Concealed Damage

I bought bananas at the grocery store yesterday, lovely firm yellow bananas. Certified by my pals at Dole, these bananas were picture-perfect, not a blemish in site.

I opened one of these ad-worthy fruits, and found concealed damage in the form of disgusting black bruises. How can this be? I wondered. I inspected these bananas and they were flawless. Yet there was no mistake, the dreaded bruise was there and the fate of the banana sealed: in the trash it went.

Before tossing the banana skin, I took a second look to see if there was any evidence of the concealed damage---but NO. I opened a second banana and found the same mysterious bruising, with no mark on the outer yellow casing. What the hell??!!

Have the banana people now developed some mutant fruit, with peel made of impervious space titantium? Or maybe the farmers have 'overbred' banana stock to the point where only the outer appearance counts, inner mush be damned. If so, then the banana now joins the apple in the "misleading package" produce category: you can't pick a good one on sight and expect it to taste decent anymore. The common man, unable to make a proper fruit selection from the produce offerings, will no doubt fall to scurvy.

Dammit.

Food Shortages

Whether or not we all would classify the current Iraq situation as a 'war,' we can certainly agree that there is no war here in Texas. No troops in Dallas, no bombs in Houston, no emergency sirens in Amarillo. And there are definitely no food shortages, although in my house you might think otherwise.

On at least 2 or 3 nights a week, the kids will start battling over a half-full bottle of water. "It's MINE!" the smaller one shrieks, ripping it out of his sister's hand. Water inevitably sprays everywhere, so then she cries "Stop! You're spilling it!" Whoever has possession of the bottle at that point will begin drinking, very leisurely, determined to prolong the moment; the non-drinker is naturally complaining the entire time: "He's using all of it! There won't be any left for me!"

I sigh, because we go through this every time. Be advised, we have in this house not one but two mini-refrigerators filled to the gills with (yes!) WATER. This means the children have easy access to refreshingly delicious cool spring water at any time. That's right---the mini-fridges are not under lock and key, and the kids don't have to ask permission to get water, it's an H2O free-for-all! Beyond the bottle, there are also 11 faucets with mineral-rich tap water on hand for the truly thirsty.

Tonight, they started a new food battle over their perceived rationing of POPCORN. Popcorn was delivered in a single large bowl, and the girl started eating it; the boy at that time wasn't apparently interested. Fifteen minutes and a third of a bowl later, the boy came to life and began screaming "She's eating too much! She's had too much!" Naturally a fistfight ensued, resulting in the popcorn being removed entirely; both kids started in then with the all-purpose complaint "It's not FAIR!"

I commented several times, "There's plenty of popcorn in this house, you don't have to act like it's the last bowl you'll ever see," but they weren't listening. Eventually the girl was convinced that yes, she had had about the right amount, and she agreed to let her brother have some. Delighted, he grabbed the bowl and ate about ten kernels before announcing, "She can have the rest."

I closed my eyes and thought Thank God. And then I heard him say... "Pass me that water bottle over there."

Coffee BRAKE Part 3: Magic Brew

Just when you think the full assortment of breakroom stupidities have been invented and catalogued, some fool comes up with an entirely new variety.

Today, I noticed that the coffee in the main pot seemed almost transparent, so I stepped up to take a closer look. On initial inspection, it seemed as if the "coff-tea" (see my previous blog on that subject) might be making a return appearance; the odor, however, did not suggest tea as a component. Grabbing my cup, I filled it up with the mysterious liquid; with the mug completely full, I could easily see through to the very bottom. This product was even weaker than the dreaded coff-tea!

The pot itself was quite full, almost halfway up the large container. Typically, a single brew will fill the container perhaps a third of the way up; with the small amount of people in the office lately, there is rarely a need for more than one brew cycle to be run, so something was definitely not right here. I pulled out the filter cup to make sure there were grounds in it, and there were: really USED grounds. Like, these coffee grounds looked like they'd been washed over with about 50 gallons of water. The filter itself was partially disintegrated, presumably the result of repeat-brewing erosion.

Why would someone keep brewing the same grounds? I wondered. Then I noticed that there were no filters on the counter, where we usually stack the extras. The coffee itself, being kept in a drawer, would not have been in plain sight either. The coffee machine is an industrial version, with permanent water-line hookups to the wall. With no need to ever manually add water, perhaps a local idiot thought the coffee magically replenished itself as well..??

That must be it. Like some futuristic film-reel from the 1950s might have it, you simply walk into the breakroom and press the button marked BREW. Like magic, the coffee starts pouring out and soon you are kicked back with a fresh cuppa joe! Perhaps the idiot with the happy brew-finger was also wondering why donuts and other treats weren't also magically dispensing from a hole in the wall like they did for cartoon space-dad George Jetson.

Ignorance is breakroom bliss.

Ban Cellphones, Create Autobahn

Why do people drive so slow when they are talking on their cellphones? In the last ten years, there has been a lot of debate about cellpohone usage while driving, but most of the discussion centered around general lack of focus on the road and poor reaction reflexes. Nowhere have I specifically seen below-speed driving as a consequence of cellphone use. BUT IT IS.

Do you notice people 'meandering' down the road during your morning commute, unconcerned about what lane they're in or whether others are constantly passing them? Look for the cellphone, you will find it 9 times out of 10 (the 10th driver is some old lady who probably needs her license pulled). These people are not fumbling around while talking, with their eyes not even facing front half the time (as you see if some of those hidden-video reports); they are calmly driving as if they are the only car on a 25-mph street.

I'm sure these cell-heads don't think they are driving slow: they are like my pot-soaked friends in college, who compensated for their addled state by driving VERY CAREFULLY, presumably to avoid attracting attention from the local police (as if driving 15 mph in a 40 mph zone is unnoticeable).

My original plan was simply to tolerate these idiots, since according to the reports they will all get in wrecks anyway; this is the 'natural sleection' of the cellphone world, you see. Now I might take a more radical approach, like trying to 'jolt' them out of their stupor by driving recklessly all around them. They are considering passing a law here banning the use of cellphones in vehicles, so maybe with that we will have a 1-800-THEY-TALK hotline to call the cops on offenders.

I understand the allure of using the cellphone while driving, since it gives you some sense of productivity during this "downtime." I can even accept some cellphone usage for the morning and evening commutes, when traffic is almost at a standstill anyway. But the rest of the time, STAY OFF THE PHONE or learn to drive better while you're talking! Make sure you are going AT LEAST the speed limit! GET OUT OF THE CENTER LANE!

This might be an example of a technological "advancement" that is degrading our quality of life. At this point I wouldn't mind going back to that time, a least there was some sanctuary in the vehicle and reasonable speed moving you on down the road.

Generic White Businessman

Yesterday a "colleague" stopped by my office unannounced. "Got a minute?" he asked with a big smile. "Sure," I answered, waving him into the empty chair across my desk. This colleague was a white man in his late 30s or early 40s, wearing khaki slacks with a button-down shirt and loafers. There were no classic identifiers---security card, nametag, etc.---in view. As this visitor sat down and started to talk, I began working the mental logic problem of the day: Who Is This Guy?

SIDE NOTE: In my career for a single corporation, I have worked in many different states, regions, and sub-organizations. I have had the opportunity to ‘network’ with thousands of people, who are now seeded coast to coast in various job positions. Many of these people met me under circumstances where they would be far more likely to recognize ME than I would THEM. As a further disadvantage, I routinely have one of the aforementioned identifiers clearly in view as I move through my day, making it simple for almost-strangers to assault me with "Hey, [insert name here], howya doing these days?" as I move from place to place.

Back to my unknown gentleman caller: as the conversation proceeded, I was able to exclude him from certain groups. He’s talking about this office, I thought, so he’s probably not from the Corporate Headquarters out of state. And he’s asking about my plans for the future, so he must know me more than just casually. I still had no clue, but using my long experience with general business-speak, I was able to easily conceal my confusion while keeping my end of the discussion up. OK, he mentioned working at XYZ Corporation in his past life, so that narrows it down to a smaller group of candidates. Nothing came into focus yet. Aha! He mentioned my husband by name, he doesn’t have glasses, he’s talking about something I saw on email yesterday for a certain business subgroup---he must be [insert name]!!! Just in time! He was pretty much done, so I closed with the always-appropriate "Thanks for coming by. I appreciate you thinking of me." And he was gone in a khaki blur.

Then I walked out of my office and asked the guy in the cubicle across the way, "Who the hell was I just talking to for the last 10 minutes?"  It never hurts to get a second opinion.

Counting Sponges

When I was a child, I wanted to grow up and go into medicine. Initially, I thought of being a veterinarian; this fell by the wayside when I thought about the experience of taking care of sick old animals, or putting dogs to sleep. I had a brief period of time where being a plastic surgeon appealed to me: I didn’t plan on doing any ‘vanity’ surgery (too bad, that’s probably where the good money is), I just wanted to work on the accident-mangled and disfigured people who would be eternally grateful just to be put back together again. I gave that dream up as well, realizing I was too lazy to go through all that school and internship just to be the hero who sewed some poor guy’s arm back on. Being a paramedic seemed like a neat option, but I would get irritated by people calling 911 just because they want a ‘ride’ to the emergency room (thanks, Medicare). Dreams be gone, for I am now part of a universal medical society: Discovery-Health channel junkies.

My satellite dish actually provides me with multiple channels offering medical shows. I can watch paramedics and emergency rooms in action, follow new residents through their first year, check in with a City Medical Examiner in the morgue, and be a high-definition observer to numerous grisly operations. There are even ‘specialty’ series, like the shows They Swallowed WHAT?! (x-rays and surgeries of folk who ingested giant fishhooks or broken glass) and Survival Stories (gruesome recreations of freak accidents, like the hunter who fell face-first on a pitchfork he was toting through the woods). Through the miracle of the small southern-facing dish on my rooftop, I can enjoy this programming 24 hours a day, 7 days a week including holidays!

Everyone on these shows seems to really be a good sport about even the worst jobs: fighting off a vomit-spewing drunk, arguing with patients who are demanding to be checked out despite life-threatening injuries, telling a family that their kid didn’t survive a joyriding car crash. Doctors, nurses, paramedics, orderlies---they all seem to be having actual fun during their exhausting million-hour shifts.

So: I’m too late to start at the beginning with my medical career (right, there was one TV guy who said he never even started medical school until he was 40, but I still say this is a young single man’s game), and I don’t really like comforting sick people. Recall, I was specifically targeting the trauma-surgeon role in my youth since by definition their bedside manner doesn’t matter that much (when your head’s split open and there’s one on-call surgeon, who cares if he’s "nice"?). I like blood and gore and excitement, surely there’s some hospital job I can get that doesn’t require years of training…?

AHA! Through an odd twist of fate (American Airlines encouraging me to cash in unused frequent-flier miles for bizarre magazine subscriptions), I find myself browsing an issue of Nursing 2005 one lunch hour: there I see an employment ad for SURGICAL TECHNOLOGISTS. I can’t be sure of exactly what it is since the ad is a little vague, but I see that you only need a year of certification for this operating-room role.

My research soon reveals that the Surgical Technologist is a sort of "droid" of the operating room: help the doctor put on gloves and gowns, open doors and move stuff around, hand instruments to nurses who hand them to doctors, and the like. Most exciting are the critical inventory procedures, where they count sponges and hemostats and bandages before and after the operation: this apparently ensures that no little ‘bonus’ items are sewed up in the patients. Since Surgical Techs don’t care for patients directly, their training consists mostly of classes on sterile procedures, identification of medical tools, and knowledge of medical terminology.

Hmmm. 1 year of training + short internship – patient contact = blood and surgery fun fun FUN! (And dressing every day in those comfy scrub-outfits is a bonus.) If I’m lucky, I’ll find an online education option where I can get most of my training done from the luxury of my own home!

Look for me in 5 years or so, on the Discovery reality series, O.R. Confessions: What Really Goes on While the Patient’s Lights are Out.

Daylight Saving HELL

I hate Daylight Saving Time. To be more specific, my whole family hates Daylight Saving Time: me, him, kids, all the way down to the dog. It is springtime, which means of course we were forced to "spring forward" an hour last weekend. But I also won’t say I’m a fan of "falling back" the hour later in the year.

Someone needs to explain to architects and new-home builders that Daylight Saving Time exists, because they seem to design houses as if it does not: gigantic walls of windows let in the blazing "extra" daylight to scald us in the morning and slowly bake us in the evening the rest of the year. In our old house, the afternoon sun during some months would literally melt candles and candies left on the kitchen counter. One sad October, we made the fatal error of leaving our freshly-carved jack o’ lanterns in the path of the fiery sunbeams: in 2 days flat they had decomposed into mold-filled fright fests. The final insult came when we removed our custom-made area rugs to sell the house, only to find the jagged "amoeba" pattern burned onto the hardwood floor (DST atomic fallout, perhaps).

For weeks after we are told to change our clocks for DST, the kids drag around the house every evening, resisting bedtime "because it’s still light out." In the morning, we have to bang a gong to get them out of bed and dressed for school. Even the dog participates in this lie-in protest, refusing to get off her cushion for the usual morning romp in the yard. I, of course, have to put on a sunny face for all these activities (even though I am even more miserable than they are, since I was never a ‘morning’ person to begin with).

To complicate matters of a practical nature, there is the issue of the CLOCKS. We have a lot of clocks in the house---at least one in every room---as well as clocks on various appliances and electronic items. (Watches of course also need to be set, but I say that falls upon the wearer alone.) We slowly make the rounds, upstairs downstairs here and there and everywhere…until only HE is left to do: the giant wall-clock known as BRAVUR.

BRAVUR is so named not by us, but by IKEA, his store of origin. (Everything in IKEA has an odd Swedish name.) He is 2 feet in size, a cool white circle with a black edge. Think of the plain old clocks that once graced the hallowed halls of public-school gymnasiums across the USA--- those fine timepieces could have been the tender cousins of BRAVUR.

BRAVUR is always a pain when it comes to DST, because he is hung 20 feet in the air on a prominent wall. This is great from a design standpoint, because typically he can be seen from upstairs and downstairs, several rooms and landings having a clear view of his obvious face. When the dreaded DST comes to town, BRAVUR’s placement makes him by definition the last clock in the house to be re-set; for days---weeks, if we are truly lazy---we must perform a mental one-hour adjustment for poor BRAVUR.

Eventually the giant extendable ladder is brought in from the garage and someone (hopefully not me this year) teeters up the aluminum steps to the dizzying world of BRAVUR. Balancing carefully on the ladder, the unlucky person then must 1) remove BRAVUR from the wall, 2) adjust the hands, and 3) hang and center him back on his nail. Not a task for those with a fear of either heights (batophobia) or clocks (chronomentrophobia).

We have, of course, considered leaving BRAVUR as is---he could be the Arizona of the clock-world! Once Spring melts into summer and then fall, he’ll be right in line with the official laws of the land again (thanks for nothing, President Lyndon Johnson). Now that our daughter is old enough to tell time, though, it might be considered a sort of DST-abuse to leave the main clock in the house maladjusted…or would it?