Dry skin dust cloud

So yesterday I helped out in a sister department. I’ve worked in this department a handful of times when they needed an additional person to help room patients, clean rooms, help the docs, etc. I can tell you, this short shift (half day) was less eventful than the other times.

For starters, I didn’t have to draw up any medications. I’m totally capable, and enjoy this task, but none came my way. Shoot. Secondly, I didn’t have to help anyone take their socks or shoes off. Now, this is exciting. Let me tell you why.

Perhaps you have worked in a nursing home or helped a sweet old lady or gent get naked from the ankle down. Perhaps not. That’s okay. I’ll try to be as descriptive as possible getting you up to speed.

The older we get, the drier our skin becomes. Whatever the reason may be, people get dry feet. I get it, mine are dry once in a while. I just lube them up with some lotion and voila! Sandal-worthy! Sometimes it gets hard to reach our feet. Sometimes we don’t think about our feet too much. They are sturdy, capable of keeping us upright, ugly but there, right?

See where this is going yet?

I dread only 2 things when working in this department. Toenail clippings and dry, flaky skin. Both are guaranteed.

If a patient requests assistance from yours truly, I must be of assistance. Need help taking your shoes and socks off? Here let me. No? Okie dokie! (escape hatch, now!- lest they change their mind). Yes? Hmm, okay.

All I’m thinking about while peeling off Ted stockings or socks are, “Wonder how bad this is gonna be?” Let me tell you why. If you have dry skin on your feet, and they haven’t been given any TLC, that dry skin is now stuck to your stockings or socks and has also been loosened by said stockings and socks. What do you think is gonna happen when the sock comes off? I’ll give you a hint. Those flakes are not glued on. You better be on your toes to dodge that snow globe of skin cells. If you are in the drivers seat of removing the tube sock, you can at least control (slightly) where that foot soot is gonna land.

Goal: Keep it out of your hair and mouth. Lesson learned real quickly during my first shift in this department; after this shift it looked like I had dandruff. Gross.

Tip: Close your mouth and breath shallow (or not at all).

I know, I know. Some situations are out of the patients control. Perhaps they’ve been diagnosed with a foot disease, psoriasis, or have diabetes. I’m not ripping on them; I’m informing you of my day.

There is a plan of attack though and it’s not pulling on the toe of the sock and ripping it off. Here’s why. The dry, flaky skin is not just on their foot, but sometimes also traveling half-way up their leg (that’s a big area of real estate). So the best approach is to go slow from the beginning of the undressing. You can roll the socks down, or slowly banana peel the top down while pulling on the toe seam. Continue rolling and then slowly pry and pull off. Slooowwwwly. Stuff the sock in the shoe.

P.S. You should be wearing gloves. Up to you, but barf if you don’t.

It seems whatever method you decide to use, there will a sprinkling of flaky, dry skin, but the cloud size is impacted with the manner chosen. So choose wisely. NOTE: It is NOT appropriate to have a vacuum cleaner on, pointed toward their foot and sock during the extraction. Once the sock is off and the air is clear, you are welcome to exit. Don’t think you are done yet, though. There’s Part II to this daymare.

Cue the clippers! Nail Care Time! This phrase deserves beginning capital letters, believe you me.

I love getting a pedicure. Stay with me here. Soaking my feet in hot water, gussying up the nails and their beds and removal of dry skin, feels so good. And the polish! What a treat! This appointment for our patients is not a pedi. This is straight up toenail clipping, but still a treat for them. Most patients coming in for nail care can’t reach to do it themselves, or the nail is too thick for your dollar store clippers, or they are diabetic which makes nail care done by a professional very essential. One wrong clip could lead to a large infection.

Once the Doc is done, and the patient is gone, it’s time to clean the room. Your normal basic cleaning of chairs, computer mouse, etc. Prior to that though, you have to clean up the dry skin that flaked off during the removal of socks and during foot care PLUS the clippings and the tray used to catch the clippings. And we all know when a toenail gets clipped it doesn’t just fall south. That pupper can wiz off in any direction at a fast clip (lol, clip, get it?), getting lodged in fabric chairs and onto the floor.

They have the type of broom and dustpan that fast food chains use so at least I don’t have to squat or kneel down to the pile of detritus. Broom it right in, Sir! Cough, Cough, not too fast, Sir! The only positive about still having to wear a mask, I guess, is not breathing in any particles!

Now that Room 1 is clean, George just left Room 3! It’s an endless cycle really, and I’d love to tell you that the more I completed this task, the more desensitized I became. But I’d be lying. It doesn’t get easier, but at least I don’t gag during the task anymore. So there’s that!

Let’s end this on a positive note. Your feet do a ton of work for you, so please treat them kindly or ask a loved one to help. They deserve it and you do too! Plus, our brooms are wearing out.

This and That

Umm, Sir?

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I’m going to give you a scenario to think about. Let’s say you are scheduled for an injection for back pain. Position of your body: lying on your belly. Location of injection: slightly north of your buttcrack. Uniform to wear: grippy slippers, a hair net, your skivvies, and a gown.

Now, here’s my question that must be posed.

Why the hell wouldn’t you wear underwear to that appointment?

Hear me out, I understand some people go commando on a daily basis. I can’t understand that personally, as I would expect mad chafing, but I get it. Unders can be constricting and you are a free spirit and all, but, dang it, dig deep into your clothes drawer and pull out something to cover yourself! Granny panties, period underwear, swimwear, I don’t care!

We don’t want to get a sneak peek into your man or lady bits as you’re traipsing down the hall with your gown flapping because you couldn’t figure out the ties! Nor do we want to assist in getting you into position for said injection to get a flash of your cheeks or worse, your dangly things down yonder. I’m begging you, find some fabric.

And for Pete’s sake, if we offer you shorts, accept them! We didn’t sign up for THAT! Not in our pay grade, Sir! Not on our list of Nursing Responsibilities, Ma’am! NEVER something we look forward to!

I’ll tell you about a traumatic experience for one of our young gals who I work with. She was hit straight on (vision line!! Get your mind out of the gutter) while a man, who had the deep voice of the devil and nads the size of a 2000lb bull, situated himself on his back, knees up, for knee injections. She visibly was shocked by that eye full and threw her body out of the sight line. Trauma was written clearly on her face and that poor girl spent the rest of her shift in shock. She’s gonna need months of therapy to assist with that searing sight.

Now, most of the patients do wear underwear which makes the flashes of flesh that much more surprising. We usually don’t know when it’s coming. Sometimes we get a heads up from the gal who roomed the patient, but if you have ever driven by a car crash or a train derailment or something similarly life-altering, you know that it’s difficult to peel your eyes away from the destruction! Same thing here. There are days I wish I was blind or wearing bilateral eye patches.

Our team can only hope that we don’t have a hospital gown pageant anytime soon, or ever. Our luck is the contestants would be those who didn’t think to slip on some cotton briefs or did but didn’t think they needed to keep them on even after we walk them through what stays and what goes prior to getting changed. Lord, help us.

On the other hand, there is always the option of misinterpreting our instructions and putting the gown on backward…

Well, I think I have all my bases covered. Dont forget yours if you find yourself in the doctors office. If not, warn a girl, will ya!?

Fur and Feathers.

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Meet Trixie and Dixie. Our Barnyard bandits. The Dastardly Duo. Just kidding, these two are sweet as pie. Although in the picture below, they look quite serious, like they are determining the best moment to ram their rock-hard horns to knock me on my butt. It looks like Trixie has made up her mind (devious), and Dixie isn’t re-thinking Trixie’s proposition.

Trixie is the pygmy on the right, beautifully tri-colored, and Dixie is the beautiful black, half-fainting (but never has), and half-pygmy Goat Queen on the left (Thank you Captain Obvious!) Dixie is the leader of the duo and is much more comfortable with the human touch, while Trixie is skittish but tolerates us when we have treats. User.

How did we choose such great names for such cute, little goats? Let me tell you the tale. I don’t know when it first started, but my twin sister and I made up these personas called Trixie and Dixie. We make our bottom jaws recede and use a different voice with lip-smacking noises, made worse by the excess saliva build-up. We are aware that twins do weird things…this is one of them. And no, I don’t know if I’m Trixie or Dixie. That’s part of what makes it so funny (to us anyway). I’d add a picture of the original T&D, but it isn’t really a good look.

Over the years, Trixie and Dixie are just fun “people” we bring out, and surprisingly, or not, wit and intelligence exude from them. So when my husband and I decided to get two goats, it made sense to me to pass on two great names!

The chickens and the goats share space in our barn. The goat pen is the first area and on the back end of that is an enclosed chicken coop. The chickens can come and go through the empty screen on the coop’s door, but the goats cannot get into the chickens’ abode. If they get in, and they’ll try as soon as the door is opened, they will knock over the hanging food dispensers while trying to eat all the food. If you aren’t careful when gathering eggs you’ll find yourself with hairy company. ”Trixie, go on! Get out!” and “Dixie, I told you once already!” Man, they know how to put me on high alert.

In the nicer months, from when the snow melts and the grass is lush and green to the time when the air is crisp and the leaves are falling, the animals (and children) have free rein on our land. Trixie and Dixie stay pretty close to home, with the chickens on their heels, and will run back to the barn when they get spooked or hollered at when they are eating my plants. And run they do, along with kicking sideways and jumping around. Such nimble creatures they are. Super cute too.

Fiona, my youngest, and I did evening chores last night and we spent time loving on those goats and one of the chickens; the others wanted nothing to do with us. But if the chickens don’t hunker down in a posture that is considered docile, you won’t be seeing me chasing them trying to get my hands on them. They run around like chickens with their heads cut off (guffaw). Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Meet Fancy and Fiona.

Fancy, our friendly chicken (I’ll be honest, all the brown chickens I named Fancy because I can’t tell them apart) was such a good sport and tolerated being held. Now Fiona on the other hand was too chicken, err, nervous to pick her up so Fancy was transferred by yours truly into her waiting arms.

My most recent purchase from Amazon is a red collar with white polka dots for Trixie and a blue and white striped collar for Dixie. Once they arrive (come on, come on, come on), I’m going to acclimate the goats to them. It’s a new feeling for them, and the goats will wear them for short periods, but my goal is to take them (or they’ll take me) on walks.

I’ll keep you posted. If you don’t hear from me again…send a search party. The goats are strong and fast.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

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For parents out there that are not up to date with text-speak, you are not alone. NGL, it’s hard to keep up, but TBH, once you get the slang down, it gets easier to decipher what they all mean. Clueless Kelly over here giving you tips. Take ’em or leave ’em.

To be honest (TBH) and Not gonna lie (NGL) were the last two my kids let slip, and boy, did I have a hayday! My daughter was pretty embarrased of my joy over using TBH and NGL in one sentence. Her cringing just eggs me on. WALIA. (What a loser I am – Just made that one up. It might stick).

NGL, this teen texting business is over my head. I’m taking notes as soon as my kids let slip what some of these letters mean, but TBH my notes app is nearly empty since they don’t use slang when texting me (which I’m grateful for in some ways). I used NBD today when texting my sister. I was pretty excited because I thought I had made it up, but I just googled it and lo and behold, I didn’t. I’m just so behind the times, LOL.

My text-speak IQ is pretty low, so keep me posted on ones! Use the comment section below. Maybe I’ll be the one to introduce them to new ones.

WTBS? (Wouldn’t that be something)?

Oooh, ‘Scuse me while I text my daughter… I bet she will be impressed. BRB.

EDIT: Welp, WTBS actually means “With that being said”, but I like my version better.

TTYL!

Family

Hold em or fold em

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When I was a kid we spent lots of time at our grandparents’ house. We utilized the same driveway and our houses were about 50 yards from each other. It was divine.

I remember eating Pringles and playing card games (exciting to eat name-brand chips!). This is where I learned to shuffle the deck and make the cool bridge each time. This is where my siblings and I learned basic card games like Kings in the Corner, Crazy 8’s, Hearts, and two different versions of Solitaire. This is where we learned to be graceful losers and humble winners (most of the time).

Grandpa and Grandma loved playing cards. When Grandpa would discard, he would hold the card with his thumb and pointer finger’s second knuckle, make a fist, and pound his hand down while letting go of the card. If the card was a five or if he was betting 5, he would say “niCKle” instead, with extra pronunciation on the “ck”. I still imitate him with that word. Makes my heart sing.

Playing card games has been something I’ve also done with my kids. You only need a deck of cards to play for hours. And with the good ‘ol world wide web, you can learn hundreds of games (that’s a guestimate).

Last weekend, Fiona played Kings in the Corner with my mom, her Grandma, for hours and she reveled in it. She knew how many times she had won and that it was more than Grandma. We came home and kept playing.

All four of my kids are home for the Easter Weekend, and after going to the mall, girls getting their nails done, boys hitting up the book store, a game of four-square, and lots of squabbling, I pulled out the small wooden briefcase full of red, blue and white poker chips I found on a garage sale, and asked if anyone wanted to play. One is NEVER too young to learn this game, ammi right?

After a few rounds of face-up cards and walking through what beats what, and how to bid or check, the cards were then dealt for the real deal. And after about an hour of five card draw and Texas Hold-em, they’d had enough. Actually, that was me. I had had enough.

They get so loud and laughy and jokes aren’t funny anymore. Basic sibling stuff, I know. Dad handed out some cash, and we sent them to town. That means silence, and me writing, for about 30-40 minutes. I wish for more, but I won’t get it, so I’ll be quick.

Even though I crab about the decibels, and the smart-ass comments to each other, and the mess the popcorn made on the floor because Addi (who’s 14 and should know better) decided to throw popcorn into her sibling’s mouths and subsequently not succeed, my heart is happy. My mind is tired, but having all four at home is fun.

I may have threatened them with false harm, and counted to three (nose to the wall if you hit three!) several times, but they know I’m more bark than bite.

We had a lot of fun and the little kids now have a new skill! I don’t know what I’ll tell the teacher when they find a circle of kids on the playground using rocks in place of money playing a game of Texas Hold ’em, but I’ll figure that out later along with how often they should attend Gamblers Anonymous.

Welp, they are home. Back to the chaos!

This and That

Passion, who has one and who doesn’t?

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I’ve heard chatter about finding your passion. It must be a standard question when meeting someone. Once you get past the small talk of name, where you live, and what you do for a living comes the passion question (or maybe it’s just me – do I look passion-less or passion-full about something unsaid- am I oozing passion from my pores and just haven’t recognized my passion?).

So…What’s your passion? Welll, (Long silence) I’m passionate about saving worms from flooding rains, salamanders, and birds. You?

I’ve been searching for my passion, and so far, I’ve come up empty. Color me green with envy for those who have found their passion.

Now, I complete tasks passionately, but I’m not necessarily passionate about the task. Get my drift? I’ll clean my house with passion, but cleaning houses for a living is not my passion. I can organize rooms with passion, but being a professional organizer is not something I’m passionate about.

But I have questions and thoughts.

What if someone hasn’t found their passion? Maybe they don’t have one? Are they less content with their life without a passion? Can we stop searching for passion at some point in our life?

I think some people have a passion and some simply do not. Those who do not enjoy life in dozens of different ways. Not that those who’ve nailed down what they are passionate about don’t, but our main focus (those with no passion) is simply enjoying life. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about child hunger, toy trains, and cures for cancer; it simply means maybe we haven’t been smacked upside the head with cancer, haven’t been hungry, or have loved a certain toy. Nothing wrong with that.

Does it mean we don’t sympathize with those who’ve encountered and endured those things? No. It may mean we don’t have empathy because we haven’t lived it, we haven’t worn your size nines, but we are sympathetic to those in need, or those looking for answers, or those in love with toy trains.

I think when we continue to maniacally search for something that may not exist for some, it becomes disheartening and slightly depressing. This is when we should take stock of our lives, determine our happiness on our own personal scale, and stop comparing our lives to others.

I guess what I’m saying is…be happy where you are, enjoy those life’s little moments, and if you’re not happy, keep searching. Your passion could spring up and bite you in the ass. I hope you recognize it for what it is. (Pssst. Not a snake! That’s passion!)

Family

Lloyd is that you?!

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A picture recently popped up in my phone’s memories. It’s of my two oldest kids and my husband all gussied up for Easter in 2012. My son would have been six and a half years old, and my daughter would have been three and a half. Oh, the memories. My daughter has asked me not to include the picture so I’ll respect that. My sisters, on the other hand, and further into this delightful read, will not get the same treatment. Muhahahaha.

After I had verbally exhausted my thoughts (“Ahh, look how small they were!” and “That shirt must have just come out of the cellophane Amazon wrapper.” and “Her eyes are closed!”, I sent my kids the picture. My daughter replied with an “Ewww”, and my son responded, “Who screwed up my do?”. I told him Great Clips, but maybe it was, well, me. It was a long time ago and I honestly don’t remember, but I had to agree with him. It was pretty bad. Poor kid.

Over the weekend, I showed my mom the picture, which she loved, and then I hit her with the zoomed-in portion of my son’s head. It catapulted me back to when I had the same shoddy bang-up (haha) job in fifth grade. By the looks of it, I wanted to mimic Tim the Tool Man’s son, JTT. How I lived through this, I do not know although I can guess it was by simply keeping my head above the tears. She thought she could find the picture of my nightmares; instead, she found, after searching no less than three different areas of her house, a box of prints from the 80s and 90s. The box was full of pictures, many I had seen, most I had tried to forget. Either way, she uncovered a slew of comedy that hadn’t been seen in years. For a good reason, I think.

How embarrassing looking back. Maybe that’s why we don’t do it too often. Who wants to experience those feelings of inadequacy again? Not me, yet into the pile of photos my hands went. We sifted through and found some shareable humdingers.

Jury, please review Exhibit A.

I mean, COME ON!

My younger sister’s response to Exhibit A was, “WTF am I? The Easter Bunny?”. I could hardly tell her no.

I and my sister’s hairstyles were in tune with our peers during the late 80s and early 90s (I think, maybe). When I was little, hair was not a big deal; my mom kept it neat, styled, and out of our eyes. But once I hit fifth or sixth grade, awareness sucker punched me with the clippers and raked me with the comb. My hair was still out of my eyes, thank you, but it was also pert near my hairline and perfectly horizontal. I’m 100% certain haircuts were doled out by my mom and P.S. She was not a Licensed Cosmetologist, but she sure did try to be.

She had four daughters, all with longish (sometimes) hair that required 90s upkeep. Curling irons were hot in more ways than one. Wonder how many we went through – we had a lot of bangs. I do recall a friend of my mom’s giving us permanents though, so she knew her skill level and kept within her own boundaries.

Perms, mullets, and Lloyd Christmas bangs, oh my. And the close-cropped locks? Who thought that was a good idea?!

Check out these atrocities.

Why she had a cropped haircut still baffles me (Exhibit C). My twin sister thought maybe it was in a ponytail and the little sister responded, “Really?!” I read the tone of that text with incredulity and exasperation. There was no ponytail! It was a nice thought though. What you can’t see, below her home-sewn romper that soared in popularity during the 90s (maybe), is her ankles which are cinched with romper material. Nothing sliding down and out that romper-clad leg!

In a nutshell… Our. Hair. Was. Atrocious. The outfits, understandable.

We couldn’t have been the only family that had less-than-desirable hair. I do understand this was a long time ago and times have changed (clearly). Children the same age today are not even in the same league as we were back then. (I am quite certain you’re able to deduce that same conclusion.) Yeah, you’ll come across a few here and there that could be mistaken for 90s girls living in today’s world, but overall, they really are an anomaly.

So now that you have had the pleasure of time-traveling to the 90s, feel free to display your beauts in the comments. Show me I’m not alone. Please. I’m begging you.

Misery loves company, even 25 or so years later.

This and That

In case you weren’t aware…

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Wearing suspenders underneath your shorty-sweatshirt is not cool…or allowed. My fourteen year old says so.

I was cool enough for her to sneak a picture though, before I was forced to remove said suspenders.

She’s showing her friends the picture. Now there’s laughter.

Ahhh, I think I misunderstood her reasoning for picture taking.

Hope my pants don’t fall down since I have no reinforcements. THAT will be really embarrassing for her (and me).

This and That

A Classic Camera

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Last August, my sister and I were enjoying what we love. Thrifting. On our way to the register, we both spotted a Canon camera in a Ziploc bag. If I didn’t buy it for $20, she was going to. So I bought it. what a steal!

A digital camera with two different lenses, a nice shoulder/neck strap, and its original user manual? What a bargain!

It was all that but digital. It was your classic 35mm camera. Still, for $20 I bet I could utilize this just fine.

So I spent a small fortune on the film and tried it out. The joy in NOT knowing if your picture actually captured what you wanted?! Exhilarating! And slightly depressing knowing how much you spent on that film, and more depressing to think about what it might cost to get said film developed.

Back in the day, you’d bring it to Walmart or your local drugstore, pay for the prints, and wait a week to pick them up.

Today, you choose a website (m-pix for me), pay almost $12 per roll (jeez), send it in (find the correct sized envelope, tape on the mailing label after dragging your printer out of storage) and wait a week to get them back via email.

But the journey into film land has been worth it.

While I search for film money in couches, old stored-away jackets, and my husband’s wallet, and once I get through the lengthy process of ordering and receiving them, I’ll share more.

In the meantime, enjoy some of my favorites.

I gotta save up my money for the next 35mm I buy, and once I get through the lengthy process of ordering and receiving them, I’ll share more.

This and That

Was it you?!

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I’m just going to rant a bit here. I know it is March and St. Patrick’s day was about a week ago but I have a question. Maybe several.

WHO DECIDED THAT IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO HAVE OUR HOMES AND CLASSROOMS VISITED BY A MAN IN A GREEN SUIT LEAVING CHAOS IN HIS WAKE?

I’m talking about the fad (that’s hopefully fading) of parents and teachers encouraging our kids to A) make a Leprechaun trap, and B) expect their personal or classroom chambers to be excitedly terrorized by a Leprechaun who leaves in his wake gold coins.

I know this is based on Irish folklore; whoever captures that pesky Leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Eve will be made a millionaire (in a nutshell).

Why are we setting our kids up for the sad truth? Pretending Leppy is on his or her way to leave gifts for our children? Come on.

This rant is also for the person or persons with the bright idea of Elf on a Shelf.

I’ve got plenty to do without having to figure out shenanigans for the Leprechaun or Elf to be getting into. Plus, I’d be the one picking up the mess that just hours ago I had created, in hopes my kid would, what, believe in Leprechauns and Elves on Shelves? Why?

I have a feeling that our kids wouldn’t be missing out on anything if Leppy hadn’t been brought in to back up the folklore. What happened to a story being just a story? We don’t need to act it out. My youngest woke up on St. Paddy’s day and found not a mess made by Leppy, burst into tears, and was completely bummed that he didn’t visit our house. She was so rocked by this that I feared she would miss the bus. I had to shove back the words I really wanted to say (It’s fake!), and lovingly tell her that “Maybe he visited your classroom instead!”. Well, he didn’t do that either she told me after school, while she bawled again. I finally told her that the teachers make all those messes and that Leppy doesn’t visit anywhere!

Take it easy, take it easy. I was very aware of the slippery slope I was on. I say too much and she won’t be believing in Santy Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. But I couldn’t let her believe that she may have done something wrong to miss out on that. I mean, she even scoured the basement looking for gold coins.

I know we want our kids to enjoy their childhood, but I think they will still look back and find many, many great things. I see no reason to bring another fictitious character into it. As I said, moms and dads are already loaded down with responsibility. Now we are supposed to remember another date and the eve to go along with it, spend time making a trap, wait for the kids to go to bed and fall asleep, and then set up a giant lie? No thank you.

I have two sets of children. When my oldest two were the only children I indulged them with Elf on the Shelf, mostly because it was a gift from their Grandma. Their dad had one and I had one so it was something that gave the children some normalcy and tied their parents together. When the next two came along, I was looking forward to packing away Snoopy and did so for a year or 2. Man, I really enjoyed NOT having to remember to move him around the house daily. I should have brought him to Savers. Gah! But last year or the year before, my oldest daughter found him and started the “tradition” again.

And I get it. To her, seeing Elf on the Shelf is sentimental and her memories of this go way back. So despite my opinion of Snoopy the Elf, essentially she trumps it.

But getting Leppy on my back? Not happening.

Back in my day (my kids hate when I say this), I think we celebrated St. Patrick’s day by wearing green and my mom would slater cinnamon rolls with green frosting. Doable. Fun even. This is just taking it too far.

What’s worse? Combining them…

Reinventing Elf to be something more…

So to whoever thought any of this was a grand idea? It is not.

(Bows and steps of soapbox)

Thank you. (minimal clapping, sparse even)