I have nothing against ink; some tattoos are quite nice, some are works of art. I have two myself, one of which is a reminder of my skating days, a shooting star on my ankle for the last time I skated at the synchro national championships. It also serves as a reminder of my 4 year foray into the world of pyrotechnics, or “blowing shit up” as my friend Linda and I used to say. What started off as a lark turned into great fun, albeit a serious business. We would spend 4th of July, sometimes Memorial Day, and a few carnivals and fairs working 16 hour days setting up shows. These things don’t happen all at once. We would load various 2, 3, 5 inch shells into mortars after lugging the mortar racks and nailing them together. After spending hours of “plugging”, safety checks, chasing away the curious (who would always want to know how they could sign up because they loved to throw cherry bombs into 50 gallon drums of gas, yikes), a quick dinner and then the delicious anticipation as it got dark enough for show time.
We loved it even though it was dangerous, and we had a ball. There is nothing like watching fireworks from directly underneath, and since fire laws prohibit the public from being that close the experience has ruined fireworks displays for me forever. Now I am more interested in watching them come out of the tube, wary of shells that explode too low, or fail to launch. I am watching the pyrotechnicians.
Of course there are some tattoos that can be categorized under “What Were They Thinking”. My new doctor commented on my “interesting” ink as he did a minor procedure last summer. This would be my "smilin' sun" tramp-stamp that my friends bought me for my 50th birthday because “nobody should turn 50 without a new tattoo!” Wrong. “I plead insanity”, I told my doctor. “I ran with a rough crowd then”. At least he got a laugh out of it, and hopefully if I am ever in a nursing home it will make someone smile if it is not too scary-looking by then.
The young lady at the coffee shop I frequent has a pretty good sized skull and cross bones right in the center of her sternum; she always wears low cut shirts so you can’t avoid it. Even if her breasts weren’t a huge, blinking neon sign calling attention to her chest, the artist distinguished this tattoo by placing a little pink “Hello Kitty” bow on the top of the skull. Nothing says dangerous like a little pink bow, right? ‘Cause this says “I’m may be cute, but I sure am poison".
The brothers Daryl came in with a motor vehicle rollover. Two days ago. Dressed in cammo gear from head to toe and smelling pretty stinky, like old cigarettes, hockey equipment, fart, sour milk and cow manure, one of the Daryl’s had back pain. He had a giant rottweiler tattooed on his upper arm, I mean this thing was huge. New Cathy nailed it with a shot of Toradol before he went to x-ray. I knew it because, bizarrely, it had a small line of dried blood right between the eyes. Direct hit.
Kate made a random comment about not ordering the flank steak at the local steakhouse. “It was really tough, and I’ve never had a bad steak there”
“Oh”, I said, reminded about another tattoo. “That’s because my patient the other night with the STEMI (heart attack), that 42 year old is the cook there. I guess he will be out of action for awhile”. His tattoo was a large jolly Grim Reaper on his upper arm. He had ignored his chest pain for 6 hours, as well as similar pain for the last 2 months, but he got the luck and did not get jumped by Mr. Dead. Not that night.
Grim Reaper. It can't be a talisman forever.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
File Under "Stuff You Just Can't Make Up"
I found the sign below on a public trail last week while walking my dog, Tina. Today I found the same sign, in fact several, attached to trees on another hiking trail about 4 miles from the first location in the next town over.
OK, I am sorry for anyone who loses a pet since I like animals. But seriously? Look at that cat. It does not look like a back-packing kind of feline. And who takes a cat hiking? I am also thinking that Lucky is not a good name for a cat since it seems to be tempting fate. No cat should be named Lucky before it has used up at least 5 of its 9 lives.
On the subject of bad names for cats, one of my neighbors had a cat named Trevor. Yes, Trevor. I am preparing a post on stupid pet names, but that is for another day. Trevor's parents went away for a few days and Trevor escaped in their absence, perhaps lonely or merely pissed off that he had been left alone. Cats are like that.
Being an indoor cat and most likely lacking survival skills Trevor, predictably, remained at large for days in spite of his owners attempts to locate him. Desperate, they contacted an animal communicator who somehow, remotely, intuited that Trevor was alive, but "in a dark place". That will be $75, payable by Mastercard or Visa. Dark place = dead cat. There are lots of predators in my neck of the woods and Trevor has never returned home, nor has he called or written. He is likely living on the street with a $100/day catnip habit. After a few months the neighbors gave up and adopted a new Trevor.
I was thinking that the owners of the lost Hiking Cat might want to consult a cat psychic as well for some input as to the whereabouts of their lost pet. Perhaps it went trekking in the Catskills.
For a hysterical read on a lost cat, you should check this out.
OK, I am sorry for anyone who loses a pet since I like animals. But seriously? Look at that cat. It does not look like a back-packing kind of feline. And who takes a cat hiking? I am also thinking that Lucky is not a good name for a cat since it seems to be tempting fate. No cat should be named Lucky before it has used up at least 5 of its 9 lives.
On the subject of bad names for cats, one of my neighbors had a cat named Trevor. Yes, Trevor. I am preparing a post on stupid pet names, but that is for another day. Trevor's parents went away for a few days and Trevor escaped in their absence, perhaps lonely or merely pissed off that he had been left alone. Cats are like that.
Being an indoor cat and most likely lacking survival skills Trevor, predictably, remained at large for days in spite of his owners attempts to locate him. Desperate, they contacted an animal communicator who somehow, remotely, intuited that Trevor was alive, but "in a dark place". That will be $75, payable by Mastercard or Visa. Dark place = dead cat. There are lots of predators in my neck of the woods and Trevor has never returned home, nor has he called or written. He is likely living on the street with a $100/day catnip habit. After a few months the neighbors gave up and adopted a new Trevor.
I was thinking that the owners of the lost Hiking Cat might want to consult a cat psychic as well for some input as to the whereabouts of their lost pet. Perhaps it went trekking in the Catskills.
For a hysterical read on a lost cat, you should check this out.
Monday, February 13, 2012
...and the winner is....
Number 1! If you picked 2 or 3, don't feel bad; at least parts of their story are plausible. I, however, have a strict policy that injuries sustained in a multi-tiered and complicated fashion are automatically suspect if they involve animals. I try not to be sucked in by smoke and mirrors, drama, weeping and wailing, and drama. Did I mention drama?
And just to put your mind at ease, no animals were harmed in the fabrication of the injuries of numbers 2 and 3.
And just to put your mind at ease, no animals were harmed in the fabrication of the injuries of numbers 2 and 3.
Friday, February 10, 2012
On Picking a Winner
The more elaborate the story, the more I think the patient is full of shit. After 35 years, I think I have developed a pretty good sense of what is and what is not complete bollocks. You just know that a knee injury that occurred after "tripping over the cat while carrying laundry and answering the phone while simultaneously doing a crossword puzzle and reciting the Gettysburg Address" is overkill. But then, you never know. Mostly if it's yellow, has webbed feet and quacks, you'd probably think duck and not chicken.
OK. The following are three examples of injuries that presented themselves to the ER. Let's see if you can figure out which one I thought was absolutely real.
1. 52 year old woman with a facial laceration and a black eye. She had slipped on some ice in the parking lot at work, skidded, fell over a snowbank, slid down an embankment and came to rest on the frozen river. She complained of headache since she had banged her head on a tree on the way down.
2. 55 year old male complained of severe back pain and laceration. He had been rough housing with grandchildren and had fallen off the bed, landing on a Lego Empire State Building under which the cat was slumbering. The cat scratched his arm because the lamp landed on it.
3. 32 year old female with complaint of dislocated shoulder. She had slipped on maybe some juice on the floor of her kitchen while carrying a case of water, went on to trip over the dog and had fallen, landing on her shoulder on top of the open dishwasher as the case of water flew into the air and landed on her leg.
Two out of the three are frequent visitors to the ER with uncanny propensity for freak accidents which result in minimal physical finding but always a request for narcotic analgesia.
What do you think? Answer on Monday. Class dismissed.
OK. The following are three examples of injuries that presented themselves to the ER. Let's see if you can figure out which one I thought was absolutely real.
1. 52 year old woman with a facial laceration and a black eye. She had slipped on some ice in the parking lot at work, skidded, fell over a snowbank, slid down an embankment and came to rest on the frozen river. She complained of headache since she had banged her head on a tree on the way down.
2. 55 year old male complained of severe back pain and laceration. He had been rough housing with grandchildren and had fallen off the bed, landing on a Lego Empire State Building under which the cat was slumbering. The cat scratched his arm because the lamp landed on it.
3. 32 year old female with complaint of dislocated shoulder. She had slipped on maybe some juice on the floor of her kitchen while carrying a case of water, went on to trip over the dog and had fallen, landing on her shoulder on top of the open dishwasher as the case of water flew into the air and landed on her leg.
Two out of the three are frequent visitors to the ER with uncanny propensity for freak accidents which result in minimal physical finding but always a request for narcotic analgesia.
What do you think? Answer on Monday. Class dismissed.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Fun and Games
Lee from xray had invited me to the local health club 4 or 5 months ago in an effort to entice me join. I played a game called Walleyball, a sort of volleyball hybrid played with a kid's bouncy ball; in this case, it was a Spiderman ball. Anyway, I had loads of fun and wanted to join, but it took some doing to convince Mr. EDNurseasauras that it might be good for us. We walk the dog all the time, and he hikes, but since I've stopped skating I needed something else to do. With lots of group exercise classes, the pool, and some new fun and games it seemed like a good move. I signed the two of us up the first part of the month.
I have yet to step into the pool, but there are some aqua classes I want to try. There's tennis, yoga, Zumba, something called Body Combat that sounds dangerous, and lots of other stuff that should keep me out of trouble. I have been enjoying Walleyball, Pickleball (a tennis/ping pong type of game with a scoring system that only an MIT graduate could learn), and a couple of group classes.
I should mention that the Walleyball is for the over-50 crowd only, and they play about four mornings per week. Whereas the co-ed walleyball game I played several months ago was fun, light and with a range of player abilities, there had apparently been an influx of serious ex-athletes out for blood. They are all men whom I call "The Fermented Jockstraps".
For the most part people are fairly gracious; "nice shot", "good try", "almost, you'll get it next time", and "you are doing really well for just learning the game", but there is always someone who has to turn every game into the 1980 USA-Russia Olympic hockey game, with a tendency to ruin it for everyone else. Especially when the men outnumber the women 2:1. They are LOADED with helpful hints.
"Play back"
"Play closer to the net"
"Play away from the wall when she serves"
"Play his serves off the wall"
"Her serves are virtually impossible to hit when she's on"
"Let it hit the back wall; it's out of play"
I pretty much stopped listening and tried to just play the ball as best I could. It really wasn't as much fun as I remembered it thanks to Art. His helpful hints go something like this:
"Shoulda had that"
"Shoulda let that go"
"That was yours"
"Try to get it over the net"
"Be aggressive"
Aggressive? I am competitive, but it is just a game. A fun game. Y'all are mostly retired but I have still have to make a living. You really don't want to tell me to be aggressive, but...ok.
Next time I went right for the ball since Art was going for every ball including some that should have rightfully been mine. I'll show you aggressive.
I connected with the ball and his hand but drew blood. I gave him a raised eyebrow in challenge but didn't apologize.
And that just about covers Walleyball, much more fun now that Art has gone to Florida for a month.
I have yet to step into the pool, but there are some aqua classes I want to try. There's tennis, yoga, Zumba, something called Body Combat that sounds dangerous, and lots of other stuff that should keep me out of trouble. I have been enjoying Walleyball, Pickleball (a tennis/ping pong type of game with a scoring system that only an MIT graduate could learn), and a couple of group classes.
I should mention that the Walleyball is for the over-50 crowd only, and they play about four mornings per week. Whereas the co-ed walleyball game I played several months ago was fun, light and with a range of player abilities, there had apparently been an influx of serious ex-athletes out for blood. They are all men whom I call "The Fermented Jockstraps".
For the most part people are fairly gracious; "nice shot", "good try", "almost, you'll get it next time", and "you are doing really well for just learning the game", but there is always someone who has to turn every game into the 1980 USA-Russia Olympic hockey game, with a tendency to ruin it for everyone else. Especially when the men outnumber the women 2:1. They are LOADED with helpful hints.
"Play back"
"Play closer to the net"
"Play away from the wall when she serves"
"Play his serves off the wall"
"Her serves are virtually impossible to hit when she's on"
"Let it hit the back wall; it's out of play"
I pretty much stopped listening and tried to just play the ball as best I could. It really wasn't as much fun as I remembered it thanks to Art. His helpful hints go something like this:
"Shoulda had that"
"Shoulda let that go"
"That was yours"
"Try to get it over the net"
"Be aggressive"
Aggressive? I am competitive, but it is just a game. A fun game. Y'all are mostly retired but I have still have to make a living. You really don't want to tell me to be aggressive, but...ok.
Next time I went right for the ball since Art was going for every ball including some that should have rightfully been mine. I'll show you aggressive.
I connected with the ball and his hand but drew blood. I gave him a raised eyebrow in challenge but didn't apologize.
And that just about covers Walleyball, much more fun now that Art has gone to Florida for a month.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)