Last night, my husband took me out to dinner at a little upscale restaurant featuring American cuisine. By 'upscale', I mean the type of place where you can easily drop sixty dollars on dinner before you even start adding all the extras like appetizers or drinks. Now, as a rule, we tend to avoid these places because I have a strong aversion to spending enough money to buy a week's worth of groceries on a single meal, but we decided to eat there because we were in the mood for spoiling ourselves a little.
Our waiter for the evening was a gentleman who had moved to the United States from London, UK, and he had that delightful British accent I could listen to all night. We had arrived at the restaurant before the regular dinner rush, so our waiter had some extra time to spend with us, and we used that time to get to know him a little. He loves to travel but had moved to the US permanently because of a woman he met here. Unfortunately, the woman had left him after four years, and he is now the proud but single caretaker of two dogs which put a damper on his traveling. He hates the thought of leaving them in a kennel, so he is content to take care of them while working at this restaurant and staying, for now, in the States.
In spite of our conversation, we eventually had to order dinner, and, after a little deliberation, we each chose the steak. There were, of course, some other very interesting entrees to choose from, but I'm not a huge fan of seafood and a lot of the remaining menu items were some form of shrimp or salmon. There were other things too, but a nice steak seemed like the right choice and we settled in to wait. Our waiter filled us in on the history of the restaurant and my husband recounted an evening he had spent there many years ago and how much he had enjoyed it then.
And then our dinners came - beautifully cooked and presented 12-ounce New York strip steaks with bourbon butter accompanied by truffle mashed potatoes and spicy fried onion straws. It looked fabulous and we set about tasting each of the dishes, our waiter standing close by, beaming with pride at the way we praised the food. It was an idyllic evening.
Until I made a little faux pas. Still smiling at the waiter and basking in our new-found camaraderie, I asked him if they had any A1 sauce to put on my steak.
Oops.
His smile froze, and I swear I saw a look of horror flit across his face. For the first time that night, he was actually speechless.
In the end, he brought me the steak sauce they made in house (which tasted suspiciously like A1 sauce), and I learned something. Apparently, asking for a pedestrian condiment like A1 sauce in an upscale restaurant is downright insulting to the chef. I had no idea.
Somehow, we made it through the rest of the meal (which was fabulous), paid our check, left an excellent tip, and headed out for the rest of our evening. But as we left the restaurant, I couldn't help but have one last thought.
I am really glad I didn't ask for ketchup to go on the onion straws.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The High Fructose Corn Syrup Debate
"You need to lose ten pounds. Cut out the high fructose corn syrup." When my annual physical ended with these words from my doctor, I was intrigued. First because I knew I needed to lose a lot more than ten pounds (he's always been a very kind man) and second because I had always associated high fructose corn syrup with regular sodas, something I didn't indulge in very often. I walked away from that appointment with his words resounding in my head, but, fortunately, I have an undisputed talent for putting off things I really need to do, so I mostly forgot about it.
Then one day not too long after that, my husband sent me a link to a video. A pediatric endocrinologist was lecturing on high fructose corn syrup and what it does in the human body and its role in the ever-expanding waistlines of our society. Being in the medical field myself, I watched the video and listened intently to his presentation, fascinated by the science and the physiology of digestion. I carried away the vague impression that the stuff wasn't really good for you, but I was willing to, once again, file that bit of information in the far recesses of my brain from where it would probably never surface again.
Lucky for me, my husband was a lot more health conscious than I was at the time, and he decided to stop eating the stuff. "Great", I thought, sure that this new health fad of his wouldn't last long. I was really confident that he would find out for himself that this doctor was just another health nut who derived some sort of perverse pleasure out of worrying people into drinking diet soda. But I was nothing if not supportive, and we began the arduous task of examining the contents of our refrigerator and kitchen cupboards.
I was shocked. I could not believe just how many of the foods we ate on a regular basis contained high fructose corn syrup. Some things were kind of obvious - sodas, pancake syrup, ice cream, and other sweet treats. But some things weren't obvious at all. As we continued to forage and read labels, we found the sweetener in breakfast cereal, soda crackers, spaghetti sauce, bread, bagels, coffee creamer, juice, jelly, jams - the list goes on and on. I was absolutely stunned at how prevalent it was in nearly everything we ate, and I decided right then that I would heed my doctor's instructions and cut the stuff out of my diet.
Which was easier said than done. We found it was very difficult to find things that fit our new dietary standards. Bread was a big challenge, and finding hamburger buns without high fructose corn syrup was so hard that I finally started making them at home. We had to start buying some things from the organic section of the store, and, because our grocery budget can be a little unforgiving at times, some things we just do without.
And the benefits? Incredible! But before I list those, I want to emphasize that I have not stopped eating sweets. I love them. I just choose things now that are sweetened with regular sugar. I know it sounds like it wouldn't make a difference - after all, the corn growers are constantly telling us that sugar is sugar. But I have personally seen major differences in my health simply by changing my sweetener to all natural sugar, and here are some of them.
1) I have lost weight. In the past three months I have dropped nearly fifteen pounds. Granted, I have consciously been trying to lose weight. But I eat ice cream nearly every night, eat no artificial sweeteners, and have not cut sweets out of my diet. And I am successfully losing weight in a way that I feel is realistic and sustainable. My husband has lost almost twenty-five pounds.
2) My craving for sweets has drastically diminished. I used to be able to sit down and eat an entire package of cookies, candy, cake - fill in the blank. Now, when I do have something sweet to eat, I find that I am more easily satisfied, there's no weird aftertaste in my mouth, and I don't have that insatiable craving for more.
3) My grocery bill has decreased. As I peruse the isles of the store reading labels and searching for products that do not contain high fructose corn syrup, I find that I don't buy a lot of things I used to buy. Yes, I've had to sacrifice a little time and make things from scratch at home if I can't find a store-bought product that meets our standards, but we don't make as many impulse purchases as we used to which, in turn, keeps our grocery bill down.
4) I have more energy. My blood sugar levels stay more stable and I no longer have those spikes of energy followed by the crash that ultimately led me to eat more sweets to try to keep the energy flowing. It was a vicious cycle I thought I would never be able to break, but I have.
5) For the first time in nearly ten years, my liver function tests are normal. I have a chronic condition that requires me to be on strong medication that effects my liver. For all those years, I thought it was the medication that was making my liver work too hard. But, just six months since I stopped consuming high fructose corn syrup, my liver is functioning normally. I can't explain all the science behind the results, and I can't guarantee it will happen to everyone, but it happened for me.
So, there it is. One simple dietary change has made a huge difference in my life, and I am convinced that others can reap the same benefits. It does take a little extra effort, especially at the beginning, but this change has become second nature to us now. High fructose corn syrup is no longer a part of our diet, and I know we are much better off because of it. So why not give it a try? All you have to lose is a few pounds and maybe a couple of unwanted inches.
Then one day not too long after that, my husband sent me a link to a video. A pediatric endocrinologist was lecturing on high fructose corn syrup and what it does in the human body and its role in the ever-expanding waistlines of our society. Being in the medical field myself, I watched the video and listened intently to his presentation, fascinated by the science and the physiology of digestion. I carried away the vague impression that the stuff wasn't really good for you, but I was willing to, once again, file that bit of information in the far recesses of my brain from where it would probably never surface again.
Lucky for me, my husband was a lot more health conscious than I was at the time, and he decided to stop eating the stuff. "Great", I thought, sure that this new health fad of his wouldn't last long. I was really confident that he would find out for himself that this doctor was just another health nut who derived some sort of perverse pleasure out of worrying people into drinking diet soda. But I was nothing if not supportive, and we began the arduous task of examining the contents of our refrigerator and kitchen cupboards.
I was shocked. I could not believe just how many of the foods we ate on a regular basis contained high fructose corn syrup. Some things were kind of obvious - sodas, pancake syrup, ice cream, and other sweet treats. But some things weren't obvious at all. As we continued to forage and read labels, we found the sweetener in breakfast cereal, soda crackers, spaghetti sauce, bread, bagels, coffee creamer, juice, jelly, jams - the list goes on and on. I was absolutely stunned at how prevalent it was in nearly everything we ate, and I decided right then that I would heed my doctor's instructions and cut the stuff out of my diet.
Which was easier said than done. We found it was very difficult to find things that fit our new dietary standards. Bread was a big challenge, and finding hamburger buns without high fructose corn syrup was so hard that I finally started making them at home. We had to start buying some things from the organic section of the store, and, because our grocery budget can be a little unforgiving at times, some things we just do without.
And the benefits? Incredible! But before I list those, I want to emphasize that I have not stopped eating sweets. I love them. I just choose things now that are sweetened with regular sugar. I know it sounds like it wouldn't make a difference - after all, the corn growers are constantly telling us that sugar is sugar. But I have personally seen major differences in my health simply by changing my sweetener to all natural sugar, and here are some of them.
1) I have lost weight. In the past three months I have dropped nearly fifteen pounds. Granted, I have consciously been trying to lose weight. But I eat ice cream nearly every night, eat no artificial sweeteners, and have not cut sweets out of my diet. And I am successfully losing weight in a way that I feel is realistic and sustainable. My husband has lost almost twenty-five pounds.
2) My craving for sweets has drastically diminished. I used to be able to sit down and eat an entire package of cookies, candy, cake - fill in the blank. Now, when I do have something sweet to eat, I find that I am more easily satisfied, there's no weird aftertaste in my mouth, and I don't have that insatiable craving for more.
3) My grocery bill has decreased. As I peruse the isles of the store reading labels and searching for products that do not contain high fructose corn syrup, I find that I don't buy a lot of things I used to buy. Yes, I've had to sacrifice a little time and make things from scratch at home if I can't find a store-bought product that meets our standards, but we don't make as many impulse purchases as we used to which, in turn, keeps our grocery bill down.
4) I have more energy. My blood sugar levels stay more stable and I no longer have those spikes of energy followed by the crash that ultimately led me to eat more sweets to try to keep the energy flowing. It was a vicious cycle I thought I would never be able to break, but I have.
5) For the first time in nearly ten years, my liver function tests are normal. I have a chronic condition that requires me to be on strong medication that effects my liver. For all those years, I thought it was the medication that was making my liver work too hard. But, just six months since I stopped consuming high fructose corn syrup, my liver is functioning normally. I can't explain all the science behind the results, and I can't guarantee it will happen to everyone, but it happened for me.
So, there it is. One simple dietary change has made a huge difference in my life, and I am convinced that others can reap the same benefits. It does take a little extra effort, especially at the beginning, but this change has become second nature to us now. High fructose corn syrup is no longer a part of our diet, and I know we are much better off because of it. So why not give it a try? All you have to lose is a few pounds and maybe a couple of unwanted inches.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Mystery of Friendship
I am a terrible friend.
That sentence would stand alone and end this particular blog post except for one thing. I am blessed with fantastic friends. And they would protest vehemently. So, since I do not want my blog overrun with protesting friends, some of whom are post-menopausal and, I must admit, quite scary at times, I feel the need to elaborate on my opening statement and, perhaps, lend a bit of credence to my self-assessment.
Most of my friends live in states other than the one in which I reside. I live in Kentucky, and they live in places like Georgia, Michigan, Ohio, and so on. Because of this, I don't get to see them very often, so we rely heavily on cell phones and email to keep in touch. We also rely on the US Postal Service and UPS to keep us connected for things such as Christmas and birthdays. I do pretty well on the email and cell phone side of things. I am a master at calling people, usually at the most inopportune moments, but I do call. I also do fairly well at answering email, although my relatively new occupation that requires me to sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day has put a damper on my previous email enthusiasm. I used to run to my laptop every morning, pop open the lid, and scroll through all the email for the day, excitedly answering each one with just the right combination of humor, sincerity, and warmth. Now, I'm lucky if I check my inbox three times a week. I still enjoy sending and receiving the missives from my friends and family, I just hate that it's via an impersonal computer screen that I stare at for the majority of my waking hours anyhow. What was once an exciting pastime has become my taskmaster.
But my real problem, the one that I have tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to overcome is the mailing of Christmas and birthday gifts. I just cannot seem to get the things mailed in a timely manner. For example, just this week, one of my best friends had a birthday. No, I did not forget it. No, I did not have to scramble at the last minute to figure out what to get her and where to get it. I actually got her present more than a week in advance of her actual birthday. No, I was not waiting for my paycheck so I could afford the postage to send it. No, I was not waiting for inspiration to strike me in regards to which birthday card to send. No, I did not even have to go to the post office personally to mail the package; my husband has more flexibility in his home work schedule than I do and is more than willing to mail anything I set by the front door. And no, unfortunately, I did not get her gift mailed to her on time. Worse than that, her birthday was yesterday and I didn't mail the box until today.
I have tried to put the most positive spin on this little problem of mine that I possibly can. "My gift is so great that you'll not want to open it with the rest of the more mundane gifts you receive." Or perhaps, "Just look at it this way. Knowing that a present is coming in the mail later this week will allow you to extend the celebration of your birthday long after the candles have burnt out.". Or, if I'm honest with myself and want to share the whole truth. "I am the world's greatest procrastinator and I just cannot seem to get my act together well enough to mail a stinking box on time." Ah, yes. The truth is not always pretty.
To make matters worse, my friends not only forgive me my shortcoming, they have learned to adapt to it. My aforementioned friend, the one who had a birthday yesterday and is the latest victim of my sloth, told me it was not a problem. If she ever did receive a package from me on time, she would let it sit for a few days before she opened it anyhow or it wouldn't seem right. She also said she would think something was seriously wrong with me if she ever got a box on time. So now, if I ever do get my act together, I'm going to have to send a disclaimer with every present to let people know I haven't been diagnosed with a terminal illness and I'm not foreseeing my own demise. Not that I'll ever have to draft such a notice.
But the worst part of all, the part that keeps me kicking myself and writing angst-ridden blog posts, is that they are always on time. Always. I have never celebrated Christmas or a birthday without being surrounded by a pile of cards and boxes from my out-of-town friends which have usually arrived days before the actual event. And year after year, those cards and boxes keep coming, even though each and every one of them knows that I am going to be late. Pretty amazing bunch of friends, eh?
And that is the mystery. Each of these women is a busy professional with demanding jobs and families, either two-legged or four-legged, to take care of. They all have careers that keep them from their homes and loved ones for the better part of the day. They are smart, capable, strong women who are creative, intelligent, and just plain fun to be with. And they choose to be my friends even though they know they'll never see a birthday or Christmas package without my standard profuse apologies for being late once again. It absolutely boggles the mind. I can't for the life of me imagine why they put up with me. But my life has been so enriched because they do.
I hope they know how much they mean to me, how much I admire and respect them, and how much I love them. And I hope that is enough to make up for my shortcomings.
That sentence would stand alone and end this particular blog post except for one thing. I am blessed with fantastic friends. And they would protest vehemently. So, since I do not want my blog overrun with protesting friends, some of whom are post-menopausal and, I must admit, quite scary at times, I feel the need to elaborate on my opening statement and, perhaps, lend a bit of credence to my self-assessment.
Most of my friends live in states other than the one in which I reside. I live in Kentucky, and they live in places like Georgia, Michigan, Ohio, and so on. Because of this, I don't get to see them very often, so we rely heavily on cell phones and email to keep in touch. We also rely on the US Postal Service and UPS to keep us connected for things such as Christmas and birthdays. I do pretty well on the email and cell phone side of things. I am a master at calling people, usually at the most inopportune moments, but I do call. I also do fairly well at answering email, although my relatively new occupation that requires me to sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day has put a damper on my previous email enthusiasm. I used to run to my laptop every morning, pop open the lid, and scroll through all the email for the day, excitedly answering each one with just the right combination of humor, sincerity, and warmth. Now, I'm lucky if I check my inbox three times a week. I still enjoy sending and receiving the missives from my friends and family, I just hate that it's via an impersonal computer screen that I stare at for the majority of my waking hours anyhow. What was once an exciting pastime has become my taskmaster.
But my real problem, the one that I have tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to overcome is the mailing of Christmas and birthday gifts. I just cannot seem to get the things mailed in a timely manner. For example, just this week, one of my best friends had a birthday. No, I did not forget it. No, I did not have to scramble at the last minute to figure out what to get her and where to get it. I actually got her present more than a week in advance of her actual birthday. No, I was not waiting for my paycheck so I could afford the postage to send it. No, I was not waiting for inspiration to strike me in regards to which birthday card to send. No, I did not even have to go to the post office personally to mail the package; my husband has more flexibility in his home work schedule than I do and is more than willing to mail anything I set by the front door. And no, unfortunately, I did not get her gift mailed to her on time. Worse than that, her birthday was yesterday and I didn't mail the box until today.
I have tried to put the most positive spin on this little problem of mine that I possibly can. "My gift is so great that you'll not want to open it with the rest of the more mundane gifts you receive." Or perhaps, "Just look at it this way. Knowing that a present is coming in the mail later this week will allow you to extend the celebration of your birthday long after the candles have burnt out.". Or, if I'm honest with myself and want to share the whole truth. "I am the world's greatest procrastinator and I just cannot seem to get my act together well enough to mail a stinking box on time." Ah, yes. The truth is not always pretty.
To make matters worse, my friends not only forgive me my shortcoming, they have learned to adapt to it. My aforementioned friend, the one who had a birthday yesterday and is the latest victim of my sloth, told me it was not a problem. If she ever did receive a package from me on time, she would let it sit for a few days before she opened it anyhow or it wouldn't seem right. She also said she would think something was seriously wrong with me if she ever got a box on time. So now, if I ever do get my act together, I'm going to have to send a disclaimer with every present to let people know I haven't been diagnosed with a terminal illness and I'm not foreseeing my own demise. Not that I'll ever have to draft such a notice.
But the worst part of all, the part that keeps me kicking myself and writing angst-ridden blog posts, is that they are always on time. Always. I have never celebrated Christmas or a birthday without being surrounded by a pile of cards and boxes from my out-of-town friends which have usually arrived days before the actual event. And year after year, those cards and boxes keep coming, even though each and every one of them knows that I am going to be late. Pretty amazing bunch of friends, eh?
And that is the mystery. Each of these women is a busy professional with demanding jobs and families, either two-legged or four-legged, to take care of. They all have careers that keep them from their homes and loved ones for the better part of the day. They are smart, capable, strong women who are creative, intelligent, and just plain fun to be with. And they choose to be my friends even though they know they'll never see a birthday or Christmas package without my standard profuse apologies for being late once again. It absolutely boggles the mind. I can't for the life of me imagine why they put up with me. But my life has been so enriched because they do.
I hope they know how much they mean to me, how much I admire and respect them, and how much I love them. And I hope that is enough to make up for my shortcomings.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Oh, the Pressure!
Today started out as a very normal day. I got up late because I went to bed too late and I just couldn't drag myself out from under the covers. To make matters worse, I was awakened at 2:30 in the morning by a text coming through on my cell phone. Being as lazy as I am, I didn't actually get out of bed to check the cell phone at that time, but I did manage to snatch it off the dresser as I ran out of the room at 7:59 A.M. in a mad dash to fire up my work computer so I could start the day. (I'm supposed to start work at 8:00 - let's just say I cut it a little too close at times.) Turns out, it was my niece who felt compelled to text me in the middle of the night when most sane people are asleep. For reasons that I am sure made sense to her at the time, she just had to text me to tell me that she loved me. Which is actually rather touching in its own little way. She is a wonderful girl and I love her to death, but her timing leaves something to be desired.
Anyhow, like I said, it was a very normal day for me until I decided to check my blog after work. I opened the website and scrolled hurriedly to the bottom of the page to check the counter to see how many people had actually come to visit during the day. (Note: For those of you who read this and are the inquisitive type, when you look at the counter at the bottom of this page, rest assured that the majority of the visitors here are me, checking the counter to see how many people have visited my page. I know it's self-defeating, but I just can't seem to help myself.). The real surprise, however, came as I was scrolling back up to the top. There, to the side of my posts was an icon with which I was not familiar. I looked at it more closely, then gasped in surprise and delight.
I had my very first follower!!
I was positively giddy. I called for my husband so he could marvel at my popularity and congratulate me on my first groupie. After I clicked on the icon, I realized that my new follower was, of course, one of my dearest friends. But I definitely did not let that dampen my enthusiasm. I had a follower! I was popular! People would see that my lowly little blog was important enough to generate a disciple and then they would come - those faceless masses from all over the world who would want to follow me too or risk being left out of what was obviously the up-and-coming hot spot on the internet. What a moment it was as I realized the beginning of my fame and fortune and all the ramifications of being a world famous blogger. I was euphoric!
Until reality struck. Gradually, as my elation wore off, it dawned on me that if anyone actually did start reading my blog, that meant I had to write. Frequently. Intelligently. About interesting stuff. Okay.
Insert deep breath here.
What in the world was I going to write about? I think I mentioned in an earlier post that I am a nurse and work from home. There's not an awful lot of excitement around here. My dog does some cute things from time to time, but I find that my husband and I are generally the only people who are really amused by that (unless you count my other best friend, but I talk to her on the phone nearly every day so she already knows how cute the dog is and is probably tired of hearing about it.) . Since I work on protected health information, I certainly can't share any of that or I could face horrible consequences which include, but are not limited to, fines, jail, public hanging, burning at the stake, dismemberment, and taking away my Starbuck's privileges. I will say, however, that there is rarely a day that goes by that I don't find something highly amusing in at least one of the charts I am reviewing. It's usually a result of the combination of a doctor with an accent and some voice activated transcription device, and the disconnect can be extreme. You'll just have to trust me when I say I really wish I could share!
So, back to my dilemma. What in the world do I hear, see, or do everyday that would translate into an entertaining blog post? I took a quick inventory of my surroundings and saw a pile of clean laundry that my husband had dumped on the couch so as to make room in the dryer for his clothes, several half-burnt candles from the last thunderstorm that took our power out for several hours, three books I'm going to read 'sometime', a bunch of junk mail that I'm never going to read, and a lot of dog hair, some of which was actually still attached to the sleeping dog. Not a lot of blog fodder there. I briefly considered taking on a more exciting profession like lion tamer or pilot or septic tank cleaner, but I dismissed that pretty quickly. It would take me far too long to learn how to do anything else and then I'd have to leave the house everyday like normal people and ....well.....change out of my 'comfy clothes' (ie: jammies). Not gonna happen.
So, what do I write about? I have no idea. I find that there is a lot of stuff running around in my head - things past, present, and future - that I have wanted to write about for a long time, so I guess I'll start there. And just maybe, somewhere along the way, I will find some interesting slices of life to serve up to my guests as they arrive and hope that someone, somewhere, enjoys them.
Anyhow, like I said, it was a very normal day for me until I decided to check my blog after work. I opened the website and scrolled hurriedly to the bottom of the page to check the counter to see how many people had actually come to visit during the day. (Note: For those of you who read this and are the inquisitive type, when you look at the counter at the bottom of this page, rest assured that the majority of the visitors here are me, checking the counter to see how many people have visited my page. I know it's self-defeating, but I just can't seem to help myself.). The real surprise, however, came as I was scrolling back up to the top. There, to the side of my posts was an icon with which I was not familiar. I looked at it more closely, then gasped in surprise and delight.
I had my very first follower!!
I was positively giddy. I called for my husband so he could marvel at my popularity and congratulate me on my first groupie. After I clicked on the icon, I realized that my new follower was, of course, one of my dearest friends. But I definitely did not let that dampen my enthusiasm. I had a follower! I was popular! People would see that my lowly little blog was important enough to generate a disciple and then they would come - those faceless masses from all over the world who would want to follow me too or risk being left out of what was obviously the up-and-coming hot spot on the internet. What a moment it was as I realized the beginning of my fame and fortune and all the ramifications of being a world famous blogger. I was euphoric!
Until reality struck. Gradually, as my elation wore off, it dawned on me that if anyone actually did start reading my blog, that meant I had to write. Frequently. Intelligently. About interesting stuff. Okay.
Insert deep breath here.
What in the world was I going to write about? I think I mentioned in an earlier post that I am a nurse and work from home. There's not an awful lot of excitement around here. My dog does some cute things from time to time, but I find that my husband and I are generally the only people who are really amused by that (unless you count my other best friend, but I talk to her on the phone nearly every day so she already knows how cute the dog is and is probably tired of hearing about it.) . Since I work on protected health information, I certainly can't share any of that or I could face horrible consequences which include, but are not limited to, fines, jail, public hanging, burning at the stake, dismemberment, and taking away my Starbuck's privileges. I will say, however, that there is rarely a day that goes by that I don't find something highly amusing in at least one of the charts I am reviewing. It's usually a result of the combination of a doctor with an accent and some voice activated transcription device, and the disconnect can be extreme. You'll just have to trust me when I say I really wish I could share!
So, back to my dilemma. What in the world do I hear, see, or do everyday that would translate into an entertaining blog post? I took a quick inventory of my surroundings and saw a pile of clean laundry that my husband had dumped on the couch so as to make room in the dryer for his clothes, several half-burnt candles from the last thunderstorm that took our power out for several hours, three books I'm going to read 'sometime', a bunch of junk mail that I'm never going to read, and a lot of dog hair, some of which was actually still attached to the sleeping dog. Not a lot of blog fodder there. I briefly considered taking on a more exciting profession like lion tamer or pilot or septic tank cleaner, but I dismissed that pretty quickly. It would take me far too long to learn how to do anything else and then I'd have to leave the house everyday like normal people and ....well.....change out of my 'comfy clothes' (ie: jammies). Not gonna happen.
So, what do I write about? I have no idea. I find that there is a lot of stuff running around in my head - things past, present, and future - that I have wanted to write about for a long time, so I guess I'll start there. And just maybe, somewhere along the way, I will find some interesting slices of life to serve up to my guests as they arrive and hope that someone, somewhere, enjoys them.
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Conflicted Society
I'm going to take a break from the great Jello debate for a moment so I can crawl up on another soapbox. I have always thought that modern society was conflicted about its children. The pro-choice advocates would have us adopt their belief that a life does not become a life until...well, until they say it is a life (it has been my experience that the exact moment during gestation when a life becomes a life varies, depending on whom you are speaking with at the time). The pro-life advocates would have us believe that a life becomes a life at the moment of conception. I, personally, stand with the pro-lifers on this one. But that is not my point. My point is that our society is hypocritical when it comes to dealing with children. One moment they are a blessing, and the next, a burden. This was illustrated to me in a very powerful way through a couple of unrelated incidents that happened in my life over the past 24 hours.
I am a nurse, and I am currently working from home, collecting statistical data from patient charts from around the country. Not exactly the "Save the World" job I had hoped for in my nursing school days, but it is definitely serving its purpose in that it is keeping a roof over my head. It is also making my senior Golden Retriever one very happy dog. Mommy is home to pet him on the head, toss him a treat, and take him for walks during the day. It doesn't get much better than that from his point of view. But I digress (and if you read even a few of my blogs you will find that happens a lot!). This morning, while in training for a particular project, I came across what passes for the definition of a "live birth" according to our training materials:
"A live birth is defined as: the complete expulsion or extraction from the mother of a product of human conception, irrespective of the duration of pregnancy, which, after such expulsion or extraction, breathes or shows any other evidence of life, such as beating of the heart, pulsation of the umbilical cord or definite movement of voluntary muscles, whether or not the umbilical cord has been cut or the placenta is attached."*
Isn't that heartwarming? I can see the Hallmark card now - "Congratulations on the successful expulsion/extraction of your products of conception!".
Really? Is that what our society sees in the miracle of birth? The only thing missing from that definition is the word "it". When "it" breathes. Or when "it" shows any other evidence of life. Or when "its" umbilical cord pulses. What exactly does this say about us? This definition has depersonalized and dehumanized the entire human birth experience and has turned it into a bit of twisted rhetoric straight from the mouths of the politically correct police.
Which leads to another question. When does "it" become a he or a she? At what point do we accept that this product of conception with its pulsating umbilical cord is, indeed, a human life to be loved, cherished, and protected at all costs? If we do not value life, where do our values lie? I've heard people say that we live in a very progressive society. If this definition is proof of that progress, then, for me, this is one huge step in the wrong direction.
My second illustration demonstrates the exact opposite. Yesterday I went to the mall to buy a pillow. I was shopping in a major department store waiting for my husband to come back to the mall to pick me up. While waiting, I was walking amongst the cosmetic counters (I know I said I had to buy a pillow and they don't generally have those in the cosmetic department, but you can't blame a girl for looking!), I came across a store associate talking to a very distraught couple with two young boys. Apparently, when they came into the store they had started with three young boys, and one of them was missing. These people were obviously not from this country, so there was a language barrier, but eventually the store associate was able to get a description of the boy and what he was wearing and his name.
Everything in that store stopped. The doors to the mall were closed except for a space small enough for one person at a time to go through. There were store associates posted at every exit while others could be seen walking through the store, searching. Customers, myself included, stopped their browsing and began systematically combing the aisles of the store. I kept trying to think like a small boy and found myself looking in dressing rooms, under racks of clothes, and even in the store elevator. I caught a glimpse of the boy's mom on one of my passes through the kids department, and she had a desperation in her eyes that transcended any language barrier and broke my heart. It is a look I will not soon forget.
Nearly twenty minutes went by before the boy was found. Twenty minutes of sheer terror and panic on the part of that boy's family. Twenty minutes when total strangers abandoned their own pursuits to help look for a little boy so as to avert a tragedy. As a parent, I cannot even begin to imagine what those parents were going through and all the horrible thoughts that must have crossed their minds. All I can say is that I was praying fervently that the boy would be found unharmed and returned to his family. Thank God he was!
When my husband came to pick me up from the store, I told him about the little boy and the first words out of his mouth were, "If they hadn't found him, I would have come in and helped." This is one of the many reasons I love this man. Now, a lot of people, in fact, MOST people, are probably thinking, "Well of course! We must leave no stone unturned when looking for a poor missing child." And this, in my mind, is where the conflict starts. This exact same society that would exhaust every resource possible to find a missing child (which is how it should be) can define the birth of that child in such a way as to rob him of all his humanity (which is how it should not be). Am I the only one who finds this to be hypocritical?
Of course, as is usual when I climb up on my soapbox, I have no answers. No magic cures for what I see as life's inconsistencies. But, just maybe, the next time a friend or loved one announces the upcoming birth of their child, we can skip the "successful expulsion/extraction of your products of conception" aisle at the Hallmark store and go straight to the "congratulations on the birth of your beautiful son or daughter" department. Let's make it like it should be.
I am a nurse, and I am currently working from home, collecting statistical data from patient charts from around the country. Not exactly the "Save the World" job I had hoped for in my nursing school days, but it is definitely serving its purpose in that it is keeping a roof over my head. It is also making my senior Golden Retriever one very happy dog. Mommy is home to pet him on the head, toss him a treat, and take him for walks during the day. It doesn't get much better than that from his point of view. But I digress (and if you read even a few of my blogs you will find that happens a lot!). This morning, while in training for a particular project, I came across what passes for the definition of a "live birth" according to our training materials:
"A live birth is defined as: the complete expulsion or extraction from the mother of a product of human conception, irrespective of the duration of pregnancy, which, after such expulsion or extraction, breathes or shows any other evidence of life, such as beating of the heart, pulsation of the umbilical cord or definite movement of voluntary muscles, whether or not the umbilical cord has been cut or the placenta is attached."*
Isn't that heartwarming? I can see the Hallmark card now - "Congratulations on the successful expulsion/extraction of your products of conception!".
Really? Is that what our society sees in the miracle of birth? The only thing missing from that definition is the word "it". When "it" breathes. Or when "it" shows any other evidence of life. Or when "its" umbilical cord pulses. What exactly does this say about us? This definition has depersonalized and dehumanized the entire human birth experience and has turned it into a bit of twisted rhetoric straight from the mouths of the politically correct police.
Which leads to another question. When does "it" become a he or a she? At what point do we accept that this product of conception with its pulsating umbilical cord is, indeed, a human life to be loved, cherished, and protected at all costs? If we do not value life, where do our values lie? I've heard people say that we live in a very progressive society. If this definition is proof of that progress, then, for me, this is one huge step in the wrong direction.
My second illustration demonstrates the exact opposite. Yesterday I went to the mall to buy a pillow. I was shopping in a major department store waiting for my husband to come back to the mall to pick me up. While waiting, I was walking amongst the cosmetic counters (I know I said I had to buy a pillow and they don't generally have those in the cosmetic department, but you can't blame a girl for looking!), I came across a store associate talking to a very distraught couple with two young boys. Apparently, when they came into the store they had started with three young boys, and one of them was missing. These people were obviously not from this country, so there was a language barrier, but eventually the store associate was able to get a description of the boy and what he was wearing and his name.
Everything in that store stopped. The doors to the mall were closed except for a space small enough for one person at a time to go through. There were store associates posted at every exit while others could be seen walking through the store, searching. Customers, myself included, stopped their browsing and began systematically combing the aisles of the store. I kept trying to think like a small boy and found myself looking in dressing rooms, under racks of clothes, and even in the store elevator. I caught a glimpse of the boy's mom on one of my passes through the kids department, and she had a desperation in her eyes that transcended any language barrier and broke my heart. It is a look I will not soon forget.
Nearly twenty minutes went by before the boy was found. Twenty minutes of sheer terror and panic on the part of that boy's family. Twenty minutes when total strangers abandoned their own pursuits to help look for a little boy so as to avert a tragedy. As a parent, I cannot even begin to imagine what those parents were going through and all the horrible thoughts that must have crossed their minds. All I can say is that I was praying fervently that the boy would be found unharmed and returned to his family. Thank God he was!
When my husband came to pick me up from the store, I told him about the little boy and the first words out of his mouth were, "If they hadn't found him, I would have come in and helped." This is one of the many reasons I love this man. Now, a lot of people, in fact, MOST people, are probably thinking, "Well of course! We must leave no stone unturned when looking for a poor missing child." And this, in my mind, is where the conflict starts. This exact same society that would exhaust every resource possible to find a missing child (which is how it should be) can define the birth of that child in such a way as to rob him of all his humanity (which is how it should not be). Am I the only one who finds this to be hypocritical?
Of course, as is usual when I climb up on my soapbox, I have no answers. No magic cures for what I see as life's inconsistencies. But, just maybe, the next time a friend or loved one announces the upcoming birth of their child, we can skip the "successful expulsion/extraction of your products of conception" aisle at the Hallmark store and go straight to the "congratulations on the birth of your beautiful son or daughter" department. Let's make it like it should be.
* Note: This definition comes straight from the McGraw-Hill Concise Dictionary of Modern Medicine. © 2002 by The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The great Jello debate
I love Jello.
Especially sugar free jello when I'm trying to lose a few pounds (which, let's be honest, is all the time). You can eat, like, four boxes of the stuff and still have a ton of calories left over for the day. What a deal, huh?
Now, you may wonder why I picked this as the first topic of my brand new blog, and I'm going to explain. I find that the world is pretty much divided over the Jello issue. There are those of us who love it, who recognize the value of a cool, fruity snack that you can chew, swallow whole, let melt in your mouth into a liquid, or squish between your teeth before you swallow it. All that fun, not to mention the fruityliciousness, for about seventy-five cents a box. That works out to only about twenty cents a serving. In these tough economic times, I'd call that a bargain.
Then, there are those who hate Jello. Of the Jello haters I have known, I find that most of them have some traumatic Jello episode buried deep in their past that has forever scarred their psyche. A trip to the hospital when they were a child, an evil grandmother who forced them to eat Jello instead of ice cream when they spent the night with her, or perhaps an ill-fated food fight in an elementary school cafeteria that ended in an unpleasant trip to the principal's office back in the day when going to the principal's office meant not sitting comfortably for some time to come. But, whatever the reason, Jello haters seem to be as adamant about their stand as we Jello lovers are about ours.
That is why, right off the bat, I felt it necessary to let everyone know where I stand in the great Jello debate. I don't want any Jello haters reading this blog and later finding out I'm a Jello lover. I can't imagine the emotional scars that could leave on a person and frankly, I just don't want to be responsible for that. I also want to make it perfectly clear that all Jello haters, those who are new to the Jello hating process and those who have hated for decades, are welcome here. I may love my Jello, but I realize that not everyone shares my views on this particular topic, and I'm okay with that. It is my goal to create an atmosphere of mutual support and understanding between the two groups and perhaps build a forum where lovers and haters alike can bond together as one.
What a beautiful world that would be.
Especially sugar free jello when I'm trying to lose a few pounds (which, let's be honest, is all the time). You can eat, like, four boxes of the stuff and still have a ton of calories left over for the day. What a deal, huh?
Now, you may wonder why I picked this as the first topic of my brand new blog, and I'm going to explain. I find that the world is pretty much divided over the Jello issue. There are those of us who love it, who recognize the value of a cool, fruity snack that you can chew, swallow whole, let melt in your mouth into a liquid, or squish between your teeth before you swallow it. All that fun, not to mention the fruityliciousness, for about seventy-five cents a box. That works out to only about twenty cents a serving. In these tough economic times, I'd call that a bargain.
Then, there are those who hate Jello. Of the Jello haters I have known, I find that most of them have some traumatic Jello episode buried deep in their past that has forever scarred their psyche. A trip to the hospital when they were a child, an evil grandmother who forced them to eat Jello instead of ice cream when they spent the night with her, or perhaps an ill-fated food fight in an elementary school cafeteria that ended in an unpleasant trip to the principal's office back in the day when going to the principal's office meant not sitting comfortably for some time to come. But, whatever the reason, Jello haters seem to be as adamant about their stand as we Jello lovers are about ours.
That is why, right off the bat, I felt it necessary to let everyone know where I stand in the great Jello debate. I don't want any Jello haters reading this blog and later finding out I'm a Jello lover. I can't imagine the emotional scars that could leave on a person and frankly, I just don't want to be responsible for that. I also want to make it perfectly clear that all Jello haters, those who are new to the Jello hating process and those who have hated for decades, are welcome here. I may love my Jello, but I realize that not everyone shares my views on this particular topic, and I'm okay with that. It is my goal to create an atmosphere of mutual support and understanding between the two groups and perhaps build a forum where lovers and haters alike can bond together as one.
What a beautiful world that would be.
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