"In the Border"

So Phil 'n' I will be going to Canada this weekend to follow the Admirals around for a few games. Just a fun lil 2010 roadtrip to ring in the new year. Which is awesome. We're hoping to meet up with DitchDoc as well, God willing!!

So naturally I gave T-mobile a ring this afternoon to find out how much I'm charged per minute for Canadian calls because I really don't know other than that it's something. What a joke that was. I called, explained that I would be driving to Canada, and politely asked my customer service rep how much I'm charged, per minute, for calls made to Canada and calls made to the US from Canada. His response? "Oh, you're driving there? Well you're just charged for normal minutes, cuz you're in the border." That... did not make sense to me. "In" the border? What the? So I acknowledge that I do not know what that means and asked for clarification. So he responds "Well you know, if you're calling either the US or Canada from in the border there is no additional fee." Still got nothing. I'm confused... is this coming up because I live IN a state that borders Canada? Don't see how that should matter... so right. I ask again. "No, no. That doesn't matter. You just don't pay any additional fee so long as you're in the border." He's not cute anymore: "Where IS in the border?" He starts faltering, then comes out with "You know, the line. Between Canada and the U.S...."

I'm a little disgruntled. So basically he was telling me that I just spent 10 minutes of my time having him totally misrepresent how "I'd only be charged normal minutes" during my trip.... by leaving out the part that it's only AS I'M CROSSING THE FREAKING BORDER. I finally got him to spit out a number and that it's 20 cents per minute extra for when I'm either in the U.S. or Canada, but whatever. That's just ridiculous. What a slime ball, with his tricky prepositions.

Why I don't smoke outside my apartment

Me: *puff puff* *puff puff*
CreepyDude: Hey. You got a cigarette?
Me: No, sorry. I roll my own and only brought one.
CreepyDude: Well then give me a drag of yours...
Me: Uhh. You want me to give you the cigarette that was just in my mouth, let you put it in YOUR mouth, and then take it back...??
CreepyDude: Yeah
Me: Yeah, that's not going to happen.
CreepyDude: Well why the hell not? The F***'s wrong with you? (getting disproportionately pissy)
Me: I don't share things I put in my mouth with random men off the street.
CreepyDude: *protesting as if it's open for discussion*
Me: We're through talking here. (partially turns away, while feeling in pocket for pepperspray)
CreepyDude: *grumbletalkingtohimselfashewalksaway*


I do not like how mean I am with strangers around here. But I like even less being taken advantage of by bossy creepy dudes who feel entitled to what I have. Screw that. So I choose aversion: no more smoking out front.

"Men" and "Ladies" is quite sufficient. We don't need to make it all cute-sy. And other things.

So this last Sunday Phil and I went to Holy Hill for Mass after I got off of a 12 hour work shift. It was pretty cool. On the way up we passed a hand-painted sign out in front of a house saying:

"Eleven kids. No Health Insurance. And we do NOT want help from the Government."

Rock on. We hung out up at Holy Hill for an hour before Mass. Got to remember stuff from over a decade ago when I'd walked there on a pilgrimage. Things are much further apart on foot. Strolled the grounds. Checked out the view. Admired the windmills from 25 miles away (location in relation to Holy Hill verified by Phil on googlemaps after the fact cuz he rocks like that). Mass was fantastic. Father Jorge with the awesome beard translated for a visiting priest from Nicaragua. His impressive hand-gestures and accent alone had us sold. The beard sealed the deal. Managed not to doze off, as it commonly our problem on Sunday mornings because we work 3rd shift. I've largely become an afternoon/evening churchgoer as a consequence.

At any rate, on our way home we stopped at the Fox & Hounds Restaurant for Sunday brunch. Had a mojito. Some good food. Good conversation. Excellent company. Coffee afterwards. It was great. But I'd been having some stomach problems (sigh.) the night before and had been up quite a long time at this point and was getting tired. We were about to leave when I felt that horrible gurgling in my tummy that meant I had to get to a bathroom fast. So I make for the restrooms which were conveniently located down a flight of stairs. I get to the bathrooms and there are two doors. One says "Foxes," the other says "Hounds."

Now I realize for a normal person there wouldn't be much question as to which restroom they were intended to use. I just get a little funny-off in my head sometimes. I somehow COMPLETELY forgot that bathrooms are separated according to sex. The panicked internal conversation I had as I did my little dance standing dumbfounded outside these doors went something like this:

"Well that's just great." (vague remembrance of there being some crappy situation like this at outback steakhouse, quickly abandoned by being unable to remember what the heck to word those aussies used for ladies was) Then refocusing, I tried to determine which door was meant for me, knowing choosing the wrong one would go over badly. "Foxes are clever, and so am I. I must be a fox. But I'm pretty respectable, too (glancing longingly at the Hounds door)... sometimes..." But then, "But wait... liberals are clever. Maybe it's a trick. I'm a conservative Hound. darn liberals and their tricky doors." Scoffing. But then, "Hold on... Hounds are brown and foxes are red. Brown's a boy color and red's a girl color. Maybe I've got this all wrong." With that I chose red over brown and rushed in on account of another, much more pressing gurgle. The crazy part is I didn't ACTUALLY fully get it until I was already finished up in my stall... and it dawned on me, "Ohhhh. 'FOXy lady.' Right." The whole thing was rather distressing.

I could just acknowledge personal ridiculousness, but I think the more important issue here is that these places need to stop trying to make bathrooms all cute-sy. It's not cute. And the use of facilities can be a pretty pressing emergency. These are hardly times when one wants to be trying to compare themselves to random animals to figure out which one they're more like. The room men use should be labeled "MEN" and the room women use should be labeled "WOMEN" or "LADIES". Either will do. But none of this fox and hound garbage. There is nothing "foxy" or glamorous about peeing on a seat. Or worse. So give it a rest.

Other than that it was nice place for Sunday brunch, though. They had little old men drinking beer out of small glasses. There's nothing not to like about that...

Maggie Musings

The other day while dozing off on the couch, my dazed, pre-sleep brain was contemplating how to wrap my birthday presents for Phil.

At first, I was thinking to wrap them all separately... but then I had vague apprehensions along the lines of it maybe coming across as too much cuz I know he's not that into the whole birthday thing. But then, all sleepy and what-not I thought, "But if I put them all in the same box, and he shakes it, then something might break." But then another me countered, "You dork, nothing in that package is breakable!" Chimes another me, "But if I put an egg in it, THAT'D sure teach him to shake his birthday presents. Hehe... sucker."

Then I forgot all about Phil and his upcoming birthday, and got lost in wishes of having a friend who compulsively shook all of his/her presents. As a practical joke I would wrap a box with dozens of loose raw eggs in it, JUST so that when they shook it I could jump in and say, "AHA!! That'll teach YOU to try an' count your chickens before they're hatched!" And then I peacefully dozed off with a smile upon my lips.

Reality check

So I was a sitter at work the other night. When the Old Lady I was keeping an eye on 1-on-1 woke up in the middle in the night and was clearly disoriented, I asked her a couple questions to determine just how much so. Her responses were as follows:

M: Do you know where you are?
OL: Halloween.
M: ... Do you know what year it is?
OL: .... *long pause, trying very hard*... the year 32 hundred...
M: Do you know what month?
OL: Christmas!
M: Can you tell me your name?
OL: Mary.

Her name was not Mary. Straight up 0 for 4. She was cute, though.

Earnin' My Keep

This one old man at work really cracked me up. He was in his 90s, a WWII vet, former B17 Bomber instructor, and incredibly disoriented after his surgery. He needed a "sitter" (someone who stays in the room with him 24-7 to prevent him from pulling out his IV, catheter, etc.) so I got to spend a lot of time with him the week he was there.

Despite having a sitter, he also needed wrist restraints, because he was so nimble- and good for him considering his age. This was particularly unfortunate, though, because despite how soft our restraints are (padded wrist bands with straps attached to them), it's always still incredibly frustrating to be restrained, and especially so if you're disoriented.

On my first night there, he had no idea where he was. He would just yell "NINE. ONE. ONE." at the top of his lungs and at 5 second intervals. FOR HOURS. Granted, it got confused. Sometimes it would morph into "STAR. NINE. ONE. ONE." And occasionally you could coax him into talking about his life, so long as it wasn't anything recent. Like talking about B17 Bombers. I found if I said B19 Bombers by accident that would provoke conversation in a hurry. I also got him to tell me what year he was born in, and that changed the chant to "NINE. TEEN. ONE. ONE." Occasionally it would be "STAR. SIX. SEVEN." I asked him who he he wanted to call once, and he said he needed medical assistance and they should send an ambulance. I told him he was at a hospital- the same hospital the ambulance would have taken him to. He turned to glare. Silence. Then, "I meant the police. To arrest YOU, ya damn broad. Keepin' me shackled in here. What'd I ever do to YOU??" 911 chant resumes. All night. That was the most conversation I got out of him. He never stopped his chanting for more than 10 minutes. Later I asked who he was trying to call again, simply cuz I was starting to go insane from the chanting, and he responds, "uhh... EVVVERYONE!!!"

On my second night with him he had been on a hunger strike for 3 days. He thought he was in some sort of prison at first while he was really out of it on the meds, and not eating was his only way of 'fighting back.' But he caved my second night. He asked me for a ham and cheese sandwich. So I went and ordered him one from the kitchen 11 floors beneath us. It took forever to come, which is really sad cuz it was just ham and cheese slapped on some bread, y'know? But anyways, when it got there I heated it up for him because he made a huge point of insisting that nothing he ate or drank could be cold OR hot- it had to be "precisely room temperature." Okey dokey. So I brought it to him, he takes a bite, and then spits it out all over himself and says "you damn broad, some wife YOU'LL make, lady! Ya can't even make a decent sandwhich!!" and refuses to eat anymore. I tried switching up the temp, but it was no good. He'd already decided anything I did was worthless, and that set the tone for the that night.

Aside from "my cooking" another thing he was particularly displeased with were the hand restraints, that he referred to as his "shackles." He would oscillate between cursing me for shackling him, and imploring me to release him. At one point, he softly started calling out to me:

"Hey, lady. Laaaady. Lady?"
"Yes, Philip?"
"Why do you have me shackled like this?? I'm willing to cooperate with you"
"Well, your doctor ordered them because he kept pulling out your IV and catheter tubes--"
"But I'm not!! I never did that! I mean I wouldn't. I'm ready to cooperate with you now. Please, lady! Please let me out! Ya gotta help me!"

So I called his nurse and got permission to "unshackle him" temporarily so he wouldn't panic, as long as I stood immediately next to him ready to restrain him again should he go for his tubes.

So I "unshackle him". There's a moment's pause as he confirms his freedom. Then..

"SHACKLE ME WILL YA?!?? I'll teach YOU a lesson, Lady!! No one holds ME down!!" As he starts punching me in the side as hard as he could.. hahaha... I won't lie, I actually had bruises on my side from a man in his 90s, but damn was it worth it... it was bizarrely humorous, PLUS he got out all his angst.

I restrained him again.

Philip: Why'd you shackle me again?
Me: Uhh... you were just hitting me, Philip!
Philip: Hahha.. yeah. I showed you.
Me: Yes you did.

After that, we got along famously.

The next night the nurse repositioned him in bed at one point. He'd been insisting that his arm was completely numb and he couldn't feel anything in it-- but then he would complain about how icy her damn hands were. Once she left he started moaning, so I asked him what was wrong. He wouldn't answer. Minutes passed. Still moaning. Still wouldn't identify the source of his discomfort. So I asked him where it hurt again.

Philip: Down there. *nods towards groin*
Me: Is it internal, or how you're sitting?
Philip: HOW I'M SITTING!
Me: Do you want me to--
Philip: NO. No, no.. just move me, lady.
Me: Okay, how do you want me to move you?
Philip: Uhh... push on my feet.
Me: ? Err... okay.

As I push on his feet, he tries to raise his hips and free himself, something which I could have done in an instant, but he clearly was uncomfortable with that, so okay. He is wailing in pain. It's not working. And he starts SCREAMING "AHHH!!! MY TESTICLES!!" He gives me permission to "free" him. I do. Then, as he gasps for air, he goes "You're a damn fine broad. A damn fine broad." Nice.

We often asked people who are confused basic questions, like if they know where they are, geared at determining how alert they are.

Me: Do you know where you are, Philip?
Philip: *states full name of medical facility*
Me: That's right.
Philip: But can YOU tell ME this?? Who FOUNDED this hospital? Everyone knows what it's called, but not ONE of you people can tell me who founded it!!
Me: 'Fraid I don't know either.
Philip: *shaking his head in disapproval* No respect...


The next night he's out of restraints and eating when I come in.

Me: Hey, look at you!! You look like you're doing much better!
Philip: *smiling broadly* Yup! They took off my shackles!! (lowering his voice, in confidence) I'm earnin' my keep now!

A Winter Prophecy

Sitting on the sofa. Minding my own business. Researching. Silent clickety-click of computer keys.

Matt's voice.

"It's coming you know. The hour of apocalypse."

Glance over at him with awkward skepticism.

"The snow parking disaster. The snow parking apocalypse.

I don't know what we're going to do.

In those bleak days young men will see visions. Old men will dream dreams. Many of those old men will not survive the journey back to their apartments from their parking spots.

Look out there. It's bleak."

I look. We look.

"Look out there. Way out there is probably where we might be able to find parking."

Silence.

Matt's voice.

"Do you have a window scraper?"
"yeah."
"Do you have two?"
Exchange of a glance.
A sigh.
Silence conquers.