Crisis of the Day, Health Edition

Last weekend, my niece Angela, who will turn 2 next month, went to a horse farm with her mother, father, and maternal grandmother. She got a bug bite on her hip, then she got cryabeetus because it got infected. Thus she stayed awake all night, bawling.

Her mother is my SIL, Marisol. Marisol has taken 2 years of graduate-level medical classes, so she should know that a bug bite, infected or not, is not an emergency unless the recipient is allergic; it is something to call the pediatrician about. Moreover, she is 28 years old, so as a grown-ass woman, she should know that insect bites are something that every single fucking child gets and gets over.

But this is not the world of Shoulds. This is the world of OMG WTF MY PWESSSHUS!

So this is how she handled it.


First, Marisol called her mother, Elana. Elana lives in Colombia.  Just to say, you know, "OMG it's such a crisis Angela is dying of a mysterious illness and it's an emergency!"

Second, she took her bawling brat to the ER, where I'm sure she delighted everyone (you know, the riff-raff who have actual emergencies).

Third, she called Elana again to say that no one could figure out what was ailing Angela, but they were suiting up for surgery, to operate on her hip.

Fourth, she turned off her phone because they were in a hospital and I guess she finally figured out that the "no cell phones, please" signs applied to her.

Fifth, she returned home and went to bed to sleep for the day (what?! she had been up alllllll niiiight!), leaving Angela with her MIL. (By the way, she hates the MIL, and treats her like shit because, as she's told everyone, "She's crazy" and is "taking dementia pills". I guess she doesn't trust her around Sneauxphlayke unless she really doesn't feel like taking care of her darling little crotch dropping.)

So let's review. Marisol raised a false alarm, then didn't bother to tell anyone that the "surgery" was just "they lanced the bite and pus came out" and she would be fine. Oops!

Let's see how Elana handled this.

April 21 at 12:14pm   Elana:   Alejandro! comunicate urgente con Marisol ,Angela esta en el hospital (Alejandro! It's urgent that you're in touch with Marisol, Angela is in the hospital)

April 21 at 12:31pm Elana: Ellen*, buenos dias, Gracias por el mensaje de cumpleanos, como esta familia, por ffaor,,,PLIS SOS... URGENTE, ANGELA ESTA HOSPITALIZADA DE URGENCIA ,DILE A ALEJANDRO, QUE SI PUEDE IR A VER QUE LEPUEDE AYUDAR Y NOS LLAME ,,GRACIAS ,,, NO CONTESTA EL CEL , DE PRONTO ESTA EN CLASE .GRACIAS (Ellen, Hello, thanks for the birthday message, how is the family, please, [] URGENT, ANGELA HAS BEEN HOSPITALIZED FOR AN EMERGENCY, TELL ALEJANDRO, SO THAT HE CAN GO AND SEE HER AND HELP HER AND CALL US,,THANKS,,,HE DOESN'T ANSWER HIS CELL, SUDDENLY HE IS IN CLASS, THANKS)

April 21 at 12:44pm  Elana:

Alejandro , Angela fue hospitalizada anoche de urgencias , por favor ayudale y nos llamas, a ella seledescargo el celular y te hemos llamado , pero no contestas, (Alejandro, Angela was emergency hospitalized last night, please help her and call us, she shut down the phone and we have called her but no answer,)

No, he didn't answer the cell phone because he was in class - at a school that is 90 minutes away from the fucking hospital.

My question is, what the fuck did she think he was going to do? If she couldn't get in touch with Marisol, how would he?! Magic? Just go into the hospital and start wandering the halls until you find 'em?  

*Ellen is my mom, who doesn't speak Spanish, and has a life of her own, thanks.

Recipe - Thai Chicken Salad Rolls

Ingredients:

• 2 cups cubed cooked chicken
• 2 cups coleslaw mix
• 1/2 cup golden raisins
• 1/3 cup chopped unsalted peanuts
• 2 green onions, chopped
• 1/4 cup lime juice
• 1/4 cup honey
• 3 tablespoons soy sauce (I prefer the low-sodium variety)
• 1 tablespoon sesame oil
• 2 teaspoons Sriracha sauce
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• Rice paper wrappers

Directions

In a large bowl, combine the first five ingredients. In another bowl,
combine the lime juice, honey, soy sauce, oil, chili sauce and
garlic powder; pour over chicken mixture and toss to coat. 

 

Prepare the rice paper according to instructions on the package. (Place wrapper flat in a shallow pan of room-temp water until it is uniformly pliable.)

When the wrapper is ready to be used, remove it from the water and place it on a paper towel so that it lays flat. Place some of the chicken salad inside the wrapper, then fold wrapper around it like you would a tortilla. Set the roll aside, and continue until all of the chicken salad has been wrapped. 

Adapted from http://www.tasteofhome.com/Recipes/Thai-Turkey-Salad-Pitas.

Life is shitty, get over it.

 This thread got me thinking.

 Something I hate is when parents not only minimize the challenges that face non-parents, but they treat them (the non-parent's difficulties) as totally optional - something brought upon themselves - whereas the parents are noble victims of the hardships of parenting.

For example, I spend lots of time in the course of my experiments cleaning up rat urine and feces. Of course when I sat in Psych 101 thinking how cool it would be to study animal behavior, I was not picturing myself kneeling on the floor, wiping down plexiglass chambers smeared in poop. But sometime between my initial daydreams about neuroscience and the first day I faced the messy chambers, something like this went through my brain...

• Our rats are not litter trained.

• Cocaine makes them poop more.

• Rats walk around on all fours, thereby getting feces on their paws, and occasionally rear up and put their paws on the walls, thereby transferring feces to the walls.

• Rats do not clean up after themselves.

• Therefore, I will need to clean up the poop from the chambers. 

I pursued this course of study in spite of this knowledge because although I don't enjoy cleaning excrement, I realize that it is a necessary part of research that I really want to and enjoy doing.

I don't complain much about it, because I know that this is the life I chose, and because I know that every other behavioral scientist has to do the same damn thing at some point. It's not like I'm being persecuted by the poo. I don't post pictures of it on Facebook or my blog, because I know that absolutely no one thinks that it is interesting or pleasant to look at. I don't brag about how much I have to clean or how long it takes, because no one cares. It doesn't make me special or superior or anything else - other than one person among many who does what she has to do.


How is that different from parents, who know damn well that babies can't control their bodily functions (or clean up after themselves) but choose to have them anyhow? They made a choice, just like I did, that something outweighed this unpleasantness. They know that every parent has to do the same thing for their offspring. They must have some clue that photos of their baby's excrement are not aesthetically pleasing.  Yet still we have pictures of "diaper blowouts," shit here, shit there, shit shit everywhere. Please explain it to me.

Yuck!

Of all the unpleasant things I've seen on CSI and the other shows I'm addicted to, there is one thing I really wish I could unsee: emergency c-section on a dead woman in last night's show. But it was a pleasant surprise to see a more realistic depiction on TV of teen pregnancy. It's not romantic. It's not easy. It's not fun. It doesn't guarantee a good or lasting relationship between the parents, or that your peers will be impressed or fuss over you.

I also wish that I could unhear Doc Robbins saying, "It felt good to help the living for once." Fuck! When a medical examiner (or anyone else) helps to secure justice for the dead, they are doing an essential service for the living, too.

But think of the children!

yes - I will call him a coward. Anyone willing to spray the neighborhood with bullets when there are innocent children, pregnant mothers and peaceful families within spitting distance is a coward. Maybe coward is too nice of a word... When bullets are blazing by your bedroom window and you fear for the lives of your family, you tell me what you call him. Thankfully, he didn't harm anyone physically, but the emotional toll will take a while to recover from

Let me explain what he means:

Oh, well, if there are baaayyyyybbbeeees involved, then "spray[ing] the neighborhood with bullets" probably isn't nice. If there are just adults and elderly people there, it's a totally different story. In fact, in terms of the morality and/or danger of a violent situation, they really don't cross my mind.


Commenter "dakotajim," http://www.pennlive.com/midstate/index.ssf/2011/04/police_file_charges_against_ac/3032/comments-2.html

Translation: "I'm entitled, bitch!"

This lovely offering was left on a table at the Hershey, PA Panera this afternoon by a Mombie and her 2 toddlers (let's call them Sneauxphlayke and Crotchdroplet). You cannot tell from the picture, but the table is littered with dry and not-so-dry crumbs. For those unfamiliar with Panera, it is like a deli in the sense that you order your stuff at a counter, where it is prepared and given to you, and that is the end of the service. You pick out your table or armchair, take your order there, and clean it up afterward. All very nice and delicious, and sometimes if you happen to be sitting around enjoying your drink but your plates are empty, a friendly worker will offer to take them for you. But the etiquette is that you don't just leave your dirty plates and trash on the table and leave.
But mombies are special, because theirs is the hardest and most important job on earth. Abiding by etiquette is for lesser beings, who are preoccupied with petty concerns. I learned this by listening to Mombie here in Panera.*


Mombie stands up to leave, and collects her brats and their luggage. Panera worker sees a vacant table with dirty stuff on it, and politely asks, "Ma'am, is this yours?"


Mombie loses her shit. "Does it not LOOK to you like I have my hands full?! I am the MOM here. That is MY job.  YOUR job is to clean up. How am I supposed to do your job AND mine?!"


Nice Worker: "Excuse me, ma'am, I just wanted to see if this table was vacant."


Mombie: "Whatever!" [Stalks out of the restaurant.]


Jane: Chokes on her coffee.


*Also, I learned that being a MOM makes you, like, way more mature.

Playing Nice with the Childed In-Laws, Part I

On Saturday my husband and I went to the Design/Sales office of the conglomerate in which the apartment his father will be buying/we will be renting is located. My SIL was* the agents' contact person for the deal, so I expected her to join us. What I did not expect was her loud, obnoxious husband and precious 18-mo-old Sneauxphlayche to join us, but they did.  I was not thrilled. But you know how sometimes you think you have a shitty situation, but something happens to let you know that you narrowly missed an even shittier situation? Well, that happened when the younger agent spotted Sneauxphlayche and cooed, "Ohhh! If I'd have known you'd be here, I would've brought my little one!" One Precious Princess was enough.** (No surprise there.)

As we picked out the colors and patterns for the fixtures and furnishings, I did my best to ignore PP's singing to herself, touching everything, scribbling on the table (hey, if the agents can't tell her to stop, I'm not going to), babbling, and general running around and talking to herself (loudly of course)...while her parents alternately ignored and indulged her. I hit my limit when we (agent Mommy, SIL, BIL, PP, and their poorly trained Jack Russell, and my husband and I) were visiting our unfurnished, unfinished apartment. PP and Jack, with Enrique's encouragement, were running around like idiots, with much squealing, shouting, and barking. Agent Mommy chose that moment to say directly to me, "You will have to be careful with the baby when the countertops are installed" (because we chose the sharp-edged, standard style, rather than the beveled edges, which cost $470 more). I laughed in her face, and said, "No, we won't." All the chaos suddenly stopped. I became the center of the adults' attention, and PP hid behind her mombie's leg, sucking her thumb and staring at me.

"Oh, I did have one question," I said to Agent Mommy. "By when do we need to drop off our ceiling lamp if we want your guys to install that instead of the standard chandelier?"

Chaos gradually resumed. A couple minutes later, SIL invited us to lunch. I accepted very sweetly. Fortunately for me, PP fell asleep on the ride there. The adults actually behaved like adults at lunch, except for SIL asking Alejandro to save some of his lunch (which we paid for) for little Sneauxphlayche.***



*She isn't any more, because I explained very firmly and clearly to the agents that although Alejandro's father would be purchasing the unit, Alejandro and I would be the actual occupants.
**More than enough, really.
***New Rule: You make it, you feed it.