from happyrobot - updated 5/24/2013 7:40:11 PM http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp en-us http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=9880 Being chased was the whole point of moving fast. You inspected the tread of your tennis shoes- scuffed them in the dirt to be sure of the tracks you'd raise. (rubbed dirt on the outside so they'd look old, that'd be tricky & throw the chasers off). Sometimes we'd turn our bikes upside down and would move the pedals with our hands, so the spokes whirled. This is how fast we could go. You only did this in a safe spot, off the beaten track. Somehow this seemed like preparation. You had to be prepared.

I learned to ride a bike in an urban neighborhood in Kansas City. It was full of hippies. Hippies broke into people's houses and tried to steal their guns. They took drugs and thought people who were just riding in a car next to them were actually on fire and for that reason they killed them. They were lanky and pale and laughed when you passed them. They had lots of hair and sat around, but looked like they'd run in packs. Because of them, they didn't open the pool. It scummed over and ran to rot. We'd ride our bikes past. The hippies had ruined it.

The babysitter looked like a hippy, except she smiled and pushed her hair back behind her ears. She looked like my cousin Peggy. It was her boyfriend that looked like the pirate that snuck down and put the letter opener to the nape of your neck in that dream where you were screaming as hard as you could only it didn't come out- drug to the stairs looking down where your parents sat in the living room- where they should have heard you, but couldn't.

We were up in the mornings before our families were awake, before anyone was out. The neighborhood was ours. We were so fast. We were Evil Knievel. Around the curve where the swimming pool had died were sunflowers and swarms of bees. We outran them.


]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=8731 I was on the last three pages and the people sitting behind me hollared out- Hey! Harry Potter! Is it good?

Yes.

Does he die?- a 14 year old asks.

What?

I can't tell you that!

Come on! She says, I'm not going to read it.

But it'll be a great movie. I'm not going to ruin it for you.

I say this in a light hearted/joking way- but the girl looks pissed.

An older guy- uncle or step- father or friend in her group bellows out- that's a kid's book!

The woman next to him who'd been defending Hannah Montana a few minutes before responds- Grown-ups like it too!

I yell back- it's really violent!

I direct this to the 14 year old who looks away, pouting.

Does Harry die? The man asks.

I'm not telling you, I repeat- a little less friendly.

And then I turn back- and read those last few pages- feeling a little vulnerable, but deciding I don't care- the waves, the ocean, Hannah Mantana- I'm a fairly fast reader- but this is a pretty personal moment- kind of stupid, just a kid's book, but screw them.
I'm not telling.]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=8467
My buddy Pete in the Netherlands



How are you all?

Hello!















]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=8134 “I” and “J” are together. They're next to each other.

Yes. That's true.

I think we were talking about the word “jump”.

An awesome word. A “J” and a “P” (both great letters)

But, no “I” in jump.

Even though, I and J are supposed to be together.

If you're looking at the alphabet- the whole thing, one can see how tight those guys would have to be.

And yet, here's this fantastic word “Jump”- and “I” is no where to be found.

(. . “i” and “j”, “i” and “j”. right next to each other and so good together. But then “Jump” comes along – so great and yet totally dissing “i”- Not Right. VERY WRONG.
How could this happen to “i”? How could this happen to “jump”?)

But, my Harry boy is rolling with the punches, occasionally disappointed, but hanging in there, excited, enthralled. This kid's going to read.


“Are “i” and “j” boys or girls?” He asks me. (but not really asking, so much as challenging me to guess the right answer)

The answer comes to me in an instant.

No one's ever told me, and before now, no one's ever asked me. I don't know how I know, but I do.

“What do you think?”, I ask him.

“Boys”, he says with absolute assurance.

I nod, while thinking “of course”.

“Boys! Boys! They hate pink! Aaarrrg. Keep them away from Pink!”
Pink! Aaarg!"

“But you know” I say – pushing it, kind of reckless and cocky over the I/J business.

“You know there IS an “i” in “pink”.


Harry freezes.

I hold still.

He looks down and breathes deep.
Looking up, but not quite at me, he asks, like a guy who's just got to know,

"Is there an 'r' in pink?"

“No”, I answer.

“No ‘r'. Do you like ‘r'?"

“Robot is for ‘r'", he announces.

Yes, I say.

“Green is ‘r'.

There's an “r” in the word “green”- I tell him.


And “r” is for “Green frog that Jumps!”

Well, those are several words. And Letters make words. And words make sentences.
And there are a bunch of “r”s- in those words.

That letter “R”- which you like. . . I finish lamely.

As if he's embarrassed for me, Haaris looks away. This is a new "not looking" look.
He's somehow staying more present.
Before he runs away he makes one of his sounds, this one "phah"- seems to mean, “Of course.”













]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=8004 "So I guess you guys are on the same page?"

This from Awais, leaning forward from the back seat.

His dad and I were talking about something that Awais wouldn't have any interest in, but we were agreeing. Disagreeing with the outside world, but pleasantly, easily building a front of “same-sidedness” about I can't remember.

“Ohhh!" His dad says.
"Dave F. used to say that. Remember how he used to say that? Remember how much it used to get on your nerves?”

“Uh, no?”
I don't remember that.

I say, “Iiiii don't remember that. I . . . (casually, as if it's not inconceivable. I could be wrong, although it would be unlike me.) Can't imagine I'd have been all that worried about the phrase ‘on the same page'.
I like the idea.”

“But don't you remember? The way he said it? It was just SO ugh! Just SO, just . . . I remember. You don't remember? It used to make you crazy.”

I'm thinking- “no, that's the kind of thing that would have made YOU crazy- reading a certain tone of voice into a perfectly reasonable, if not possibly tritely stated, idea”.

Not that Dave couldn't get on my nerves. I remember. He could.

I say, a little louder, projecting to the back seat “But, Awais the way you used that phrase is right. That's the idea. And I really like that idea.”

From his dad, “What? Are you kidding? That's beautiful Awais. The way you say it is perfect! Perfect! And beautiful.”
]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7883 I responded to a free astrology reading thing a while back- knowing better, but bored and reckless. I declined to pay for the immensely life altering parts, but ended up on a mailing list.

Apparently I've got three dates to look forward to in July. The email informed me the moon would shut down its influence on one of those days and the sun would be blocked by some sun-storm stuff on two different occasions. During this limited BLOCKING of astral energy, for a fee, my astrologer could do some mojo stuff and get my life on track.

This website has my birth date info and I was curious how it was they knew I'd be more likely to believe that only when the stars were blocked could I imagine stuff going my way.

The promise of MONEY and PERSONAL POWER squashed my initial intrigue -in addition to my name being used repeatedly in a fat cartoonish, aqua-blue font.

Nothing in Caps can be worth paying for, plus- PLUS- I am bored and disgusted by any and all promises of money and personal power. I've seen those guys that get that stuff. Or, I've seen SOME of them. I've seen the ones, who appear to have provided the Danishes- although, thinking about it, you know they didn't personally buy, or even pick out those Danishes. And now that I think about a bit more, the fact that they would spend time and energy projecting the impression that they were in some way responsible for the Danishes- the fact they would even acknowledge the Danishes (would a truly powerful person do that? I think no.) Leads me to believe I've not likely met the real big wigs- the seriously powerful- the ones who are satisfactorily in control. No, I've only met their pawns. Likely the pawns of pawns. I don't blame them. I don't blame myself. I keep going for the raspberry thinking they'll taste better than they do. No matter how often we break, the Danishes never run out. The left overs appear in the break room, on the same platter with one of those high-grade paper plates on top, protecting them from the gnats.

It would be the grossest thing in the world to eat one of those left over meeting Danishes, but I've considered it. I've stolen saltine crackers and tiny cups of apple juice- and hovered for a second over that upside down paper plate- flipped it up once when no one was looking- but no. No.

I've moved around in the hospital, working a few different floors. Last night a patient I've cared for in the past- an old man 75 or so, about 6' 2/ 250lbs- healthy and thoroughly demented- decided to quit trying to break for the parking lot where he hoped to find his truck which he hoped to drive to Jacksonville, Mississippi (good times where I kept him distracted by printing him out random Yahoo maps and asking him “what about the weather?” “Have you listened to the traffic reports?”)

Last night he mixed it up a bit by visiting the other patient's rooms. It wasn't so much a problem when he ended up in another crazy patient's room, but at one point he stripped butt naked and I just barely caught him in time from going into the room of a very alert/oriented- angry little woman (because – what kind of place were we running here?) And I could not tell her I was unable to return to her room when I'd said I would (“I'll be RIGHT back) because I was busy keeping Jackson, MS from rushing the door and/or stripping naked and then rushing the door.
You can't tell people that. It seems as if you're telling them their problems are not so important. It feels unseemly.

Which is why I love drugs. I love what they can do. But, at the same time it's fairly fascinating what they can't do. And a whole bunch of drugs- in increments, not wanting to “put him down”- (in an obvious way- In truth that's exactly what I wanted. Like a rhino. Down boy. Down!)- Didn't work.

Sometime later another patient fell and hit his head because I'd told him I'd be back to help him at 2300- and I wasn't and so he got pissed and got up and tripped over the cord in his IV pole (He fell at exactly 2305.)- I got a little time away from Jackson- rushing “what ‘in the hell kind of place are you running around here?”- Guy, to CT to scan his cracked head.

In the elevator I told him, “Let me tell you. The truth. Hospitalization, now a days- it's a little like camping. (I thought that was fairly inspired)- no. Mad/Fall guy was not persuaded. And according to him, had NEVER camped-
”what kind of idiot goes camping? “
To which I agreed; because #1 all the recent reports of bear attacks and #2 Why argue? Like I have a point to make?

Later on we got enough junk on board Jackson to make him a fall risk – this was somehow an improvement as he'd been “swatting out” – not actually hitting, but responding poorly to the stern “limits” approach from the nursing assistant.

He sat next to me in the early morning while I charted. He seemed to think when I was done we would be leaving. From time to time he'd chant in a low voice “Got to go, got to go, got to go.”
To me he'd say, “Ok kiddo, you ready to ride?”

Oh, crap. Don't get Alzheimer's.
But if you do- totally strip and run rampant and charge the door. Mississippi, or bust.

I'm not kidding.







]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7708

I asked Harry to smile. I said, “Show me your pretty smile!”

I had some idea I'd get something funny, but I think he out did himself here.

I have a crappy digital camera I bought a few years ago. It gives me something like 10 minutes per 4 AA batteries. Up loading on to my computer is a crap shoot -as in, it could happen, it somehow does happen, but I have no idea how.

I decided to clean out a junk drawer full of some good, bad and half-charged batteries.

Sixteen batteries and an hour and ½ later, I have this Friday afternoon 2:30-3:30pm photo essay to share
I narrated within the picture titles and the comments, but I can't see it myself. Maybe it'll show up for you- or not.

Lovely spring. Good stuff.

Xoxo
]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7556 Mrs. White,

Thank you for sending this information. I have always thought Awais was really bright. I've often been amazed by his insight and thoughtfulness and ability to assimilate/absorb "big" concepts.
I don't have a classroom of 7 year olds to compare him to, but one on one he has surprised and amazed me over and over again.

I did not know he hasn't slept. Sleeping has been hard for him since he was a baby.
Also, we've had more child-care/work changes. I've had to work more nights the past month. Awais is a sweet, sensative kid and I am working towards giving him more consistency. The past few years, and this year, too havn't been that. I'm honestly trying to get to a place where I can give him more support and calmness.

There's a math test he brought home the other day I've thought of showing you. He made a C on it. When I looked more carefully at his answers I realized he'd actually gotten all the answers (numerically) correct. He should have gotten 100%. The questions he missed were because he'd written the numbers backwards or he hadn't written the "1" when carrying the one.

I'm working hard to convince Awais he IS good in math.

There are a number of people in my family and in Awais' dad's family who have scored high on I.Q. tests. I know from personal experience that high I.Q. does not mean success or happiness.

The thing that amazes me as much about Awais as his intelligence is how incredibly sensative and kind he is. If you have a test for "humanity-advancedness", "awareness"- empathy, I think he'd score just as high.

Anyway, thank you for keeping me informed. I've already bragged to his grandmother. She knows the high I.Q. is a tricky thing, but she's proud.

Best,

Anne


]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7468 Part I

Derrick!
Derrick is this year's Jordan M.

I read the notes. I read the president's report on “School Fitness”.
I read the dip-shitty PTO notes, the one's that justify the magazine ordering request forms. The ones that explain why it's perfectly fine to let sales men into the classroom to show off the 3-D Scoobie Doo t-shirts and the coveted sponge-bob telephones . . . YOU TOO COULD WIN!, if friends and family order enough magazine subscriptions and YOUR name is drawn!

I ask “how was your day” and when it appears kid is too tired or distracted to answer, I ask again, first commercial break after “Teen Titans”. I mix it up, so I won't seem too preassuring and neurotic. I ask, “So. . . how's it going?” And still I know nothing about the children my children go to school with until Valentine's Day comes around and a list of names are sent home.

Awais wants to know if he has to give a Valentine to Derrick. And I ask “Who's Derrick and why don't you want to give him a Valentine?”

Apparantly, Derrick is a kid who likes to correct Awais and likes to say that he (Awais) says things that he doesn't say.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask.

“Yes.”, Awais answers.

“And what does the teacher say?”

“She says. . . well, it doesn't matter because Derrick doesn't sit at my table anymore”.

“Really?” I ask. I'm looking at Awais trying to summon the unguarded truth from him- the stuff I used to be privy to, once upon a time.

“Uhhhh, yeah. ”

I tell Awais he has to give everyone in his class a Valentine, but maybe we can find an ugly one for Derrick.

“A horse-butt Valentine” Awais suggests.

“Absolutely”. It feels as if this is as close as I can come to actively being on his side.

At the store Awais gets excited about the Spiderman Valentines; his desire to spread good overwhelming his desire to diss Derrick.

There are two friends who will get the larger valentines, with green apple lollipops, Awais' favorites. Also, Awais fills out a smaller Valentine for himself “to Awais, from Awais and attaches an apple lollipop with the surgical tape I keep carrying home in my pockets.

A bunch of kids are called “acquaintances” and I don't know what to make of that.
I call out a name for him to copy over and ask, as casual as possible “and so what about Her? Him?”

“How about that Sara? That Grace? That William?”
“How about them?”.

I've gotten two friends, one enemy and a bunch of “acquaintances”.

Not so bad.

“I'm going to give this one to Derrick”, Awais announces.

“You're a hit! Valentine! . . . It's got the word “hit” in it."

“Oh, that's good.” I tell him.

“no, wait” he says a second later. "I want to give him this one."


“With Great Friends Comes A Great Valentine's Day”.

I don't get it at first. And then I do and I'm both impressed and a bit panicked by this kid of mine.

Oooo! cold! (Although I don't say that) “So . . . he's doesn't have any friends?” I ask him.

“Nah, he has a . . . LOT of friends.

“Just not . . .go' . . ? “ In the last minute, I switch directions with that question, deciding to back off.

Passive Aggressive, but the good, clean, honest type, is what I tell myself.

None of that guilt ridden, hidden from one's self type P&A- the resentment that turns to self loathing that settles into a nasty addiction . . . or perhaps an OCD type of perfection that broils to an unredeemable episode of road rage?


A few months ago Awais started a diary. I haven't tried to read his diary because Awais once showed it to me and I found I couldn't read his handwriting.

Awais read it out loud to me. “Bennett. I hate him”.

“Really?” I asked. “Who's Bennett. Why do you hate him?”

“He's just this kid”, Awais told me.

“I don't really hate him”, Awais explained, “I'm just jealous of him. He's nice and everyone likes him”.

For that reason I imagine that Derrick is a real pain in the ass.

I should have found a horse-butt valentine for Derrick. You know there has to be some out there.








]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7090 What I have learned in my 36 years on earth is there are things that defy definitive explanation.

There is the right thing for one situation that becomes the worst fucking thing ever in some other, similar, almost exactly the same, and yet drastically different world.

I've learned that lying has its place.
I've learned random acts of kindness and random acts of mean-ness can both work to one's advantage. They can both work to seemingly anonymous other's advantage, as well.

I've learned there's this thing where one allows another to suffuse a situation. Another is there in everything they say and everything they don't say and there's a strength in letting that happen- responding, allowing another- it can often enough to seem to be the thing to do always-to always Be Good; except for those times it is bad.

Sometimes it's not bad to allow the person most vulnerable in a particular situation to be overwhelmed by some stronger, louder, broadcasting type-personality.

(And BTW) I've come to believe this because I've seen the numbers.

And then sometimes (again- often enough) its good (number wise) to back the fuck up.

When and where and how to do this seems excruciatingly random.

Hanging in the middle, ready to do either, is a gift very few of us possess- which is why we (the communal “we”- whether you know it or not) need others (annoying, ridiculous, too close to home and too far out there to seemingly even deserve the title of “people”) type people.

I say this as a person who, if truth be known, generally hates people. I hate people. I hate all of you (you make me feel guilty and “less then” as well as superior and desperate to explain myself or Make You Believe. Sometimes I want to save you; maybe I want you to get a freaking clue? - Except, I also love you for how funny and gracious and talented you are- your ability to endure- also, how stupid and happy/curious/ above it all/sad/broken/aware you can be.

Maybe you are simply pretty or full of potential or young or old or overwhelmed. You say things that make me happy you have a voice to say them with.
Sometimes, often enough I love you in ways that make me want to cry.

BUT- I kind of hate you too. And I'm sorry about that- nothing personal, you know?

I feel better when I can get beyond, above myself and simply care about you. It (you) make me feel worthy and ok and able to forgive myself and able to deal with various disappointments- capable of breathing, glad to be alive and stealing/grabbing good stuff (deservedly or not) when I'm hooked into how wonderful you are.

That is all.







]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=7051 As a new nurse I'm required to attend 4 hour meetings every two weeks. The meetings are attended by new nurses from all over the hospital (Peds, ICU, Oncology- everyone).

The first one they served us breakfast and took our pictures and gave us pep-talks. The next few we were treated to fistfuls of caramels and peppermints and a number of “self-assessment” surveys regarding our personal communication style and then some odd scolding lectures (“By a show of hands, how many people here are in it for the money?”)

At the end we break up into groups where we were encouraged to vent and bitch and are assured one too many times for comfort by the “facilitator” that everything here is totally, completely, COMPLETELY confidential.

This bit was important enough to get a name- “tales from the bedside” and it was painful and exhausting and not, just not, not Good.

Last meeting we got no candy and no bitch session. Although we did get to watch a video taped episode of ER where Mark Green succumbs to his brain tumor in Hawaii.

The topic was palative care. Group work revolved around attitudes about death and I heard some stories that were awful.

I'd wish to say they were moving and life-affirming, and they certainly would have been except for the fact that death is a sucky, sucky thing.

Considering how morbid I am, I would have imagined myself dealing much better with this session. Perhaps it was the length- 1 ½ hours of death talk, sure- no problem (plus, could I suggest showing the ER episode with Ray Liotta where he plays the homeless alcoholic that stumbles in with the shot liver and the dead kidneys and the awesome lifetime of failure and regret and the whole episode shows him hallucinating about getting on a bus, or reuniting with the son who has rightfully rejected him- somehow, appropriately enough, a kind of “side-topic” all the while he is dying?- You know- for teaching purposes, cause how many people get to die in Hawaii?)

4 hours of talk about death left me feeling cold (ok, the auditorium was cold, so that wasn't so weird) and STARVING hungry.

I was supposed to have coffee with some mentor type person afterwards, but the moment we were dismissed I bolted out of there. I drove straight to the grocery store and bought a rotisserie chicken and about $20 worth of chocolate. I spent about 30 extra minutes with my children, attired myself in some extra layers of tee-shirts and lab coats and then headed back to work for 12 hours of caring for a woman who'd gotten one of her coronary arteries dissected then pieced back together by a surgeon who was so shocked by his creativity that he could not keep himself from telling her family how crazy it was that she wasn't dead.

(I know this- because the family kept talking about it. I never saw this surgeon but his amazement, awe became the thing the family held onto, in shock and grief they searched around for something good about all of this and one thing was the knife holder going “holey-shit, I can't believe I just did that!”)

And BTW anyone who says- “oh, hey- I'll be fine to go when I'm 80”- I say, fuck that. This lady wasn't- isn't ready to go and her family sure as heck isn't ready for her to go. And so, there.

She was a teacher and she raised children who became teachers and those children had children who became teachers and the few crazy, rebellious ones in the family who were not teachers became ministers- specifically pastors.
I spoke with a granddaughter who was a pastor in a cardiac unit in another hospital so when she asked me how the patient was doing, she knew the language and the details and that was startling and tricky- but also good.

BTW- The chocolate did not taste as good as I'd thought it would. It tasted like wax. Likely because it (the chocolate) and I were both cold. It did not taste like life nor love nor nothing.

The chicken was ok. Salt. There's your life force.

Coincidentally, around 11: pm (or 2300 for those in the know) we had a “welcome to the unit on NIGHTS!” dinner for myself and the few other new people- featuring buckets of fried chicken.
At that point I was a bit over the fueling life to pacify death (or just over chicken) . . . but, accidentally, in an effort to participate, I somehow discovered the Southern style, sweet ice tea, which I normally hate, somehow tasted exactly like what I'd been looking for a few hours before.

What I've Been Reading/listening to:
A friend recently bought me “Loneseome Dove” and I haven't made it past the first chapter. I've been blaming the lurid, heaving bosom cover.

I bought myself “Blink- the Power of Thinking Without Thinking” and have made it to page 8. I mourn the loss of losing myself in a book. Reading books had always been a part of who I've been as long as I can remember, and somehow along the way I lost it. Crap.

More about What I'm Doing
I went to a hypnotist recently. Yes. Forget to ask why I was there. My only reason for bringing this up was because he said at one point I should look in the mirror and say “I look Damn good!”. Funny and just stupid sweet.

Good Morning Star Shine, the Earth Says Hello!
(that's from the new Willy Wonka- Blaine? Are you still with me- I know I go on too long)
Last of all- School of the Americas


have you heard about this?

This weekend in Ft. Benning GA people are protesting a school that is run and paid for by the U.S. government (i.e. us).
I spoke to my Lonesome Dove friend who's down there and there is apparently a “counter-protest” planned by friends and family of the military- the people who care about the kids who are there, military people at Ft. Benning.

The thing is, the protesters are not protesting the regular military- they're protesting a school/training program that has been called “The Assassination School”.

I tried to explain this thing to a few people and I feel, as I'm saying it, that I sound like I'm making it up.

If you have some time, look it up. I don't feel capable of convincing anyone that this exists, that this is paid for, supported, acknowledged by our government.

It's been around for a while and the people our military and our tax dollars have supported have used torture, terrorism, rape, murder, “disappearances” and what not all over South America- throughout the ‘80's up until now. We taught them to use these tactics in very specific, organized ways. Our governments condemn their actions and at the same time the School invites them back as honored graduates- to lecture.
With this school, we kill El Salvadorians, Columbians, and Guatemalans, a good number of Americans (specifically nuns, priests and bishops). They are killed in intentionally- extraordinarily horrible ways.

I tell my friend- ok, just don't get arrested. (Ha. Ha.- No. Really, I say, you should not, not get arrested in GA. YOU of all people will not do well with southern incarceration. Just don't.
Also, stop by on your way back. I will serve warm chocolate. We'll hide under the covers. It will be ok.
I hope.



]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=6881

My ex-husband had this sign hung on the wall of the office in our home. I never heard the story of how he came by it. I recall seeing it and liking it and one or two times, beginning to ask him where it came from. But the question never made it out. There was always something else to interrupt it.

Later, the sign began to get buried by other things hung on the wall. There were hot-list, “Must Not forget!” items, layers upon layers of them. The idea was one of “visual prompt”. We meant well.

There are a couple of songs (actually just the first couple of bars to each song) that play in my head from time to time and work towards the same goal as the “No Freaking” sign.

One is “Get up, get, get down” (from Public Enemies' “Fear of a Black Planet). This hiccups in my brain every once in a while, usually after a round of bouncing between potential freak-out and whatever last minute solution or reprieve through reality-check came to head it off. It usually represents a second wind, on to the next thing type emotion and is often followed up by a tongue in cheek chorus of “. . . EVERY little thing is going to be all right!” (Thanking you, Mr. Marley!).

Another is, “A little bit of this . . . a little bit of that . . . a “something” a “something“ . . . a coat, a hat” (sung in a Yiddish accent, its from the musical “Fiddler on the Roof”.)
The rest of the song goes on to sing about Anatevka ("Anatevka! Anatevka! Over worked, underfed Anatev-ka!").

I don't think of myself as an oppressed Jewish Russian village- honestly. This song works as a reminder to move. If you're not freaking out, you're still engaged and moving and doing something simple. Often its the simple thing that's in front of you. Its the obvious thing that may or may not solve whatever it was you might have freaked out about, but can't hurt either. My favorite non-freaking activity is laundry. There's a beginning, middle and an end to the activity. It takes very little thought and provides a visual sense of accomplishment (big pile of stinky mess, to simple, neat pleasant smelling stack that should be put away before the children begin to play jump in the laundrey basket).

In the last 72 hours I have fired my first baby sitter. I found the ball game on t.v. for the guy on the vent whose wife said he really liked baseball. I think he was watching it. I'm almost positive. I've gotten angry with my first Doctor. It surprised me. The flash of adrenaline sent me into a short-lived, stumbly numbness, BUT I didn't say or do anything stupid. I problem solved and got my way and learned a bunch of important things very quickly- one (another surprise) is that I'm not as immune to getting attached to my patients as I'd thought I was.

I had a conversation with Awais' teacher that was upsetting, but I recovered, regrouped and again managed to not Freak out.

I've witnessed the passing of one calendar day into another, twice and have marveled over how it is there are 24 hours in a day. Point for me for buying the watch with the date indicator.

Another good thing. Haaris is waving now. He'll be five at the end of November. In a short few months we went from (1) realizing the child doesn't wave to (2) beginning to coach him to (3) an odd, back turned but elbow lifted version of a wave to (4) a real, honest to god, with his hand, wave.

Other things are good, too.
For example, I was the one who spotted the hernia. I didn't know what to call it, but it was me who pointed it out, even though the much more experienced nurse was there. It is because I am so freaking brilliant and observant. Oh, yes I am.
Occasionally I get a haircut. Sometimes I have a bowel of ice cream. I do love Fall.
I can totally do this.

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At one time I lost a lot of weight on the no-carb diet. I lost sooo much weight I looked like another person. My family would say to me, “you look great!”, but I felt JUST terrible. And then I went off of it and regained all this weight and see, I'd given away all my ‘fat clothes' and had nothing to wear. So then . . . . I started going to the gym with my friend Rosemary who was trying to get her diabetes under control and her husband and my husband were friends from way, way back and NOW I'll have a bagel every morning (just can't go without my bagel, if I don't have my morning bagel I'm in a rotten mood all day) and the rest of the time I do carbs in MODERATION, see? And I've stayed the same size for six months!

I'm Pilipino. (Like you needed me to tell you). But in case you think that's all there is to me, I love Italian food. Also, Lynard Skynard. I have family in Florida, I'm really thinking about moving to FLA to be close to my family.
This job's ok, but the town sucks.

I fell off a ladder three weeks ago and my back is killing me. My wife is jealous and clingy (or maybe not, maybe that's just an excuse I give to the others who want me to go out to the bars with them and really I don't want to go, but I don't want them to think I'm a middle aged homebody OR maybe it's because I know they just ask to be nice, but I'm older than them and know they really aren't so keen on including me) . . . AND I play guitar and I have a grown son I recently kicked out of the house and I'm not sure if that was the right thing to do.
Also, I give backrubs and flirt and I have a way of speaking to others that make it seem like I'm telling them a secret. I have a funny nickname.

I am fairly new to this job, too. I used to be a CPA. My wife works in another department and she is incredibly hot. I know, it's hard to believe she's my wife. I'm glad to know you've met her because it's a little awkward to work into a conversation that I'm married to this supremely talented, classy, HOT, HOT woman. I'm already so much more comfortable working with you, now that you know this about me.

My son just took a job in Alaska and my father-in-law who is sick with cancer just moved in with us.

I'm crazy, crazy about antiques and will work 200 hours a week EXCEPT during the Flea Market season- see right here? On this calendar? These are the months I CAN'T work but 180 hours a week. You KNOW any other time, I'd work doubles, triples- You KNOW that about me!

I'm married for a second time to a man who is my true-soul mate. We ride Harleys on the weekend and I have a teenage daughter whose book-bag I rifle through shamelessly. My second husband has never had a real birthday party. I'm going to throw him his first real birthday party!

And you are, who? Feel free to jump in when you've worked it out.








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I have a badge that is supposed to keep track of how much radiation I'm exposed to, but I couldn't find it and lots of people went way out of their way to get me into watch the Swan Ganz procedure and I accidently washed the thing anyway and I don't know if it will work after going through the washing machine and in fact these radio-isotope releasing things are not done that often.

Besides that, I was wearing a lead apron and a lead collar to protect my thyroid gland.

They handed me the syringe that squeezes in the air that floats the balloon from the patient's right atrium to her right ventricle up into the pulmonary artery where they want it to hang out for a while.

It was strange and intense and lots of people were huddled together breathing one another's air. I caught a whiff of the new Fellow of the month's breath. It smelled metallic, which makes me think he's not eating enough- which made me feel slightly sorry for him. I'd about decided he was a poor replacement for last month's fellow, but that metal from his gut stench made me realize how much stress he must be under.

I chewed gum throughout the procedure. Certainly the gum thing can be annoying, but nerves can create some much more annoying smells.

One of the nurses who is experienced and funny, cracked jokes. Another one responded in kind. I wish I could do that, but I have an attention span problem. I have an extraordinarily difficult time joking it up and thinking at the same time.

I have to work on that. I'm turning 36 next month and I've got to get in the game already.

Yep.













]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=6801 I got a call the other evening from my brother Matt. He was on the road. He called me up with that manic, fearless wonderful on the road voice.

“You won't believe . . . . !” static, murmur, interference.

“Oh yeah?” I said. This is my capable of both believing and appreciating anything anyone on the road and/or in transit with something particularly weird and/or great to tell someone voice. (a skill that allows me to live many lives vicariously).

“Ohhh, Yeah!” Matt returns. (this is how those who have a story to tell are wont to respond).

(me) “What, happened?”

(Matty) “Bill Clinton drew me!”.

“Wha-at?!” (me, with sudden picture of skinny Bill Clinton popping in my head and how it is he looks neither healthy nor right with his cheek bones sticking out all over the place).

“Bill Clinton?!” I repeated. “For Real? How did that happen?” (and now I'm envisioning skinny Bill at a Borders Books and my brother Matthew's name drawn out of a hat. Matthew's name was drawn by Bill Clinton and so he got to ask some town square type question- likely inspired by Noam Chomsky. Beside myself, Matty is the only other registered democrat in our family. Noam Chomsky was his inspiration- (linguist/historian) it's been an awkward, slow go, but Matthew really likes words.

Matty, “murmur, static, excitement . . . blah, blah and then Bill Clinton drew me!”

And now it's clear that Bill Clinton met my brother while holding a sketch pad and was inspired in some whimsical way to sketch my brother's portrait.
(and a vision of Bill Clinton playing the saxophone comes to me . . . hmmm, I had no idea he liked to draw, too. I've been irrationally intrigued/irritated by his old-statesman type coziness with George Bush I, but lookit here, he's more complex than I'd ever imagined. Bill Clinton, a frustrated artist, too?).

Did you say BILL CLINTON? I shout over the highway noise. BILL CLINTON . . . DREW YOU?

Matthew laughs and says “no!!! It was murmur static PLYMPTON!”

And I flash on George Plimpton
who I know nothing about except that he's Martha's dad or grandpa or some such thing about then I realize I'm not getting it, I've missing something important and so ask again loud and careful . . . WHERE ARE YOU? . . . WHAT'S HAPPENED?

Matthew had been in Wilmington, NC and had been drawn by his and your favorite cult cartoonist Bill Plympton I know just enough about this guy (through Matthew) to be excited for Matty.

Yay! Matthew!




After the hilarity of the Bill Clinton/Plympton mix up, come to find out while Matthew was visiting friends he was bitten by a dog.

It was one of those petting the cruelly abused, heroically rescued pet of an old college pal. He was gently petting doggy while talking to a friend and the dog flipped into crazed, damaged-goods, rescue pet mode and sunk its teeth into Matthew's hand.

“And then what”? I asked him.

“And then it just looked at me like, ‘what'? and I really wanted to punch it, but I didn't because it's been abused and then Ben got it by the collar and drug it into the other room and told me ‘just send me the doctor's bill”.


“How'd George . . . no, who is it? Bill . . . Plympton end up sketching you?”

“Because I knew the name of the first cartoon he'd ever drawn. He put the question to the audience and I knew the answer."

“Cool! And you're going to the doctor tomorrow, right? How deep is that puncture wound?”

Later the next day I got to say to Matthew “deep tissue damage”- (as in, that's probably why they want to take x-rays- to rule out a possible abscess).

The words “Possible Abscess” and “deep tissue damage” came out of my mouth just a bit too pleased and self congratulatory.

Ick. Sorry.


In case you're interested, my brother Matt and his friends have this cool-o little movie production thing they do.

They've participated in a contest called “One Take Movie Festival” (where movie kids show up and undertake the challenge of creating a movie in 24 hours).

Matty and friends have Placed several years in a row. The company is called “And The Moon Goes" It's weird seeing my brother perform. It's hard to be objective, but I think he's sweetly amazing.

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I have two new heroes Ray Nagin and Gen. Honoree.

I'm sorry lots of horrible stuff happened to make these people known, but at the same time relieved they exist.

I'm also surprised and relieved the media finally figured out why they exist.

Solidad O'Brien's outrage over the fact the networks had more information, sooner than Michael Brown (head of FEMA) claimed to have was true and honest and welcome.

In North Carolina, where I live, people who voted for George W. Bush are appalled, embarrassed and disgusted by his (and the government's) lack of action in helping the people of the gulf coast. This also relieves me.

I've heard and read whispers of “those people”- but that hasn't been the knee jerk majority. Another time I might try to explain my experiences and thoughts on race relations in the south (well America really)- a strange, confusing, heart breaking thing- a thing where very decent white people, people who don't run around with sheets over their heads- suddenly go animalistic and crazed and become convinced that those of darker skin deserve whatever befalls them.

What I've observed/heard in the past hasn't happened this time and that's been something that's made me want to cry.

I don't know what's different or changed, but the white people I know have watched footage of mothers and fathers and babies and old people and they have been moved to tears.

They hear stories of looting and don't roll their eyes murmuring what can you expect from “those people”?

They've heard stories of shootings and raping and think of how frightening it must be for the people trying to survive under such circumstances- they don't say “those people, look at what they do to one another”.
They don't say “they could have gotten out” (with 20 hours notice, no money, no transportation, no where to go).
They don't say “look at those people always waiting for a government hand out”.

They say “This is outrageous.”

They say “I don't know who to be mad at the most.”

They say (in so many words) “These are Americans. Our people!”

And because I've spent the past three years not able to join in with the day to day public opinion expressed by the people around me- people speaking comfortably, knowing that everyone around them agrees (any idiot could see/understand- type expression)- this has been moving and affirming.

Slightly off the subject: I've never felt connected to anywhere I've ever lived. I haven't found where I'm from, where I live, quite yet. I am very, very sorry for the people who have lost their homes. I am so sorry.

Also, I feel reinspired to begin weight lifting. I recall watching and listening to stories about the Tsunami and being especially impressed with the need to be able to run with two kids under each arm. I look at pictures of the folks in New Orleans, trying to survive with their kiddos and my arms get numb and tingly and exhausted just watching.

I've also found myself reading about the doctors and nurses trying to take care of patients without electricity.

Bagging- for days on end? Lordy! When would you decide to give up? At what point would one look into the face of a person who will die if you don't keep squeezing that bag and say “I'm sorry. I'm just too tired to do it any more.”?



Christ.
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I was asked today if I was spending a lot of time on people's chests and just then realized how much more time- at least the intense, scary time with this new job is spent focusing on the place where the docs enter and exit the femoral artery.

No one has called it the “router rooter” treatment- but this is how it seems to me, sending a “snake” on up there for exploration and if required blockage removal.

Kind of, but not exactly, which is likely why no one else calls it that. There are tons of amazing things going on in medicine every day. There have been eons of clever, clever people researching and creating drugs and procedures so now people can do some way crazy amazing things.

For example: it used to be when a person came up from this heart catheterization thing pressure on this femoral artery was applied for hours (the person could not so much as lift their head for six hours.) I haven't seen the sand bags, but I've heard of them. I have seen the clamps they used to use to literally clamp people down to their beds.

Now with the invention of a tiny little patch full of a substance that chemically combines with a person's own blood to create a "plug" that doesn't obstruct the flow of blood inside the body, just to the outside, a person will stop bleeding within 30 minutes and can be allowed to sit up more or less within an hour- if everything works right, which doesn't always happen. Back to the plumbing analogy it seems not unlike attempting to work on a faucet when there's no way to turn off the water.

And here is where things get fairly interesting, for me at least- as clever and complex and so forth medicine is (the human body, too- no doubt), suddenly, out of no where, we're dealing with, duh . . . gravity! Or out of nowhere some of the same ideas used to get the last of the toothpaste out of the tube or make a soda explode when you open it or keep a sand castle just damp enough not to fall apart. It's a little startling the shifting back and forth from text book to playground physics.

Totally off the subject, I'm working in a teaching hospital and I can not believe how young these interns seem. They look like a bunch of third graders playing dress up in their doc outfits- and no disrespect or anything, but they say “cool!” and “Dude!” way too often.

Doogie Houser could be their grand daddy, I know how long ago that was- but I'm pretty sure, even with his squeaky voice cracking all over the place, he never said “awesome!”

I'm going to stop now- except one more thing. I'm not keeping up with news/politics now in the same demented, tortured way so I was just curious- how did that Israeli move out thing come about? Did something specific happen? Or no?

I remember the fall of the Berlin wall and the fall of the Soviet Union as well- way back before the internets, back when foreign countries seemed way too complicated to keep up with, which they still are, but I have no social life so it works out.

I remember those two things seemed to come out of no where. It was like . . . . “worry, angst, strife, fear, no hope, no hope, no hope” and then out of nowhere “ahhhh, well okay”.

Is that how it happened?






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Three years ago I went for a haircut. I went to “Hair Designs” or some such place located conveniently in the Food Lion shopping center.

Awais was four at the time and able to deal with appointments and waiting, but for a limited amount of time.

When I entered, the woman who was to cut my hair appeared to be about to finish up with an old lady sitting in a wheel chair. The woman's late middle age son (50 or so) was standing behind his mother, all up in the hair cutting center. At first I thought this scene was rambunctious and charming; as the hair dresser and the 50 year old were talking “smack” to each other.

As the wait time drug on, I realized this was not your run of the mill trash talk. Even as the entire Hair Salon looked on at what should have been a friendly, only slightly offensive exchange, the son didn't seem to know when to back off.

Everything he said was loaded, clumsily and stick-ishly with sexual innuendo. The hair dresser retorted with what should have been enough attention to make him feel gratified, but also enough bite to put him in his place- but he wasn't getting it.

At some point, as I waited my turn and Awais was getting more and more wound up with the waiting, I saw the son actually back up the hairdresser- in a room full of people, directly in front of his mother, he pinned the hairdresser up against her mirror, whispering in her ear.

She half-screamed/half laughed. To the mother she cried “Lois! Get your boy off of me!”
The old woman said nothing- the people watching laughed uncertainly, not willing to make this not a joke.

It was horrible to watch.

Eventually she got the mother and son out the door and it was my turn. Awais found the “butterfly clips” and was flying/zooming them around the room.

The woman continued being loud and boisterous and flirty- but with a slightly unhinged tone. This is why, when she cut half of the hair on my head and then spun me around to the mirror and said “how's that?” I hastily responded with “just fine, thanks so much”.

I decided at that point I didn't have the time or money for haircuts. My hair grew and I bought first the pin up things and later rubber bands.

I tried drug store brand hair dyes and such in an effort to produce “pretty hair”. And every time I looked in the mirror, regardless of the hair color, I felt like I was wearing a wig.

I got compliments when I made an effort to braid.

For Halloween last year I found a short orange wig that featured a green stalk (my brother said I looked like I was ready for a rave) - I was going out as “Pumpkin”.

I felt more natural in that wig than I did with this grub of hair.

Yesterday – after hitting up no fewer than 3 different hair salons (all closed, times are hard)- I finally busted in to a Fantastic Sam's.

I did not believe I would look more attractive with this hair gone, but I didn't/don't care.

I feel better with less hair. I made a pony tail with the sad remains. It's enough to donate to one of those kids with cancer, wig making places- but only as reinforcement for prettier hair. My hair could “shadow” the better stuff.

I feel better, more myself.

While I was getting my hair cut at Fantastic Sams, a 65 or so looking woman was fussing at the lady who had just cut her hair “NO, my husband does not like shorter hair”.







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I've ordered the Cadillac of stethoscopes. Any Littman is supposed to be vastly superior to any other brand, but my manager said go for the Cardiac II or don't bother.

Thing is I can't find the Cardiac II. It's now the Cardiac III or the Cardiac Grand Master.

I don't want to show up with a stethoscope that will seem wildly too advanced for a beginner, but I'm more afraid of not learning the heart sounds.

Lub Dub is the obvious one. It's the one you will hear with anyone breathing, speaking, “perfusing” along nicely

Take a moment, especially is you've felt a little down lately, if you're wondering where you're going or what it all means- do yourself a favor and congratulate yourself for the fine job you're doing perfusing.

Lub Dub, lub dub, lub dub- (oh, crap I'm late! Lubdublubdublub . . . etc.).

I never get bored with this idea.

Some other sounds I'll need to learn to identify are “whooshes”, “gallops” and "murmers". There's an S3 sound I've read about- I got no idea what that's referring to.

I have listened to heart beats that sounded irregular- something along the line of lub dub lub dub ahh. . lubdub. . . alubbity dub. At times I've felt this at pulse points. If I were to chart it honestly I'd write “there's something funky going on there”.

With my Littman I'm hoping to get more specific. I'm hoping to listen to something and be able to describe it to someone and they will tell me, “that's a gallop”, “that's a valve that's not closing all the way”.

Kind of like what happens with small kids when they're learning colors, when they've learned there are names for different colors- “that's blue”, “that's pink”.

I'm wearing green pants now. From now until things change drastically, I'm hunter or forest green on the bottom.

I've figured out the need to go for an easy access bow tie with the scrub pants. Sure it seems a little chancy, too easy to hook a bow loop on something and suddenly your pants are around your ankles, but the alternative is spending one's break in a bathroom stall, working to untie the forest green pant knot.

I am wearing bright, odd colors on top. I refuse to consider cartoon characters or hearts (I did see a snazzy jacket with pictures of Elvis all over it- but that seems a little too much at the moment).
Green is the new neutral. To make it seem more neutral it seems necessary to pair it with purple and yellow and turquoise t-shirts under jackets patterned with flowers and butterflies with lots and lots of pockets. This is professional dress.

My signature is now a legal seal on a legal document. I've signed it a few times and I still stop and hesitate. All through school we'd sign our name and follow up with a big long cumbersome line of initials that meant we were students and from a particular school. There was never enough room in the box for all those descriptive initials and our status as underlings seemed apparent in how messy and invasive our signatures were.

Now, I sign, “ Me, R.N.” (or maybe it's Me, RN). I've got to remember to find out if I add periods or not.





]]> http://www.happyrobot.net/words/poop_beetle.asp?id=6521 . . . who lives in my head.

John Ball is someone who has lived 37 years and when I say this I don't get frightened for him or whatever idea I have of him, he's made of stuff that has and will age well.

Johnny has this thing he does, and this might be the thing that's especially stayed with me as an idea, an intriguing possibility- this thing where he calls the pace.

I know you live in N.Y. now, where everything's different- but I imagine, whether you realize it or not you're still slowing people down, throwing them off message, making folks pause or hesitate without overt bullying or power games- (although if you've developed some of those, I wouldn't blame you. You have a family now and that will push us all to do whatever we must to protect and defend. Plus it's kind of interesting to test ourselves as protectors- just to see. Plus, if you pause to note and reflect on it and don't feel too glad, only a smidge of surprise and relief over your own empowerment and then more reflection on how wacky that is- it doesn't actually count.). . . . ok, you get to feel some pleasure as well. A little bit- the stretching of father/husband muscles to balance the anxiety and fear is allowed.


You are a romantic character. You are wry. You are hyper and manic and sleepy.

I always liked that.

You are fierce and loyal and if cornered you would bite and kick and punch and spit. You wouldn't like it, although you imagine yourself doing that just to prepare for the day you might have to. You already know you'll feel foolish, and that's another reason you prepare- cost analysis shows it's not worth it to you not to be ready to look silly.

Do you imagine various routs of exit for your family in case there's a fire? I somehow imagine you do.

In addition, I'd like to announce that you're also oddly neat and clean. I imagine you as a momma's boy- but I don't know that for a fact.

You wear your clothes and your space (they don't wear you)- THAT's one of the main reasons I think you will always age well.

I am always interested in everything that happens to you. You don't take anything for granted, nothing just happens to you that you don't live, live with humbleness and awe and whatever birth year you happen to be on- you own them all. You make it all look like accident, but I don't think it is.

Happy Birthday, kid! We're all happy you came about.








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