to the patient and bumbled around till I came up with gloves, a basin of warm water, soap, toothbrush, tooth paste, mouthwash, and lotion.  God forbid, I was expected to do mouth care, too.

Done properly, a bed bath and bed change can be accomplished in minutes.  I believe I probably tormented that poor woman the better part of two hours.  I won’t bore you with the details but I slopped water all over the patient, the bed, myself, and the floor before I was finally through.  I left her wet, uncovered, and freezing, I am sure.  Finally I labored long enough to get her in a clean gown and do mouth care.  I was so relieved to be through when she looked at me with sad eyes and said.  “You put my gown on inside out.”

Sure enough, it was.  Hopefully I suggested, “You don’t want me to change it, do you?”

“Yes.” she moaned.

I wanted to argue, but knew I had it to do.  I worked till I got it fixed, but snatched her IV out in the process.  I hadn’t gotten to the point I could start IVs, so my nursing instructor had to do it.  She was not happy.

Not long after I escaped from her room, her family returned.  The doctor made rounds with the head nurse. They all came came out with their heads together.  I was sure they were all discussing the horrible bath I’d given.  I had no idea they’d be able to tell.  I was mortified. Fortunately, that was not the problem, but it was an awful day.

I Loved Lucyop

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When I met Lucy, it was love at first site.  Not romantic love, but the best kind, true friend love.  A freckled, barefoot girl, Lucy’s hands were covered in warts.  Everybody knew you got warts from playing with frogs.  I played with frogs every chance I got, but so far had not been able to acquire the warts I coveted.

Naturally, I had to ask, “How’d you git them warts?”  I always took the subtle approach.

“How do you think?  From playin’ with frogs, Dummy.  Frogs’ backs is covered with warts.”  My admiration grew exponentially, a girl who liked frogs and wasn’t afraid to say “pee” without looking around to make sure her mama couldn’t hear.  I had a hard life.  My own mother made us say “wee wee” and swore she’d know if we EVER said “pee.”  “Pee” was vulgar.  I’d had my behind paddled more than once for getting caught.

“You got any frogs now?  I want to see them warts.” I had to know. 

“Sure.  There’s always some at the creek.”  She took off with me following.  Wading in, we were soon rich in frogs. Catching a couple, we examined them, finding their backs splendidly populated with warts.

We passed an idyllic afternoon with those frogs in the cool creek.I still remember the feel of those scratchy warts on my fingers. Tadpoles frolicked joyously in shady pools, just out of our reach. Wet and muddy to the waist, I that day I knew perfect joy. Time stood still. Long before I’d had my fill of warty frog fun, Mother called out saying it was time to go, but not before I slipped a couple of frogs in my pocket.

“Oh no!  I gotta go, already.” I whined.

“That’s okay.  Next time you come back, we’ll git you a snake.” She promised.

I got the snake, but never did get my warts.

Bring Him on In, Honey!

At the end of a long, long day on my dialysis unit, there were only two of us to finish up the work of cleaning up and setting up for the next day’s treatments.  There was still an elderly gentleman to be returned to his room.  I helped him into his chair, wrapped him in a blanket, and headed back to his room.  As always, I was in a bit of a hurry to get home to my children.  I wheeled him into what I thought was his room only to find the bed already occupied by a little old lady.  “Oh excuse me Ma’am.  Wrong room!” I apologized.

“Just bring him right on in, Honey.  I’ve been here quite a while!”  We all got a good laugh out of that.

 

Hint for anyone in hospital.  Always ask that your wheelchair seat be covered and be wrapped in a blanket when you leave your room.  Wheel chair seats can be soiled and those halls get cold.

Beware of Giant Pooh in Drain

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  • Teddy bear was dragged from a drain in East Kilbride by Scottish Water
  • Was among hundreds of unusual items blocking sewers last year
  • Workers also found a pink bike and a fax machine were blocking pipes

By Daily Mail Reporter

Published: 16:03 EST, 17 February 2014 | Updated: 05:44 EST, 18 February 2014

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2561563/Who-flushed-Winnie-Pooh-toilet-Giant-stuffed-bear-lurking-Scottish-sewer.html#ixzz4XqE8Z4zD
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Get Your Kicks Where You Can

A senior couple came out of a coffee shop on Memorial Day to find an officer putting a ticket on a car whose meter had expired. Irate the man accosted him, “You Nazi Turd! Don’t you have any respect for yor elders.” The officer coolly wrote a second ticket for worn tires.

His wife jumped in, “You dog, if you didn’t have on that uniform, you wouldn’t have the nerve to face a real man.”

The insults continued on for several minutes, with the officer writing several more tickets till a bus pulled up to the corner and the elderly couple boarded.

If I can ever do that!

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Cartoon on courtesy of all nurses.com

After suffering through numerous brutal experiences at the hands of nurses as a student, I swore I’d do my best to encourage nursing students and ease their path.  I took time to show them procedures and include them at every possible intervention.

I invited an eager nursing student to join me as I prepared to insert needles into a patient’s dialysis access prior to a treatment after getting the patient’s approval.  Dialysis patients were almost invariably willing to help teach.  I meticulously prepared the materials needed, scrubbed the site for needle insertion and tore tape strips to securely anchor the needles in place.  The student was all eyes as I slid the needles in as painlessly as possible and the patient pronounced it a job well done.  I started the treatment so it was a few minutes before we had time for conference.

“Do you have any questions?”  I was prepared to explain precautions and how the needle placement was selected.

“Yes!  How in the world did you learn to tear tape so straight?  If I ever learn to tear tape like that I’ll know I’m a real nurse!”  Her admiration took me down a notch or two.

“It’s no trick.  You can do it right now.”  I pulled out a roll of tape and showed her it was scored for ease in tearing.

“Wow!  Thanks!”

 

Pizza Love

img_1861I suspect there is a new pyramid scheme starting, a plot to fatten.  It’s diabolical.  Someone gave a friend a box containing seventy-five pizzas from one of those gigantic superstores, no doubt regretting their foolish purchase. That is neither a typo nor exaggeration.  There were actually seventy- five pizzas left.  She wagged it home, split it into three separate bundles and put them in the freezer.  Her twenty-year-old son still lives at home.  He was on that pizza like a dog on a bone, joyously heaping those basic pizzas with every added topping he could ferret out, extra cheese, mushroom, sausage, hotdogs, hamburger, and extra sauce.  The original pizzas looked like layer cakes by the time he was ready to eat.  He had pizza for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and frequent snacks.  Tired of watching him grow pizza by pizza, his cruel mom sacked up the fifty remaining pizzas and divided between her mom and her sister.

She needn’t have wasted the time sending pizza to Grandma’s house.  Her boy sniffed it out and beat a steady path to Grandma’s, working on the stack adding Grandma’s cheese, sauce, and various toppings, including Vienna Sausage.  The only thing the move accomplished was to get him a bit of exercise and quality time with Grandma’s freezer,  Grandma tired of seeing his expanding backside sticking out of her freezer, so she sent the remaining pizza home with her sister who had a pizza-loving daughter and husband.  They jumped on the pizza, diving in at all hours.  Both were worried about their weight long before that pizza found its way to their freezer.  It wasn’t good.

The other bundle of pizza went home with her delighted brother-in-law who thoroughly enjoyed the pain on the young man’s face as the pizza left.  After a couple of days, the sister called.  She’d come in and found her hubby and pudgy daughter in a pizza-induced carbohydrate-stupor.  Hubby had sneaked the pizza in and hidden it from her.  She’d had both of them on a low-carb diet for weeks and now they’d nearly overdosed on bad pizza.  She was livid.

I wonder if they’ll all get a call in a few days offering a time-share fat-farm and two for one stretch pants for nineteen ninety-nine, shipping and handling extra.

Mother and Roomba

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I got one of those miraculous little robot vacuum sweepers that scurries around getting dust bunnies, dog hair, and cleaning spots I routinely neglect.  I love it.  All you have to is empty the little dust bin and unwind the dog hair off the rotary brush after each use.  It can even be set to run during the night.  The little genius even docks itself to recharge.  It has a little laser light device to fence it into a room.  I run it in the front rooms during the night and do the hall and bedrooms during the day.  One day I fooled around and left it barred in my bedroom under the bed so it couldn’t redock.  It kicked off at midnight and scared the crap out of me.  That was exciting!

Mother is hostile to technology.  She does her floors with a straw broom and stringmop the God way intended. She is even suspicious of a sponge mop.  The robot vacuum is totally baffling to her.  She can’t fathom how it knows how clean to the entire area. I couldn’t make her understand repetitive random movements.  It was no help at all when Bud told her it made a computerized map, then dropped it in my lap to explain his lie.  I will have to knock his little bitty brains out.