A Christmas Reprise

I included this in a previous blog entry from a few years ago, but it still fits!
Have a lovely Christmas and don't eat yellow snow.....

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the town.
Everyones' smiles were all turned upside down!
"We still are not finished, the house is not ready!"
"The carpets are dirty,"
"My legs are still hairy!"
"How will we be able to have Christmas day?"
"When things are all messy and in disarray?"
"I still have at least fourteen presents to buy."
"Why I wait till the last minute, I just don't know why."
Then while making my list of the tasks for the day,
The mailman pulled up with my gifts from Ebay!
A call to dear Stanley who steam cleaned my rug,
I gave him some nut bread and big Christmas hug!
Then my children and puppies all woke up to say,
"Dear Mama, don't worry about Christmas Day!"
"The reason it's here is because of true love."
"From our families and friends and the dear Lord above."
"The joy we'll all feel can't be bought from a store."
"It's from having our loved ones come darken our door."
So put down your worries and stock up with cheer.
And give thanks that we're blessed and we've lived through this year.
Cuz time it is fleeting, so my wish to you,
Is not to get caught up in the hullabaloo.
So kiss all your peeps and be glad that you got 'em.
And if you can find one, go hug a big possum! (you knew he would be in here somewhere)
Cuz all of these folks are what make life worth living.
It's not what your getting or what you are giving!
So I'm sending a group hug that I hope will spiral.
I hope that it's catches on, maybe go viral.
For love, peace and joy and some holiday cheer.
To all of you that kept me smiling this year!
And as for the presents, if you hit rock bottom.
Just drop by my house, I will give you MY possum. (sorry, I couldn't resist!)
........I'm just sayin'

“EGADS, REALLY?!?!?!”

Went to the emergency room the other day.

Not me personally, (although I did try to lop my left hand off once while using a chain saw on a pesky peach tree).

Fortunately just as I reached out to pull back a particularly stubborn branch, I realized that the whirring blade would not differentiate between wood and my tender flesh).

Millimeters away from being Edward Scissorhands.

Or Edward Scissorhand.

But I digress.

So the recent incident involved a dear friend of mine who is a surgical tech in the operating room where I work.

She is a magnificent creature.

Clever, adorable and quite skilled at her job.

On this particular day while setting up her next case she went to place a scalpel on the sterile field and BLOOP!

It leaped from the table and began its descent onto the non-sterile floor.

Now here is the part that your brain plays back in slow motion at a later time.

Your logical brain screams, “Man down, everybody clear!”

While the impulsive, instinctual side of the brain instantaneously screams, “Catch it before it reaches the ground!”

So apparently the impulsive side was the master of the universe that day and therefore she reached out to grab the nose-diving knife.

Poke…….

Flesh giving way to razor sharp steel.

“Yeowiiiieeeee!”

Now mind you that was not her yelling like a stuck pig, but all of the folks who witnessed the carnage.

She was a bastion of courage and quietness, striding to the sink to stave off the spurting wound, while others whirled around her in disbelief.

I don’t blame the squealing witnesses, as the blood splattered floor and doorway looked straight out of Dexter.

Meanwhile the punctured arteriole spurted and squirted like PeeWee Hermans' lawn sprinkler.

Out of the chaos voices of clarity.

“She needs to go the ER”

“She needs to sit down”

“She needs to bite on a bullet and have a shot of whiskey” (not really, but sorta)

I stepped forward and said, “let me get a wheelchair and I can take you to the ER!”

I’m sure my Superheros cape was flapping in the breeze as I shouted this edict.

Considering that fact that I am older than 90% of my co-workers, I am generally thought of as one of two things,

1. Crazy old dog lady (guilty as charged) or
2. The “Mamapandza” (well, duh!)

So my “mama” gene kicked in and I wanted to make sure that my little chick was attended to properly.

Pronto!

There is a large, winding corridor separating the hospital where I work from the hospital next door which houses the Emergency Room.

I began to sprint down this hallway, my adoptive work daughter stoically holding on to her wheelchair for dear life until I could deliver my precious cargo to the automatic door of the ER.

Considering that I had knee surgery last December, she probably could have chosen a better and faster carrier pigeon for this process.

In we go, flying past the doors into the inner sanctum of the hallowed place.

The ER.

People think it stands for Emergency Room.

When in fact it is French for “EGADS, REALLY?!?!?!”

Inside this magical waiting area of pandemonium are all sorts of humans in various stages of injury and illness.

There are the usual falls off of a ladder,

“Yes, doctor, I thought I could reach that last Christmas light on the corner of the house while standing on the top rung of a ten foot wobbly ladder using a cardboard shoe box for additional height.”

 “Yes, I realize it’s July, but I believe in taking my time with household chores.”

The butt-clenching cuts,

“Yes doc, my can opener was made in 1902 and was once a prop on Little House on the Prairie, is that a problem?”

My sister was opening a can of soup for her husband the other day and almost lopped off the end of her finger.

This validates my contention that cooking can be hazardous to your health.

No never ever sliced open a digit on a Taco Bell wrapper!

It was so gruesome that when she took off the bandage I had to cover it with my hand when we were having any kind of conversation.

Otherwise I would peer at it like a bad train wreck and not hear a word she was saying.

Until it was healed it looked a little bit like a turtle head….

But I digress.

There are the burns that defy explanation.

My Mother once severely burned her hand while boiling a pot of water to make a cup of coffee.

Doc:  “Ma’am, you do realize that in this day and age you can actually buy a coffee maker?”

“And since you are over 80 years old, I know you are not on a contestant on “Survivor”, AND unless you want your other hand to resemble Freddy Kruger's face, please invest in this wonder of modern technology.”

My Mom:  “But I’ve always done it this way!”

Doc:  Sigh….

But I digress.

Anyway, here we go flying through the automatic doors, flags a flyin’, only to come to a screeching halt at the admissions desk.

Clerk: “May I help you?’

Us:  “Nope. Just wondering where we should go to lunch today and decided that your vending machine offers some pretty amazing fare, so we thought we would roll on in!” 

“Plus this free lemon water is out of this world.”

“OF COURSE YOU CAN HELP US!”

Clerk: (glaring)  “What seems to be the problem?”

Now to be fair, the job of a triage clerk in the ER is somewhat like being St. Peter at the gates of Heaven.

“Oh sure it’s important for you to get inside!” “But I know there is nobody in here that knows you!”

BTW, Triage is French for “Sit down while I figure out whose dying the fastest.”

Prioritizing the extent of symptoms, disease, and injuries can make for a long afternoon.

This lady was not amused by my glib antics.

Me: “She injured her hand.” “She grabbed a 10 blade scalpel to keep it from hitting the ground and it jabbed into the fleshy part of her palm.” “She’s bleeding pretty badly, hence the blood soaked towel and the ashy pallor of her face.”

Clerk:  “Do you have insurance?”

Sigh…..

By now my chicklet is pretty much at the end of her proverbial rope and I am glad we didn’t bring the offending scalpel with us for show and tell.

I picture her leaping from the wheelchair and doing some serious Benihana slice and dice on the clerk.

Hey, we already had the towel to clean up any evidence!

But anger and frustration is the norm of ER folks and would not have done us any good except that they would have handcuffed her (and me) to the wheelchair.

So deep breath……and then answering the required administrative paperwork stuff.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the patient is losing her patience as well as a good part of her blood volume.

Clerk: “Okay, sign this and someone will see you shortly.”

I’m thinking, “Can she sign it in blood?”  “Oh wait, she has no blood, BECAUSE IT’S DRAINED FROM HER LIFELESS CORPSE!”

Now in ER land, “shortly” can mean a little while, or it can mean “when we take care of all of these other people who are sicker than you, or it can mean, “Can someone check that skeleton in the corner and see if it still has a pulse, and an insurance card?”

Luckily, we must have appeared desperate enough to warrant pronto attention because a few minutes later a kindly nurse appeared.

We were wheeled inside, only to be deposited into another room where we were told to wait.

They do this to give you the impression that you are one step closer to seeing a doctor and to keep you from pummeling the annoying precocious snot-nosed three old sitting next to you in the waiting room into a bloody pulp.

Like when you are almost at the front of the line in Disneyland…….

and then you see a billion people in a zig-zag line hidden behind some cartoon shaped bushes.

This room had a wall that was decorated with inspiring messages, Dream, Hope, Peace, Serenity, Live, RELAX, Heal, BELIEVE.

It did not escape me that relax and believe were in capital letters.

I took it to mean, “You better RELAX if you BELIEVE you are getting out of here any time soon!”

My charge proceeded to make a rude, yet satisfying finger puppet gesture that displayed her opinion of these admonitions.

With her good hand.

At this point in time my sick mentality went into high gear and I began to take pictures.

“We need to document this!”

“GRRRRR…..”

I will spare you the gesture pic.

It was hilarious.

Eventually a nurse poked her head into the room and wheeled us off to do vitals and assess the situation. 

She proceeded to proclaim, “Your blood pressure is a little high.”

“REALLY, I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY THAT WOULD BE?”

“I AM TOTALLY SHOCKED I HAVE ANY BLOOD PRESSURE AT ALL SINCE I’M HOLDING MOST OF MY BLOOD VOLUME IN THIS TOWEL ON MY LAP!”

They must have decided that we were shady, loud characters who might reek havoc in the waiting room and found us a cubicle actually INSIDE the ER.

Believe me when I tell you that if you ever go to an ER, everyone within 20 feet will end up knowing your bloody business.

I believe this is a universal rule, as it has been this way in any ER that I have ever seen.

All of the “rooms” are gurneys which are approximately 2 feet apart, surrounded by curtains on those dressing room type slide tracks.

So you will be privy to the Joe Blow next door who is howling because he has a fence post imbedded in his upper thigh. (I bet there is a juicy story behind that hot mess)

Therefore be aware that privacy is not the order of the day.

Hopefully you have an ER buddy to be on the look out while you put on your backless, butt revealing hospital gown.

Fun stuff.

Into our “room” swooshed the ER doctor who was a delightful, harried, kind young man to assess the wound.

He looked like he just came from junior high school..

As I get older, it seems like all professional people appear to be 14 years old.

I imagine them playing with Legos and crayons on their breaks.

This is especially upsetting with airplane pilots.

The number one criteria for an ER doctor is to remain calm and have the same, “that’s not too bad” look on their face at all times.

He peeled back and towel and witnessed the carnage.

(Spoiler alert!  For those of you with weak stomachs, you better skip this next part!)

“Hmmm, yes, it appears you have poked a big hole in your hand which is causing the blood to squirt around all willy-nilly and make you sad.” (my translation)

“I don’t think the damage is too extensive.”

“I may just have to suture the interior part of the wound which seems to be causing most of the bleeding and the outside might just need a stitch or two.”

Translation:  YEOWWEEEEEE!

“We will inject you with a small amount of local anesthetic which will enable me to close the wound without you grabbing me by the hair and poking out my eyes.”

“Cuz I use my eyes.”

“Everyday.”

Me: “So are you a good doctor, or did you draw the short straw to work in here?”

 (I believe in getting right to the point)

Doc:  “You’re funny.”

Me: “No, I’m not kidding.”

Woosh, the curtain flies back and he disappears into the bowels of the ER,

(My charge, who we will now refer to as Dani.)

Dani: “Good job, now you scared him off!”

“It was a valid question!”

Dani:  “Sheesh, but he won’t be sewing angry on YOUR hand!”

In the curtain strolls a nurse who informs us that she will be prepping Dani’s hand for the procedure.

This entailed pouring lots of really stingy stuff on the open hole and then wiping it up.

Dani was not amused by this process.

She then laid out all of the items required for the hand repair.

In this plethora of nonsense was the lidocaine syringe which was going to be used to numb the wound for the major stitch work.

In reality this needle is probably a couple of inches long, but when it is being used on YOU, it looks and feels to be a little short of a foot.

The doc returns and because he is treating 13 patients at once is a little scattered, albeit efficient and kind.

Doc: “I’m going to inject the lidocaine now so I can painlessly stitch you up and send you on your way.”

Me:  “Dani, do you want me to hold your hand while he does this?”

Dani: “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

Good for her, not so much for me.

As Doogie Howser starts his numbing quest which entails methodically jamming this needle directly into her open wound over and over and over again, she attempts to crush every bone in my hand, one at a time.

Dani: “Yeoweeeeeee!” “What the freakity, frickety heck are you doing?”  “Owwwwwww!!!!”

“So glad you are giving me this so you won’t HURT ME!”

“WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS?!!?”

Doogie is unfazed.

Her rant falls on deaf ears.

Doc: “Almost done.”

Well that was good news because the only bone in my hand that was not reduced to powder was my thumb.

And Dani was a sweating, pale heap on the gurney.

Doc:  “Okay, now I can start.”

Me:  “So are you good at this or did you get the same grade that I got in sewing class?"

Failed Slip-Stitch 101.

Doc: (Giving me that shut-up-before-I-injure-you look), “I’m actually pretty good.”

I think WE will be the judge of that.

Thus he begins to dig and stitch and pull and tuck.

Closing the offending spurting arteriole and working his way to the surface with tiny stitches which looked “pretty good”.

Nothing Frankenstein-esque in his work.

It all culminated in a tiny stitch which looked as harmless as a shaving nick.

A whole lot of blood from a miniscule vascular well.

Dani was relieved that there was not long term major damage and that she did not require Miss Scarlett to saw off the offending limb.

I was relieved that Doogie was finished and gave him a weak but intact thumbs up.

I commissioned Dani to pose for a final gown-wearing wound bandage closure picture.

After the obligatory discharge instructions, “Do not drive a car after taking the drugs we are giving you for when you get home."

"Have a party instead.”

We rolled back to work where we were met with shouts of relief and multiple pats on the back and the head.

So the day was saved, the hand was puffy yet still usable and all went back to “normal” in the Emergency Room.

I am sure they were not sorry to see us ruffians leave.

But we hadn’t eaten lunch and were famished and thirsty.

“Hey Dani, are you still on board for some snazzy lemon water and vending machine fare?”

“Hop back in that wheelchair Missy, I know just the place!”

…….I’m Just Sayin……..

Over by the Crater Couch you can observe the Cable Cannibal in its natural habitat!

I wrote the following blog entry on February 5,2014, the day I turned off my cable.

It is still disconnected.

And aside from the first few days where I sat slack jawed staring at the darkened screen waiting for it to magically 
materialize into life, I have survived.

Unfortunately, I still love Oreos and hot tea.

February 5, 2014

Went into rehab today.

No, not in the traditional Lindsey Lohan type of drug stuff way but I walked away from an equally addictive brain drain. By that I mean, I turned off my cable and returned my DVR boxes.

All I can say about that is,
AAARRRGGGHHHHH!
As I stomped away from the UPS store where I had just mailed back the insidious Pandora boxes of entertainment, I felt a little twinge of what Lots wife must have experienced. 
I knew if I glanced behind me I would have been confronted by the faces of Sherlock Holmes, Leonard Leakey Hofstadter, Tyrion Lannister, and the entire cast of Downton Abbey with their faces smashed against the glass screaming, "NOOOOOO!"
"Traitor!"
"Come back!"
"Don't leave us!"
But alas, it had to be done.
Due in part to their constant, daily, non-stop participation in my life, plus the fact that my diet has consisted mostly of unrefined sugar and Oreos the past year, three critical things have happened.

One: My body has increased its girth in frightening numbers resulting in sweat pants for every occasion and a matching turkey wattle.

Two: I have established a permanent nest in my couch complete with a "butt crater" which is the exact shape of my ever expanding backside. 

And Three: My cholesterol and triglyceride numbers are close to matching those of the national debt.

Thus when I opened my cable bill last month my neighbor called 911 because he assumed I was being attacked by an intruder.
It was $205.
In case you didn't read that properly I will repeat it.
TWO. HUNDRED. AND. FIVE DOLLARS!!
This alone would have caused me to spit my morning Oreos and sweet tea all over the crater couch, 
and my sock monkey slippers,
if I hadn't been standing on my front porch.
When I finally regained consciousness and plucked the geranium leaves off my sweaty cheeks, I rolled over in the dirt that serves as my lawn and cried to the heavens, "how did this happen?!?"
Didn't I just sign up for a special "bundle" price of $79 bucks just a few months ago?


Or was that over a year ago?

Over the last few months they have been insidiously adding fees and charges onto my bill all willy-nilly for every blasted thing under the sun.

“Oh ma’am you changed the channel over 10 times a day. That’s a $10 fee.”

“And you watched over 4 hours of educational television. That’s a $20 fee because you were trying to expand your intelligence.”

“That is just not allowed!”

“We will kindly credit you with $5 because you glanced at Jerry Springer for three seconds to see if that man actually HAD two heads and was marrying his own Buick!”

“Now that is what network is all about, missy!”

When I called them to complain about the bill, they explained to me that the “Special Bundle Offers” which I see advertised for $29.99 a month are not meant for me, the long time subscriber, but for all of those poor new suckers they are trying to grasp with their evil cable tendrils.

Never mind, it doesn't matter.  

What does matter is that I am now expected to fork over the amount of money that I used to pay every month for the mortgage on my first house for the privilege of the ability to watch Honey Boo Boo. 

(BTW, I’ve never watched this mess they refer to as a TV series. The commercials were bad enough)

Or a simulated fish aquarium.
IF I so desire.

So I drug out my mental treasure chest and began to rummage through the riffraff.

When?

When did this madness begin?

When did I decide that it was okay to waste countless, precious hours and minutes dragging my mind through this swamp of mediocrity?

Please do not get me wrong, there are many fantastic, clever, innovative, well-written shows on television.

There are also programs which inform and educate us on important world issues as well as those that teach us how to remodel our horrid bathrooms.

But we really must admit.

So much of it is just plain bad theater.

For me it became a placebo during some rough patches in my life.

A glass teat of comfort.

A mind-numbing band aid to sooth the weary soul.

But a new dawn has emerged.

I have taken a stand.

No more.

I have drawn the hard line in the media sand and subscribed to the order of: 
NO MORE CABLE!

At least for now.

It is time to rejuvenate the brain and the pocket book.

Time to get off of the couch and get rid of some of this heart-choking lard.

Time to start creating something that can make me laugh out loud at my keyboard or bring a souls heart to its knees.

As Sarah Bareilles says, “You can be amazing, you can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug.”

Before now I have been hesitant to admit to others, or even to myself, that I am a writer!

Some of you may laugh at that statement, but that’s okay.

Even the saints had their critics.

So ready or not, I am going to write!

To weave stories which are my own instead of gleaning moments of joy from the work of others!

Therefore I decree until July of this year I am on a strict diet of DVD’s and an occasional peek at my daughters IPad when she is in town and the media monkey just won’t climb off of my back.

After that I will re-assess the situation.

Because football season starts in the Fall.

And I do so love my Chargers.

And the magnificent Game of Thrones will be starting soon.

And the new season of Sherlock Holmes with the clever
 Mr. Cumberbatch.

And the True Detectives.

And who knows what that minx Honey Boo Boo will be up to in the future.

Not to mention those fuzzy Duck Dynasty boys!

Now where is that brochure they mailed me about the special price on a cable bundle?

AAARRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!

I’m just sayin’.......

The Echo Park "Goose Troupe"

A tranquil Saturday morning at Echo Park in Los Angeles.
I was on a three day sabbatical to the City of Angels for a quick toe dip into the busy lives of my daughters.
A welcome respite from the responsibilities of everyday duties. 
We decided to take a walk to the nearby park to exercise the restless pups and breathe in the promise of Spring.
Echo Park is situated in an older ethnic neighborhood rich in smells, sounds, diverse cultures and life!
The park is happily only one short block from their house and was closed for two long years for a spectacular facelift.
They closed the entire site complete with barricades to dredge out layers of rotted, rancid droppings from the bottom of the lake and replace the water. 
The city installed geyser fountains, planted new grass, built a quaint coffee house resembling a lighthouse and transformed the once dying space into a living oasis for the concrete jungle citizens. 
Complete with fish, paddle boats and various species of waterfowl. 
On the weekends it is especially thriving.
Old men playing checkers on picnic tables cackling with delight as they conquer the board.
Mothers pushing strollers of fussy children.
The runners of all ages and sizes, from the Weight Watcher pack checking their FitBits, to the reed thin marathoner who appeared to have been air dropped directly out of the sky from Kenya.
Skin a glistening healthy cocoa sporting a massive stark white beard. 
Muscles in harmony with energy.

In the "zone".
As I watched him stride toward me I found myself envying his effortless ability to glide over the pavement in his bright green Nikes.
The kids took off to circle the park with the crazy canines in tow and because of my recent knee surgery I sat down on a bench to people watch.
It was then that I saw them.
Three geese in the park.
A pilgrimage of peckage. 
Stairsteps in featherhood.
Lazily waddling across the grass, in a row, looking for a handout. 
A Saturday morning breadcrumb banquet.
The smallest goose a muddy gray, dull mottled feathers, not a stand out by any means.
But quick, darting, purposeful.
The obvious motivated leader of this pack of begging ne're do wells. 
The second goose in line was bigger. 
A cream colored, slothful, rotund creature.
In no hurry.
Over-sized neon-orange webbed feet. 
Content to be the middle child of this band of misfits.
Plodding aimlessly behind his gray commander.
Unquestioning.
Following.
And last in this goose stepping gaggle was a massive gander.
Standing over 2 feet tall, gorgeous black and white feathers, decorative orange and blood red markings above a long black beak.
Impressive fellow. 
I watched as they bullied their way out of the reeds by the water and followed their diminutive leader toward the closest human. 
The grey goose chose a group of four perched by the edge of the water with their pants rolled up to the knees dangling their toes in the murky green water.
Backpacks strewn about, a round of Starbucks clutched to their chests. 
"Ooohhh look!"
"How adorable!"
"Isn't he beautiful!" (referring to the gander)
Out came the phones and the IPads clicking the honking group into cyberspace for all to see.

(The picture above was not any of them, but it amused me when I found it on my Internet search under "goose") 

I admit that I wish I had brought my phone with me.
"He's so big!"
"Look at his markings!"
As if on cue he began to turn, "strutting his stuff", drawing more people to wander over to observe. 
The crowd searched for goodies to stall the threesome, bits of Starbucks scones, broken saltines, infants Goldfish cracker snacks.
The middle goose was friendly, nibbling directly from outstretched palms, coaxing donations from the admirers. 
The gray commander goose gleaned his share from the onlookers but wanted no part of them close up.
Meanwhile the gander performed his role perfectly in this waterside ballet.
The sideshow hawker drawing in the admiring patrons. 
No real effort involved, just being the fluffy eye candy. 
The hard sell.
This scene played out for some time with more people joining the “Goose Admiration Society” by the minute. 
Eventually duties beckoned, attention waned, babies grew fussy and the crowd began to scatter. 
As if on cue, the gray goose sensed the slowdown, hustled his hustlers into a row and set off in search of new frontiers. 
I watched as they waddled away, next to the lakeside looking for a new audience. 
I smiled to myself thinking they were a sort of microcosm of our society.
The non-descript hard working folks.
Flying under the radar.
Doing most of the work but not getting or wanting the attention.
The reward WAS the work.
Then there are the followers.
Amicable.
Friendly.
Happy.
Content to be on the fringes but contributing their part to the project.
And finally the "Stars Of The Show!"
The pretty face on the brochure.
The media darlings.
The attraction.
The lure with no job but just showing up. 
But useless without someone to guide them to the gold. 
I chuckled to myself and wondered which one am I?
As a group they were productive and content.
By themselves they would go hungry.
We all play our part no matter how mundane or grandiose it may seem. 
We are all in this crazy world together whether we acknowledge it or not.
Find your part.
Play it well.
No matter how big or small we are all pieces of this puzzle we call life. 
We ARE the meaning.
We ARE the work. 
Oh, and one more thing. 
My band of wandering geese wanted me to remind you,

Always remember that,
"One man's crumbs are another man's banquet!"

I’m just sayin'…....

All I Want For Christmas Is A New Meniscus.....Part Deux (That's French For Two)

It was finally here!
After jumping through insurance hoops for well over a year it was surgery day!
Now for anyone who has ever been preparing their lives for any kind of surgical procedure, the day seems forever away and then suddenly it's tomorrow! 
You have to arrange for the time off from work and apply for disability. 
(Set aside about two months to complete this paperwork) 
Not unlike applying for a drivers license.
Or an international passport.
Just as an FYI, there was no box on the disability form to check for "I-jacked-up-my-knee-stupidly-yanking-up-carpet-by-myself-I-should-have-hired-it-done". 
I had to check "other".
The pre-surgery form world is vast and endless.
The most jestful form you encounter is the informational database for the doctor that supplies all your medical history.
This is used to assess your physical condition, past surgeries, your ability to tolerate anesthesia and to also see just how little you pay attention when you are filling out forms. 
I apparently misunderstood one little check box area and therefore informed them that, yes, I had been afflicted with every disease ever known to mankind.
From Asthma, check.
To Yellow Fever, check.
I don't think they had a disease that started with Z.
Hey, it was not my fault they used double negatives! 
Nurse... "Excuse me ma'am, have you really had all of these ailments?" 
"Cuz you really don't appear to be deaf and blind!"
Me..."No I haven't, I just wanted to get finished quickly, I didn't even read any of it!"
"Plus your crappy pen held on the clipboard by a fan light chain was bugging me!"
She was not amused by my droll yet honest answer.
Your biggest fear is that you will write something so ridiculous that the nurses will copy it and use it in their 
"Dumb Answers Hall of Fame."
Like the lady who was asked if she was sexually active and answered, "No, I just lie there."
You can't make this stuff up.
So the week before surgery you do all the really important stuff.
1. Pay your life insurance.
2. Scribble a will on a Taco Bell napkin.
3. Purchase non-holey underwear.
4. Do essential pertinent area grooming. 
I decided that a since a weedwacker was probably not a standard surgical instrument and since they actually needed to SEE my knee, deforestation of the area was a priority.
As was a pedicure.
I didn't want them putting me under anesthesia and then running from the room screaming, "I think we've unearthed Howard Hughes!"
"Bring in the Dremel!"
As luck would have it, the night before my surgery, the gas company decided they needed to do some maintenance work on my block. 
They mailed out a letter declaring that the power would be out from 10:00 p.m until 6:00 a.m the next morning. 
Because I am efficient I posted this notice prominently on my frig.
Then I promptly forgot about it.
So at about 10 minutes to 10:00, pre surgery night, I realized that yes, the electricity was indeed being turned off in 10 minutes and I needed to shower and get all my junk together before this occurred.
Mainly because showering in the morning at 4:00 A.M, in freezing water, before my o'dark thirty check-in time was not going to be likely.
I had barely finished my shower when I was plunged into darkness.
After rummaging through the cupboards and finding my camping lantern and some candles, I finished up my prep work feeling like Harry Potter skulking through Hogwarts.
The major problem with the no electricity thing was that the next morning I had to get ready in pitch darkness with only my lantern to guide me. 
Therefore when I checked in at the hospital I looked like I had dressed in a card board box. 
Extreme bedhead hair, no eyebrows (due to an unfortunate plucking episode at the age of 12), and clothes all askew. 
Thank goodness I had laid out the non-holey underwear before the lights went out.
And that all my clothing was right side out. 
This can be a serious issue.
Luckily my sister was there to monitor tags and inside out clothes checkage.
Important segue:
I always struggle with the dilemma of telling people when they have an unfortunate clothes faux pas.
Tags sticking out, nylon thong stuck between the shoulder blades of a Rayon work-out jacket.
Toilet paper clinging to a shoe.
Just what is the protocol here?
Do you say, "Excuse me Miss,
your chonies are clinging to your back like a tiny Rhesus monkey?"
Or do you just let it go?
I once stood in line behind a woman at California Adventure who had her pants on inside out.
Full on tag flapping in the breeze, seams obviously on the outside. 
I stood silent.
To this day I regret not telling her.
The problem with this scenario is that she looked worn out and stressed as it was.
Messy hair.
Grasping a whiny kid by his bony little arm.
At her Disneyland disaster point.
Maybe the clothes information would be the straw that broke the Mamas back and she would have wheeled around and stabbed me in the eye with the wooden handle of a giant circular Mickey Mouse lollipop.
All the while screeching, "Do you think I give a crap??!"
"I just spent $42 on two cokes and a churro!" 
"Right now I don't care if I am stark naked!!"
It could happen.
And there is also the possibility that she didn't give a hoot if her pants were on backwards!
After her three day pass to Disneyland, on a cross country trip from Alabama, she probably felt lucky to have pants on at all!
Let alone whether they were inside out.
Just the fact that she hadn't murdered all of her children and flung her haggard carcass out of the Pinocchio Disney tram and into oncoming traffic was a win at this point!
But I digress.
Sitting in the waiting room....
And sitting.....
Just as an FYI, whatever time the hospital tells you to get there, you will NEVER and I repeat, NEVER, be called back at that time.
It's just the universal rule. 
The doctor probably stopped to picked up a latte at Starbucks. 
Or had to floss his or her teeth.
It's like traffic in L.A. 
It's just what is.
Eventually after passing through all designated hospital border check points you are granted access into the inner sanctum.
"Good morning, my name is Sarah (not her real name), and I am your pre-op nurse today." 
"First I'm going to take your blood pressure which will certainly be a bazillion over 90 because you are worried we might make a mistake and hack around on the wrong limb."
"Second, I'm going to give you a lovely hospital gown that is designed to fit no-one which we require you to wear."
"This is because your clothes from home are germy AND if you decide to bolt, all you would be sporting is a purple paper gown with no bum coverage and a pair of non-skid socks."
"Easy to spot from a police helicopter."
Thanks Sarah....
"And last but not least, I am going to start your IV."
If you have a good IV nurse this should not hurt.
They usually give you a little shot of Lidocaine to numb the area before they insert the tiny IV catheter tube into your arm.
Otherwise you would grab the nurse by her hair and body check her into the pastel walls. 
In case you are a time traveler and have been residing in the 1800's, I.V. stands for "into the vein or intravenous."
This is French for "a tube in your arm where we insert drugs that make you think you're a kangaroo."
Or that you live on another planet.
It takes the place of a whack on the head with a wooden mallet or biting a bullet with a shot of whiskey. 
This is called anesthesia. 
Best invention since toilet paper.
A word of advice.
Anything short of a splinter extraction, please ask for anesthesia. 
The best description I can give of anesthesia is this.
The last thing you recall is walking down the hall towards the operating room and the next second you could wake up strapped to an ant hill in the desert with your tush flapping in the breeze and your surgery would be all done.
And you wouldn't even notice. 
All you would care about is, 
"Do I still have eyebrows AND can I have more of that golden sleep elixir?"
"BTW, when is the next bus to Phoenix?"
"AND, what's my name?"
Good stuff.
As it was, all I remember was being escorted down a bright hallway by two delightful operating room nurses, placed on a table surrounded by machines that "go beep" (homage to Monty Python), 
and waking up the following Tuesday. 
Or at least it felt like it. 
My sister said the doctor came into the recovery room and discussed my surgery at length with me while I nodded and asked questions.
I remember none of this.
All I recall was waking up and thinking I had overslept and missed my surgery check-in time.
And being offered Graham crackers and apple juice.
But as my dear Daddy used to say, "Never drink apple juice in a hospital."
"You never know when they'll get their beakers mixed up."
True dat. 
As far as my knee goes, the surgery was very successful.
My meniscus was somewhat promiscuous and had shared its tear farther and wider than originally predicted.
As a result I have been sporting an "Inspector Gadget" robo leg ever since my procedure to stabilize a floppy ligament which was the result of friendly surgery fire.

 
But as they always say, "time must limp on" and I feel so fortunate to live in an era and a country where I could get it repaired.
It sure beats sitting on a skateboard and pushing myself around with a stick the rest of my life. 
Or being Tiny Tim Cratchits' corner buddy in Old England. 
As Mr.Tim would say, "God's blessed me everyone!"
Oh Tiny, you always did have a way with words.
.....I'm just sayin'