Saturday, October 19, 2013

Postcards


Carrie Fischer wrote a lovely novel called Postcards From The Edge. Occasionally I steal that idea, as well as a phrase used once on Will and Grace "You look like an insane housewife from one of the square states."

Together they create "Postcards From A Square State Mom". Which, for a while, was what I called random email posts. Back when "mom" was what I did with most of my time. Before I added "teacher" to my lengthy hyphenated title. Anyway, it gives me an excuse to write in non sequitors.

 As we were driving to our condo yesterday, Jim asked if he was turning on the correct road. I said "Yes, it's  by the hospital". Because when you have children and you are staying out of town, you know where the nearest emergency room is.

  Lucky for us we have managed to avoid out of town emergency room visits. But driving by the glowing EMERGENCY sign brought back a memory of my own, an "emergency" room at Littleton Porter Adventist Joke Building.

  Almost sixteen years ago I blew my MCL and ACL while skiing in Loveland. The girls were babies---Harp was only 4 months old and G was almost two years old. I have never been a skier. I skied because Jim skied and I wanted to spend time with Jim. I was never very good at it, and unlike when I am rollerblading I took my sweet time, toddling along, chatting with the bunnies and enjoying the scenery. Nonetheless, I still managed to snap ligaments right in half. They sound like gunshots when they go off.

  I had a lovely schlep down the mountain being toggled along behind a Rescue Skier, bound up like a mummy and annoyed as hell. Also there was pain, my knee hurt.

   For some weird reason, when we came back into town the Littleton Porter Joke Hospital was where we went. I think it was because the Real Porter on Downing is such a great hospital and we'd had  success there when my appendix e'sploded, we thought these guys would be equally as magnificent and they were right off of C470.

    The emergency room was a regular  office type waiting room, square and carpeted and quiet. There was a guy before me, and then me. There was no "emergency" in the receptionist's demeanor, and I sat quietly with my leg packed in ice and waited my turn. As Jim and I sat  alone (once the guy before went in), a mom and her son came blasting in the doors. She was out of breath, and her son's hand was held high in a bloody towel. I was surprised at first at her Emergency entrance, I had forgotten that I was not in a regular doctor's office. She babbled to the receptionist about her son slamming his finger in a filing cabinet (maybe?) at school. The kid was trying to hold it together but he was in a lot of pain, and he was bleeding in what seemed to me to be an Emergency Type Manner, and the mom was beside herself.

    And the receptionist could not be moved out of her current speed of "Who Gives A Crap?"

   As it was an emergency room, I couldn't help but be confused by the fact that they made the mom and boy sit down and wait. There was literally nobody in the place but me, and adult with a semi emergency, and it did say "EMERGENCY" clearly on the door. The Hell?

     As the mom sat trying to calm her son's crying, Jim and I sat rather dumbfounded at the Utter Lack of Emergency Behavior that was happening.

     After what seemed like an eternity, the receptionist came out and called my name and said "You're next."

   I looked at Jim and the same thought crossed our eyes "The fuck I am."

   I shook my head and pointed at the bleeding boy. "He's first."

   The receptionist actually looked annoyed, then shrugged her shoulders.

   The mom lost what little control she had left and started weeping. She thanked me as she ushered her shattered son into the back room, where I can only suspect there were doctors. Based on the waiting room I began to wonder if there were just shoemakers back there.

  The mom made me feel heroic, which was not okay. She and the boy should have been taken back immediately, without question, without paperwork or discussion or waiting.

   I'm just saying. The Hell?
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Thursday, October 10, 2013

48

 Tonight at 10.10 pm I will be 48 years old.

 Every year I receive a large amount of Facebook Happy Birthday posts, and every year I am surprised that anyone remembers my birthday.

 And then I remember that Facebook harasses you into remembering birthdays. You are reminded , weeks ahead of time and  reminded and reminded and reminded....
 
   So I don't believe it is that so many people remember my birthday as it is that so many people are reminded it's my birthday. I have two friends in Canada who are not on Facebook who remember every year. I find the fact that they remember my birthday without a daily Facebook prompt to be impressive.

 I, on the other hand, am terrible about remembering birthdays without Facebook. My dear Canadian friends remember my birthday without fail, and all I can manage is that theirs are both in January. Or maybe one in January and the other in February. I send a card or note Mid January that generally covers Birthday Month(s) Love kryssi The Douchebag. Because I truly cannot remember dates.

  I blame my dyslexia, because I am an American and surely this cannot be my fault. Numbers swim and dance and turn on their heads and switch places, it's virtually impossible for me to remember a date of any kind, except the year Shakespeare died because A) it's repetitive and B) it was my address on South Grant Street.

  My particular brand of rude is uniquely disrespectful, as I have spent many birthdays depressed and sad that nobody -except my family-remembered it was my birthday.

  Make no mistake, I set it up that way. I never actually told people when my birthday was. I thought that was pushy and needy. So I wouldn't give anyone my birthdate but I would then spin out in depression when nobody magically knew it was my birthday. See how I set that up? Genius!

 That brilliant ploy was destroyed when I signed up for a Facebook. I didn't realize that they would log my birthday into the Facebook Internet Place In Space and pull it up every year, popping in on my friends and reminding them that if they do not leave a salutation on my wall they are not good friends.

  Strangely, I am not opposed to this practice. In the last few years I have discovered that I enjoy having people post Happy Birthday on my wall, or hurling adjectives or even sending a message. It's positively...positive. I am unfamiliar with that notion. But I am slowly becoming accustomed to it .

 I also uncovered a deep seeded joy in being reminded of others' birthdays. I like typing "happy happy joy joy" on various walls, and remembering a moment or a phrase that the person and I shared. It's nice.

  And I hope that when they post a simple "Happy Birthday" on my wall, the same thing happens for them. They remember a moment, hear my voice in their head or smile at the remembered image of me flopping around on stage or waving my arms or falling on my ass in the mud. 'cause that's a thing that happened. The dog pulled too hard on his leash and it broke. It Was Not Amusing.

  I like to say I keep Facebook because it's the only way to retrieve show photos, or to keep in touch with people who are in other states--but NOT other countries because Brad and Dawn refuse to play. But I think I keep it so that once a year, 40 people or so fly by my wall and remember me, and say "hi".

    It really is all about me! Who knew?