A More Patient Patient

Back when Husband and I were young and newly wed and starry-eyed just to be in each other's presence, my beloved ran every morning before work. I'd hear the door to our little house in the Big City close, and then he would stretch out next to the garbage cans before setting off on his route.

Except for one morning, when the I heard the door close, then a thud, then the sound of something being dragged across the porch. The dragging sound turned out to be Husband pulling his own body across the porch. He was not dead, but for the next few days he was not sure that this might not have been a better alternative: As he bent to stretch his notoriously tight back muscles had rebelled and the ensuing spasm pain felled him as instantly as if he'd been clubbed over the head.

This was the first time I had the opportunity to prove what a wonderful nurse I could be so I immediately called my boss and told her I would be unavailable to proofread the college catalog that day, because my Husband needed me. I lovingly supported my poor sweetie as he limped into the house and helped him change out of his running clothes and into a comfy velour (it was the early '80s) sweatsuit. Then I called the doctor, drove to the pharmacist for muscle relaxants, pulled out the sofa bed so Husband could be near me as he slept, and made sure he had the television remote control in case he woke up and was bored.

A few hours later the pain medication had kicked in enough that I took my proofreading to the back bedroom so I could work as Husband slept. It was then that I heard a pathetic voice from the living room.

"Honey? Honey? Are you there?"

"Yes, Husband, I'm here!"

"Could you bring me a mirror, please?" Husband's confident baritone had been reduced to a sad whisper. But what might he need with a mirror? Had he injured something when he fell on the porch? Was there maybe a bone sticking out?

I grabbed a hand mirror and rushed for the living room, where I found Husband sitting up in his convalescent couch.

He took the mirror, held it at an angle juuuuust so, and announced "Look! I can bounce the remote signal off all four walls and still get the television to go on!"

I looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then I got in the car and went back to my office.

I tell that story to explain why I had been anticipating Husband's surgery yesterday with more than a little apprehension. In normal times he's the most stoic person I know--those notoriously tight back muscles I mentioned? They're the pits, and I don't even notice the bad days until I see that the tips of his ears have gone white. But as a patient? Well, let's just say it's a good thing I was the designated birther in the family or Boy#1 would have been an only child.

The surgery was not completely unexpected (many, I would venture to say most) manly men who lift heavy objects have it at some point in their lives, especially if their notoriously tight back muscles sometimes interfere with proper lifting techniques. But in the weeks leading up to the scheduled operaiton I did not look forward to being the home health aide to this recuperating man.

Today, 24 hours later, I am pleased to announce that all went well, and that Husband is being about the best patient I could imagine. No excessive pain, no whining, and no requests for hand mirrors make for a pretty boring blog post, but I'm not complaining.

Also, thank you, Percocet.

^;;^ (That's a Spider)

From here

Are you sick of me talking about how wonderful my Much Older Sister is? Yes? No? Well, I don't care, because you're going to hear about her one more time today.

During our weekend at the convention during which MOS worked her fingers to the bone and I ate breakfast in the bathtub, we found that humans aren't the only ones who think she is the bomb and someone to get to know better. Arachnids apparently find her irresistible as well.

My sister went home from the convention with a brown recluse spider bite.

I know! We shared a room and bathroom (and I was in the room about 400 percent more time than she was), went to all the same places, wore basically the same type of clothes (although I wore mostly skirts and she wore mostly slacks) and still I came home unbitten and she went home with a dime-sized bite behind her knee that got worse and worse until she visited a doctor and found she had been nibbled by this innocuous-looking but dangerous beast.

Please, do not Google "brown recluse spider bite." The resulting images will scar your retinas, making it impossible to be sure that it's just Charlotte building a web in the corner and not something far more ominous. Bistatepestcontrol.com is responsible for the picture of a penny and spider that illustrates this post, and also gives the following advice on identifying a brown recluse:

These spiders usually have markings on the dorsal side of their cephalothorax, with a black line coming from it that looks like a violin with the neck of the violin pointing to the rear of the spider, resulting in the nicknames fiddleback spider, brown fiddler or violin spider. Since the violin pattern is not diagnostic, and other spiders may have similar markings (such as cellar spiders and pirate spiders), for more assurance in identification it is imperative to examine the eyes. Most spiders have eight eyes; recluse spiders have six eyes arranged in pairs (dyads) with one median pair and two lateral pairs.

Well, that's a relief. Now I can can check the cephalothorax for a violin and count the pairs of eyes to make sure I properly identify the assassin spider before I run shrieking from the room, flailing around and trying to whap every bug I see with a flip-flop. Or I can just hang around with my sister, and assume they'll bite her instead of me.

Obviously, she's much sweeter. 

Beware, Apostrophates!

Bing wouldn't tell me where this originated, so if you're the original owner, thank you!

Yesterday the preacher began his sermon saying he was going to talk about apostasy. Well, that perked my ears right up, and I had a internal snit-fit in which I said things to myself such as "Finally! Someone is going to straighten out our terrible punctuation habits once and for all!" and "I hope he really comes down hard on the difference between the possessive 'its' and the contraction 'it's," before I realize he was not referring to apostrophes and concluded my snit-fit with a Miss Emily Litella moment:

Apostasy, as I now know because I listened to the sermon, refers to the abandonment of a religious or political belief. An apostrophe, of course, is the punctuation mark we use upon the abandonment of COMMON SENSE AND REASON.

Ahem. I'm so sorry. I may be more Rosanne Rosannadanna than Emily Litella. (Although was Gilda Radner the funniest person, perhaps ever?)

But it annoys me beyond reason when I see apostrophes misused when they are perhaps the easiest of punctuation marks to use, or at least among the three easiest, and many grown-up intelligent human beings act as if they're splitting the atom when they have to decide whether to use one.

Are you one of those people? Okay, then, here are two easy rules for apostrophes, and if you always apply them you will be right most of the time.

1. Are you making two words into one word? Put an apostrophe in the space you are leaving out the spare letters before you slam the two parts together. It is=It's. She is=She's. They are=They're. Will not=Won't (which admittedly is slightly more complicated, but you get the idea).
2. Can you replace the apostrophe you want to use with the word "of"? Go ahead and throw it in. Carol's Volkswagen=the Volkswagen of Carol. Sheila's questionnaire=the questionnaire of Sheila. Frank's mustard=the mustard of Frank. (Except for the possessive its, which is a special snowflake. Memorize this: The possessive 'its' does NOT have an apostrophe.)

That's it. Those are the only two questions you need to ask. There will be occasional exceptions to these rules, but not enough that you won't look fairly competent in using apostrophes. You will not make hysteria-inducing mistakes such as INDICATING A PLURAL BY INSERTING AN APOSTROPHE.

I'm so sorry for shouting, again, but heavenly days, people, what have we come to?

And thank you!

Two words into one? Open of Sunday? I think not! Out, errant apostrophe! Or this:

And also thank you!

Two words into one? Greek of cheese? Nope and nope.

I have more than half-seriously proposed a tax on apostrophes, so that we would stop flinging them around with such wild abandon. So far it has not been adopted by our state legislature, but I bet if we had to pay a surcharge on each one (say a dollar a pop?) we'd think twice before throwing one in a word just for ornamentation. Also it could completely solve the state's budget issues.

Until that happens, I will leave searching for apostasy and apostates to persons holier than I. I'm going after apostrophes and apostrophates.

A New Record

One of the many, many perks of being the Much Younger Sister of my Much Older Sister is that I've pretty much skated through life as the tail to her kite, wafting along on the breezes without having to do any of the work. That's certainly the case this weekend when I have been her roommate at a big convention.

I have a very (very) minor role at the convention but MOS is one of the Big Wigs. This means not only does she have to work from way before dawn to way after dark, her hair always looks great.

No, no, that's not what it means--that was suposed to be funny, because I called her a Big Wig. Although her hair does look great this weekend. What it really means is that she gets the Big Suite the Big Hotel comps the Big Wigs who do all the work on the convention. The only catch is that the second room of the Big Suite is used for board meetings and guest speaker getaways, but that's not a problem because those events happen during parts of the day Much Older Sister is occupied elsewhere.

And who is MOS's roommate? Yes! The tail of the kite gets all the perks without the work, remember? (Also, I may make that my life motto. All the perks without the work.)

Anyway, this morning my meetings didn't start until later than my sister's, and when I woke up she had left me a fresh-brewed pot of coffee and a sausage McMuffin, because did I mention she's the nicest person in the world? For two days I had been eyeing the Jacuzzi, which is the kind I always see with envy on HGTV but never have the opportunity to try. I had an extra hour before my meeting, fresh coffee, a good book (which I own so it doesn't matter if it falls in the water)....

Breakfast in bath turns out to be so, so much better than breakfast in bed, because there's not the pesky crumb issue when you're done.

However, when you hear a tap on the door, then the sound of the pass-key clicking in the lock, then the sound of someone saying "Hello? Banquet services!" you discover in the mirror beside the tub that your face can look exactly like Lucy's when Ricky calls "Lucy, I'm hoooome!"

And that's how I found out just how quickly I can go from wet to dry to dressed: Three minutes flat.

It's a new record.

I Wasn't Talking About You

The upside of a blog is that it's short and doesn't take long to read or, usually, to write. I normally don't spend a ton of time composing and editing and polishing and shining the jewels of wisdom that I drop into this space. The downside of a blog is that sometimes you, my dear reader, may get hit over the head with a jewel so unpolished it more closely resembles a hammer than a diamond. 

I'm so sorry! I wasn't talking about you!

If you were offended because I expressed irritation at parents who appear completely tone deaf to the disturbance they and their kids cause during solemn occasions, I apologize. I wasn't looking at you when I said that. I know you are trying to teach your children how to behave in this kind of occasion, and you can't do that unless you are AT this kind of occasion. I know you have prepped your children in advance that this is a Quiet Place, and a Sit Still place, and you have age-appropriate quiet activities in your bag that you distribute during the age-appropriately boring sections of the occasion.

(Although, if you are letting your child jump on the pew beside you without making it a teaching moment and firmly returning said child's fee to the floor, I'm looking at you.)

My feelings on this are exactly the same as are expressed right here--"That Mom" says eloquently what I meant to say, which is that I'm glad you are here with your children. 

But learning how to be age-appropriately attentive during church or a commencement service or a movie is a skill that must be taught, and even if your kids aren't quite there yet, I see you working hard to teach them this skill. Keep up the good work! Could I mop your brow or bring you a glass of cold water? I know this is grueling and often discouraging.

When the Boys were small and Husband and I were trying to herd the four of them into silence during sermons, my mother promised me that once they were older church would become worship again and not a battle of wills and don'ts. She was right, and there is no greater joy than seeing your children beside you in church as adults. 

So if you are one of the hard-working parents who are teaching their children age-appropriate behavior in public places, good for you! I'm proud of you, and this investment of sweat equity will pay off down the road.

I wasn't talking about you.

No Se Habla Espanol

Back in my salad days I could speak Spanish.

Really! At the risk of sounding braggy (or presuntosa, as we apparently say according to Google translate), during my Peace Corps years in Costa Rica I once had an actual native tell me he thought I was a Tica because my accent was so good. Now, at the time I was 24 and naturally blonde so the guy may have been trying to make up the eight inches he was shorter than I by throwing some sweet talk my way, but whatever. I believed him. I believe now, though, that no one would say that to me today, even if were magically once again 24 and once again naturally blonde.

In a few weeks Boy#2 and some of his college buddies are taking a trip to Costa Rica, and I've been cyber-corresponding with the family I lived with during my stay in Central America. When I wrote to ask for hotel recommendations, I even wrote out what I wanted to say in English first so that I wouldn't make any mistakes.

"Hi, Vital! My son is going to visit Costa Rica with some friends. Would you happen to know of a good hotel in San Jose that doesn't cost much but would be safe? I would be so grateful to you if you could give me some recommendations."

"Hola, Vital!" I wrote my older "brother," starting out all easy-peasy. And then I was stumped.

What was the proper conjugation for the future tense? The conditional? The dreaded subjunctive?

Uh, "mi hijo" is correct when it refers to my son. And I'm pretty sure "va a visitar" is still the proper translation of "going to visit," but what about "I would be grateful to you"? Direct objects, people. They're hard.

I began to throw tenses and "les" and "las" and accent marks against the screen as if I were trying to clear my board in a multilingual online Scrabble game. I'm pretty sure when I finished it read like a Chinese menu, all quaint and quite incorrect.

But I think, perhaps, Vital will forgive me. He was a very nice guy back in my salad days, and will understand that during the intervening three-mumble decades since I lived with his family my Spanish has lost a step. Or perhaps dos steps.

Muy amable, Vital. Gracias!

The Commencement Speech I Wasn't Asked to Give

This actually isn't me--I found the picture here.

Hey, new graduates! Thank you for asking me to speak to you today and congratulations! You're wonderful! You're fabulous! You're the hope for the future and the remedy for the past! Blah-blah unicorns and leprechauns!

Okay, now that I have reassured you (and your parents) that you are particularly stellar specimens of humanity, let me take off my commencement speaker hat and talk to you as someone who from time to time hires people. Unless you have been especially astute in your choice of careers (hey, congratulations, computer systems analysts!) or plan to go into the family business (and congratulations to you, Donald Trump's children!), you are going to come face-to-face with me or someone like me in the near future. I am particularly good at hiring people (if I do say so myself) so I'm going to confess that there is only one thing I will be asking myself as I interview you, and I will ask it from the moment I first open your cover letter until I contact you to offer congratulations or condolences. That thing is this:

Will this person make my job harder or easier?

That's it. That's the whole basis I use to evaluate job candidates.

Do you have a spelling error in your resume? That will make my job harder, obviously. Did you use Comic Sans as your font of choice? Yes, professional ridicule tends to make my job harder. Are your tattoos or cleavage distracting my attention? If you're showing that much skin in the interview, I worry about how much you'll reveal after you're hired and my job is harder when I lose my train of thought because I'm trying to figure out how to tell you to cover those things up.

But when you tell me that you already know a computer program we use, that makes my job easier. When you say that you've noticed an improvement that can be made on our website, that also makes my job easier. When you show up on time, look me in the eye when we shake hands, know what your strengths are, and act like a grown-up, that makes my job easier.

Then if I hire you, remember that times are tough all over and no job has a lifetime guarantee any more so you want to make it difficult for me to let you go. Be a good employee and act like a grown-up. When you decide whether to show up late and leave early, does that make my job easier or harder? When you take three days on a project that we all know should take three hours, easier or harder? When you're unavailable to work the special weekend event even though you knew this was a requirement when you were hired, easier or harder? When you show up dressed like the end of a hard night...well, you know the question.

It's not that your boss is lazy, it's that she's busy--busy making her own boss's life easier instead of harder, so if she's having to deal with your special issues (Really? You think it's appropriate to bring your dog to work?) that brings you to the front of her mind when she's having to make the list for possible downsizing.

Unless you're the Trump children, and if that is the case, congratulations on your graduation!