Toddler Race Relations

After finishing his second tour in Vietnam, my father had been assigned to fly Marine Corps One for President Nixon.  It was a prize assignment for my father, but it meant that my mother and I would be moving out of California for the first time in our lives.  My mother was far from being a southern belle and was having a hard time adapting to being an officer's wife. Virginia in the early 1970's was culture shock to my mom, "the Orange County surfer girl".

We had only been living on base for a few weeks when I informed my mother that Englishmen were moving in next door.  First, she wondered how I knew they were English.  Second, she questioned why Britons would be living on an USMC military base. I was insistent that they were Englishmen and my mom decided to go outside and investigate.

She took one look at our new neighbors and figured it out.  The "Englishmen" moving in next door were not British they were African American.  In my short life, the only black people I had met was Mr. and Mrs. Smalley, our British neighbors. I had assumed that all black people were from England.

A few days later, I was in my kiddie pool in the front yard.  One of the new neighbor's sons came over and got into the pool with me.  I got out.  So he got out.  I got back in.  He got back in.  I got out again.  He got out, came over to me, dipped his arm in the water and wiped it against mine and matter-of-factly said; "See, it don't rub off."  After that, he and I became fast friends for the rest of our stay in Virginia.

I Never Did Like Peas.

When I was in high school, I worked as a "mother's helper".  Not quite a nanny, but a little bit more than a babysitter for the couple across the street from me, Kathie and Greg.  Kathie worked as an accountant and Greg was a firefighter. They had two little boys named Gregory and Justin. 

I started caring for Gregory when he was about a year old.  I started taking care of Justin when he was only two months old.  They were great little boys and easy to take care of.  Greg worked 24 hours on, then 24 hours off. So, every other day while he was at the firehouse, I would come over after school, Kathie would go to work and I would watch the boys.

One week, Kathie asked me if I could watch the boys on Greg's day off.  She said that he was having surgery and wouldn't be up to chasing around a toddler and a baby who was getting ready to walk any day.

The day of Greg's surgery, I arrived at the house right after school.  Kathie said that Greg was sleeping upstairs.  The boys were hungry, so I plopped Justin in his high chair and Gregory in his booster seat and made them a snack. While we were sitting at the kitchen table, Greg came into the kitchen.  Greg went into the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen peas.  I thought it was weird that he was going to make JUST peas, but I just kept feeding Justin.  As Greg started to walk out of the kitchen, Gregory asked him, "Dad, why are you walkin' so funny?"  Greg replied in a very matter-of -fact tone, "Well Son, my testicles are sore.  That is why I am walking strangely."  He started to turn around and walk out of the kitchen when Gregory hollered, "YOU MEAN YOUR BALLS HURT?" Greg just sputtered out, "Yes" and went back upstairs.

I was completely mortified.  I couldn't believe that Greg had talked about his balls in front of me. I instantly called my mother and told her what had happened.  My mother could barely control her laughter as she replied, "Of course his testicles are sore.  He had a vasectomy today." 

I pleaded with her to come and watch the boys for me.  I couldn't believe that I had to be in the house with a man who had his balls operated on.  She refused and told me that I need to grow up, "Michele, you are 15 years old.  You know where babies come from." She refused to bail me out and I was forced to spend the rest of the afternoon with the man with the "Sore Balls". I survived, but I wouldn't look Greg in the face for weeks.

Personally, I would prefer Chris Garver

My mom went to a Shriner fundraiser on Palm Sunday.  She was sitting at a table visiting with some  Shiriners and a little boy approached her.  He pointed to her leg and said, "You have a tattoo! Did your daddy get you that tattoo?"  My mom, who is not a fan of wearable art, looked down where the boy was pointing and said, "No, my Daddy didn’t get me that tattoo.  Jesus did." The little boy took off and preceded to exclaim,"That lady over there has a tattoo from Jesus!"

Eventually, people started to come over and ask to see my mom’s "Jesus Tattoo".  I can only imagine how disappointed they were when my mom lifted her pant leg ever so slightly and revealed...her varicose veins.

Misha Comes With Standard Safety Equipment

On Mother's Day, I decided not to take my "daytime" muscle relaxer and only take Motrin.  Mr. Misha and I were going to have lunch with his mom to celebrate Mother's day. I love my mother in law, but she tends to worry a lot. I didn't want to show up to her house all doped up and give her cause to fret.  I felt pretty good after heat, ice and Motrin.

Mr. Misha and I stopped on the way to her house to pick up Chinese take out.  As we were walking through the parking lot, I think I slipped on a small rock.  I went tumbling forward and fell right in the middle of the lot.  As I lay sprawled out on the asphalt, Mr. Misha and I had a conversation that went like this:

Mr. Misha: "Baby, what happened?"

Me: "I fell down"

Mr. Misha: "Are you okay?"

Me: "No, I fell down"

Mr. Misha: "What can I do?"

Me: "Help me up?"

Just then, another man came up and he and Mr. Misha helped me up to my feet.  I did a quick assessment of myself and found no bones protruding or any blood.  Mr. Misha wanted to take me back to the car, but I said no.  We went in and got the Chinese food.  All I could think of as the lady packed up our food was that if it weren't for my boobs, I would probably have whacked my head against the asphalt.

The rest of the day was injury free.  I woke up Monday morning and re-assessed the damage. My right wrist was sore.  Both forearms were sore.  Both knees were sore.  On my left shin, I had a bruise shaped like Florida and a bump the size of a softball.  Being the dorky nurse that I am, I drew an outline around the bump in sharpie, so I could monitor if the lump was getting any bigger.  So far, so good.  I now spend my days with ice on my shoulder/neck and my left knee.

First thing my mom said to me when I told her about my tumble, "Good thing you have such big tits or you'd have a closed head injury for sure!"

Not the fresh feeling he was hoping for...

When I was in nursing school, I had several jobs; bartender/cocktail waitress, make-up artist for Clinique, I graded term papers for an Economics teacher, Dispatcher for the hamlet I lived in and the college's Department of Public Safety and Certified Nurses Aide, or as I liked to call it "Bedpan Commando".


Being a Bedpan Commando was hard work, but it did help me out during school. Most of the nurses I worked with knew I was in nursing school and they would try and show me/teach me cool and interesting stuff when I was working. What was even cooler is that the weekend Nursing Supervisor, Joyce, was also a Nursing Instructor at PUC. She would find out what quarter you were taking and try to have you work in the area of the hospital that was pertinent to what you were studying at the time. I got to know Joyce while I was working there and she knew I wanted to be an OB nurse, so she would often place me in the family birthing center. I loved that. I got to help with deliveries, hold babies and learn about the field.


Unfortunately, Joyce wasn't always working and the birthing center didn't always need me. So, I would have to work on the Medical/Surgical floors. The place I liked the least was the Transitional Rehab Unit or "TRU". It was full of old folks who were too sick to go home, but not sick enough to be on the regular floors. A lot of the patients there were waiting for a nursing home bed to open up. Most of the patients were incontinent and could not bathe or feed themselves. It was hard work and it was a little sad, to top it off the nurses that worked on that unit were mean. I hated working there.

One day, during my last quarter of nursing school, I was sent to work on TRU. I got report and found out that a first quarter nursing student was taking care of one of my patients. I found her and told her that when she was ready to do his bed bath, she should find me and I would help her out. This particular patient was a BIG guy, 6'7" and about 280 lbs; she was going to need help. I went along and took care of the rest of my patients, getting them water, passing breakfast trays, taking their vital signs, etc.

Finally, the student said she was ready to bathe her patient and change his bed. When a person is bedridden, it is a big operation.

When we had the guy rolled to one side, I noticed that his butt was a little red. I asked the student to get some of the butt cream (like Desitin). I held out my gloved hand and she squirted some for me to put on this guy's ass. I thought it smelled minty, which was not the smell I was expecting. Before I could check and see what she gave me, I noticed our patient had TURNED BLUE! He wasn't breathing and was REALLY, REALLY BLUE. I hit the CODE BLUE button and started to get the oxygen mask off the wall. The nursing student was paralyzed with fear and I just grabbed her and pushed her out of the room so the code team could work.

The code team brought the guy back to life and he was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit.


So later on, I was walking to lunch with the nursing student and her instructor (who had been my instructor too). He asked the student what she thought happened to her patient that made him stop breathing. She gave the correct answer about the progress of the patient's disease, etc. Her instructor looked at me and asked me why I thought the patient "coded". I looked at him and smirked and replied, very seriously; "I think it was because your student gave me toothpaste to put on his butt." The student turned pale, the instructor laughed and I kept on walking to the cafeteria.

There Is A Price To Pay When You Borrow My Vehicle

Once upon a time, Mr.Misha went up to Sacramento to see his mom.  Since his car was in desperate need of tires, he took the Mishamobile.  With his iPod hooked up in the car, a bottle of fizzy water and a pack of smokes...he took off for Sacto.

At one point, he encountered heavy traffic.  So, he rolled the windows down, opened up the sunroof and turned his music up.  As he cruised along Hwy 80 at 5mph, he noticed a couple of hot, young chicks checking him out.  He didn't think anything of it and kept driving.  A few moments later, the girls were even closer to him and they were waving and smiling at him.  He looked around to see who they were waving at and was very surprised that it was him.

They played cat and mouse in the bumper to bumper traffic. The girls would fall behind for a while and then would catch up.  Each time, the girls were waving and giving him the thumbs up.  Each time they passed, it puffed Mr. Misha's ego up a little more. 

Then the traffic started to break up and everyone was able to accelerate to the speed limit.  Mr. Misha could see the girls coming up from behind him.  As they flew by, they waved and smile at him one last time.  That was when he saw it.

The girls had one of the same bumper stickers that I do! It's pink and it has one simple statement:

I SUPPORT PERINEUMS

Yo, Yo, Yo! Forget The Four Horsemen. Yeah, Boyz!

Of all of us in my little family, Mr. Misha, Mimi the cocker spaniel, Harley the girl pug and me, I am the tolerant one.  Mimi doesn't like anyone or anything in HER backyard and she has no problem telling everyone about it with her little bark.  Harley, while she may snore, snort, burp and snarfle loudly, is quite disturbed and offended by the farts, burps or stomach growlings of others.

Mr. Misha, although he is getting better, has little patience or tolerance for anything. He yells at the remote control and throws it went it doesn't work.  He gets road rage, yelling and cussing when some injustice is done while on the road.  When clients started calling with Vista related computer problems, I thought he was going to have a stroke or punch Bill Gates in the nards. His bellows are quite scary to someone who doesn't know him. I know that he is really a big softy, but the dogs still run and hide between my feet when their daddy starts yelling.

I am the one who is afraid to flip someone off on the freeway, because they might chase me down and shoot me or beat me up (that actually happened to me, but that is another story for another time).  I am the one that talks about Karma. I remind him that you get back what you give, so it is better to put the good shit out in order to get the great shit back.  My ever-growing faith in the theory of "What comes around goes around" is what probably keeps me from committing an act of violence a few times a week. I am the one that usually lets stuff roll off my back. I am the patient one in the family.

Usually.

Saturday was a different story.

Saturday, Mr. Misha was the voice of reason.

At least for a little while.

On the other side of our little driveway in front of our home, separated by a honeysuckle-covered fence, is a private school. When we first moved here, I went to the school's website to check out the curriculum. It's a pretty serious school, I mean, they teach the kids LATIN. So these kids are there to learn and are generally a very well behaved bunch. They always holler, "Thank you!" when I toss the occasional stray ball back over the fence.

Every once in a while they do get a little rowdy during their recess, but I figure that if I was ten years old and just spent an hour conjugating Latin verbs, I would need to run around the black top screaming like a banshee. So I don't get to bent out of shape when one of the little conjugators wakes me from my daytime slumber during the week.

On weeknights and weekends, the school allows an Evangelical Church to use the school for services, events, and fundraisers.  These folks are loud. They have loud cars, loud kids, they are all loud talkers. When I take the pooches for walks in the evening, I hear all the gossip about the congregation.  I am pretty sure that my miserable, crabby, old neighbor, Charlotte, has called the cops on them for their loud talking late at night.

Saturday, at the stroke of noon, I heard a roar of applause and a man offering thanks to their creator for supplying the absolutely lovely day.  After the prayer, I heard the familiar clicking of drumsticks and a hearty "One, two, three, four". The music started, incredibly loud, off-key, rhythm deficient, Christian soft rock.  I took a deep breath. In fact, I took several deep breaths.

Then Mr. Misha came out of his man cave. He said he was going out to pick up some lunch and asked me what I wanted. I told him and he asked if there was anything else I wanted. My reply, "Yeah, if you get close enough to the fence, could you pull the plug on the sound system? I don't think I can take this Jesus music all afternoon."

He grinned and threw my words right back at me, "I don't know baby, don't you think it would be bad karma?"  I groaned and nodded. While he was gone, I told myself that it wasn't that bad.  I reminded myself that these people were expressing their joy and faith through song and to get pissed off and bitchy would only have negative effects on me and it sure as hell would not help the band play any better. So, I turned up the volume and went back to watching TV.

The music continued through lunch, adding a screechy girl and changing from Christian soft rock to twangy, Christian cow pie music. I was in hell. I thought the for sure Mr. Misha would crack, but he didn't. Then after a short break, a new group of "musicians" started up.  I was hoping that eventually I would hear some soulful, Gospel music.  No such luck. While Mr. Misha was cleaning out the carport, the most horrible sound blared across our front yard.

As I folded laundry, I waited to see how long it would take for my husband to lose it.  I was amazed how long he held out.  It took a few songs of records scratching and white kids yelling, rather than actual rapping, for him to reach his breaking point.  After four hours, Rap is what finally did him in.

If anyone ever needed to know what sound would signal the start of the apocalypse, it's Christian Gangsta Rap.

Heaven help us all.

That Is No Excuse

A while back, I was a substitute Maternal Newborn Nursing Instructor for a local college. I really enjoyed it and I am thinking about going back to school to  get my Masters so I can do it FOR REALS.  Here is one of my favorite stories from that time in my life.

It was the night before our ASS CRACK OF DAWN clinical rounds at the hospital. I had just sat down to dinner with Mr. Misha and my phone rang.  I picked it up and this is the conversation I had:

Me: Hello?

Student: Hi Misha? It's ______.

Me: Hi. What's up?

Student: Well, I am calling to ask you if I can be excused from clinical tomorrow.

Me: Oh.

Student: I was hiking in the park with my mom on Saturday and I went into cardiac arrest.

Me: What?!

Student: My mom called 911 and did CPR. You know she is a nurse?

Me: I know your mom.

Student: Well, they had to do surgery and insert an automatic defibrillator in me on Saturday and I am not supposed to lift anything over 5 pounds this week and since the babies weigh more than that, I was wondering if it would be okay if I stayed home?

Me: No. I am sorry I would only excuse your absence from clinical if you had not survived the code (cardiac arrest). But since you did, I am afraid you need to come to clinical in the morning.

Student: What?

Me: You have  a perfect score in class. You could miss the rest of the quarter and I would still pass you. Take the day off, okay?

Student: Are you sure? I mean, I could come, but I wouldn't be able to hold the babies.

Me: Please, take the day off.

Student: Okay, thanks Misha!

Me: You are welcome. I'll see you next week.

Student: Bye.

Me: Bye.

Kids these days, I swear. 

What is the world coming to?

Trust Women. Blog For Choice Day 2010

"Trust Women" Such a simple statement, only two words. But for me, it means so much. The meaning for me goes far beyond abortion rights. It means trusting women to make decisions about their lives, their bodies and their psyches. It means allowing women to make choices about birth control, about medical care, about abortion and about birth.






As a healthcare provider, I feel it is my responsibility to educate my patients. I give them the information, as clearly and as unbiased as I can and then I trust them to make the decision that is best for them. A woman shouldn't have to drive all over town to find a pharmacy that will fill her prescription for birth control pills or Plan B. A woman should be offered choices regarding her medical care and her decision should be supported. A woman should be able to obtain a safe and legal abortion without being harassed, yelled at or judged. A woman should be able to make informed choices about her birth. When we deny these things to women, we deny them equality, we deny them freedom, and we deny them humanity.

Part of trusting women is offering support. The choice they made may not have the results they were hoping for. A woman who has had an abortion should be allowed to grieve if she wants to. A woman who chooses a homebirth, but is transferred to the hospital because of complications should be welcomed and treated with kindness and respect, not ridiculed, lectured and scolded. A woman who chooses not use birth control and instead fills her home with children should not become the butt of jokes.

I trust women to make the decision that they feel is best for themselves, for their family, for their lives. I may not always agree with the choice that they make, but part of being Pro Choice means supporting the right to choose, regardless of the choice that she makes.


This was my entry for Blog for Choice Day 2010. To participate go to Blog for Choice and add your blog to the blogroll.

Other things you can do to celebrate the 37th anniversary of Roe v. Wade:

1. Update your Facebook status to "is celebrating the 37th anniversary of Roe v. Wade."
2. Change your user pic to the Blog for Choice Day image.
3. Share links to your blog post and Blog for Choice Day.
4. Use Twitter to let people know about your blog post and Blog for Choice Day.

My Birthday Turned Into An Episode of Maury

I turned 41 today. I woke up with a bunch of awesome messages via Facebook and Twitter wishing me a very happy birthday. It was lovely.

Then Mr. Misha woke up. Nothing. No hug. No handmade card. No 'Happy Birthday to my wife', nothing. I was pretty sure he forgot it. I never thought he would ever forget my birthday. You see, Paul Stanley from KISS and I share the same birthday. Since Mr. Misha is such a KISS fan, I didn't think it was possible he'd forget.

I made breakfast. Nothing. I vented on Facebook and Twitter. I got lots of sympathy. I'm pretty sure someone tipped him off, because a few hours later he came in my room and wished me a happy birthday. I felt much better.

During our conversation, my mom left me a voicemail. "I'm calling to wish you a happy birthday daughter. I woke up at 3:30am this morning and couldn't fall back asleep for an hour and a half. I'm blaming you." (I was born at 4:06am) I called her back and apologized for waking her up and thanked her for giving birth to me. My mom proudly declared that she had ordered my birthday present online (this is a big deal for her) and half of it should arrive today. It did. She got me a heated mattress pad (it came today) and she pre-ordered the new Sookie Stackhouse book for me, which will arrive in May. I thanked her again; we finished up our talk and hung up.

I played around on the Internet, watched some TV and then decided a nap was in order. My nap was lovely and I woke up to Mr. Misha holding a big, black box. "I think it's flowers, the box says FTD" he exclaimed. I opened the box and sure enough, it was two-dozen roses. They are quite pretty- peach, yellow, reds, dark pinks. The pug was very interested in them, so I let her sniff the flowers while I read the card. The note was signed, "Love, Dad". I started laughing. Mr. Misha was confused, and then it hit him. "You don't know who sent these, do you?" "Nope." I replied. I had no freaking idea which Dad sent me the flowers. I thought it was one dad, he thought it was the other.

Since it was ingrained in my head from infancy, the first thought I had was, "I don't know who to send the thank you note to!" I couldn't call one of them up and say thank you. If he wasn't the one who sent them, it would hurt his feelings/make him feel guilty. I decided to call FTD. Here is how the conversation went:

FTD: Thank you for calling FTD. How can I help you?


Me: I have a problem. I just had flowers delivered and the note was signed, 'Love, Dad'. I know this sounds like an episode of Maury, but I don't know which Dad sent them. Could you help me?


FTD: (stifling a laugh) Yes, ma'am.


She asked me for a bunch of info and found the order.


FTD: I'm not allowed to give out the information without the sender's approval, so I am going to put you on hold while I call your Dad.


Me: Oh no! I don't want him to know that I didn't know which one it was!


FTD: I'll phrase it so he will never know.


Me: Okay.


I was on hold for a few moments and then she came back on and told me which Dad had sent them.


Me: Thank you so much! I'm going to call my mom right now and tell her what a floozy she is.


FTD: (giggles) Alright. You have a good day. Is there anything else I can do for you?


Me: No, thank you. I appreciate your help and discretion.

I immediately called my mother and called her a floozy. She didn't deny her floozieness; she just wanted to know why I was calling her one this time.

Ugh.