Say what?

Did I just hear our President say he didn't want to argue with that reporter?  If I were that reporter, I'd be so p#*ssed off.  What a putdown!

GENERALLY GENERAL

I know a General is an important leader, but the  word general in lower case seems much more bland and benign, so when they told me I was having it, I had no fear or even much respect  for General Anesthesia.  I was to be proven  wrong on that score.  When I had Cystoscopy Procedure No.1 last month, the anesthesiologist consulted with me about my apprehensions, and said he would make me comfortable and safe.  He was true to his word; I woke up feeling good, really good.  I can't explain the feeling, but it was a beautiful thing.  So much so, that I actually was kind of looking forward to it during this week's Cystoscopy Procedure No. 2 .
    So when, preparing to be sedated, I saw the anestheologist, a woman this time, and one highly recommended by the attending nurse, begin to place a mask over my face, I said that I didn't have that the last time.  I heard someone say, "Well, you are this time."   Of course, I calmly asked, "WHY???"   "Because," the nurse patiently (or so I had thought) explained, "This time you are having general anesthesia."  Another WHY THE DIFFERENCE?" from me brought her  explanation:   "The doctor may  possibly have to perform a laser lithotripsy, and with that type of surgery, he needs the patient to be completely paralyzed so there is no danger of even slight movement that could result in disaster from a tear or penetration  of  an organ."   When I heard the word, making certain, "Did you say PARALYZED????", I probably should have known there would be no beautifully sublime awakening this time. She continued, "And because you'll be paralyzed, that is why we're going to insert a breathing tube."  "OMG, I'm not going to be able to BREATHE!"    From  the moment I  saw the mask and heard the word paralyzed, and found out I wasn't going to be able to breathe,   I relinquished any thought of waking up to something beautiful, instead  hoping to wake up to anything at all, beautiful or not.  And it was not.
    At first,  I was attempting to assemble some semblance of sanity and presence by trying to put in order the pieces of an oppressive looking assemblage of open-fronted wooden cartons and crateboards, some wire-fronted, all of them brown with black bindings.  They were piled teeteringly   high and deep, perilously large and foreboding,  on  the left side of a decrepit looking warehouse-style building.  To keep them upright so that I could find my own way out, and secure the safety of many others, I had to arrange  them on pallets into columns and other configurations, and I had to do it in the style used to solve crossword puzzles.  I was having some success in a frantic kind of way, when I heard what must have been the last part of the kindly nurse's explanation: "You could really do some damage to yourself if, not paralyzed, you moved even only slightly at an opportune time and something was punctured."  I could only just barely respond, "An inopportune time."   I heard her repeat, "Yes, inopportune,"  
    I awoke to the panel of judges in the front of the recovery room.  Naturally there were 3 of them all sitting behind what looked like a judging desk.  None of them had any connection to me at the moment.  The urology surgeon was writing his copious notes, head down and diligently writing what would turn out to be the most complete medical report I'd ever seen.  The receptionist/secretary/department coordinator woman was dressed in black and conducting business.  (I heard her admire the shoes of a woman passing her desk.)  The third person was the comforting and compassionate nurse who had been caring for me pre-surgically. She was the most recent one to join the others at the desk, and presently was making a phone call. I heard part of her telephone conversation:  "I just spent the worst hour of my life."   I  had thought her  a friendly, optimistic person and wondered what hour that could have been.   As my head cleared,  a thought  came to me, but no, she couldn't have meant that, could she have?
    
   

Flip That Bird

Until today, I have looked up to penguins as the epitome of morality.  Why did someone find it necessary to release archival data to the contrary.  My hope for species and subspecies is  irrevocably shattered.

The Graduates

Best advice for the class of 2012:   "Be kind to your knees; you will miss them when they're gone."

I-I kn-kn-new i-it

America may have talent, but evidently not for detecting fraud.  Case in point:  the stuttering war-hero country singer.  Assuming the producers vetted the biographies of the contestants, viewers could not know that his military injuries were fabricated, but anyone could tell that the stuttering was not real.  He belongs in the same mental facility as the Tourette teens.

Urge to Kill

So quaint to remember, but when I was a child and worked in Sara's store, I read everything that was in the store.  Sometimes I would sit there for hours at a time, with few customers, and nothing to do but read all the magazines and newspapers that were sold in the store.  I think the two popular tabloids were "The Daily News" and "The Daily Mirror," and, working in the store seven days a week, I faithfully read them.   One paper, I think "The Daily News," carried 2  reader-submitted anecdotal short pieces;  one was titled "My Most Embarrassing Moments,"  such as a woman wearing the belt of her dress inside out with the size printed on the belt, for all the world to see, for heaven's sake.  The horror!  The other was "Pet Peeves," subtitled "The Urge to Kill,"  which dealt with episodes of being teed off and frustrated by the words or deeds of others.  I suppose now a column like that would be so wrong, on so many levels.
       I remembered that the other night watching David Letterman who was on a rant, blathering that although he knew language was and should be constantly evolving, that there was one addition to the language he absolutely abhorred.  After sufficient buildup, he revealed that the object of his anathema was the use of the word "bromance."  It drove him crazy and he wished to harm somebody every time he heard or saw the word.  His reaction seemed a little over the top, but then I realized that probably everybody has some pet language  usage peeve that brings out the urge to kill.  I know what triggers that flush of anger in me, even when I least expect to embrace the desire to do bodily harm.
      What  elicits  the red curtain of rage  is whenever someone says to me, "I don't want to argue with you."  That is wrong on so many levels:  First, it is an argumentative statement, meaning they are throwing down the gauntlet of argument, and not only denying what they are doing, but at the same time allowing no counter to their challenge.  They feign an air of superiority, with the implication they are above the lowly act of argument, which you by implication, are into, like the low-class being you are.  Kind of like the old "Have you stopped beating your wife" question.  Try to respond and you are doomed.  By default, any response means you, unlike the speaker, want to argue.   The initial point of contention is now subsumed by the issue of who wants to argue.  And if you pay attention, you will be surprised by how many people say this, and who those people are.  ...I'm going to bed now.....
     
  

Dear deer blanket

Andrew just recently discovered the Deer Blanket.  Enfolding himself in its warmth and softness, he says, "This came from Dorothy's house, didn't it." 
  But, no, it didn't.  Even though the blanket still looks and feels like new, this  blanket has been in the household for almost 40 years. An original "biederlack" throw made in West Germany of Acrilan, the label is still attached and somewhere in the house is a red plastic ID tag that came with it. The throw measures about 36 by 52 inches, is cream colored with full outlines of 2 brown deer.  It was a great wrap for those chilly evenings while watching TV.  But soon Child #1 appropiated it for her naptime, and within a year or so, there was serious sibling rivalry over the deer blanket, and who "had it first."  So of course there was an investment in another similar blanket, at least 2 more, one of them with a unicorn in blue tones: another may have been a bear.  By then, the biederlack brand had been copied, with varying results of comfort, washability, etc.  The original and impostor blankets wended their various ways to colleges, on trips, vacations, some of them never finding their way back home.  But for some reason, the one that remains in the house is the Deer Blanket, and is, remarkably, as soft and comfy as ever. 
   And so Dear Andrew, though the blanket may appear to be a recent purchase, by someone with a taste for fine things, this old deer blanket is the very one your mother used to cuddle up in for a peaceful nap, after she ripped it away from her little brother.