7/02/2018

PRNDL: good fairy or bad fairy?

On my Lucky Charms Day, the day I should have bought a lottery ticket, the gear indicator came back to my PRNDL. After a couple months of intermittent appearances, then an extended disappearance, the gear indicator returned to the Buick.

On my Lucky Day half a million commuters had their morning drives, and much of their afternoon, detoured by an overturned tanker truck atop the High Five interchange of highways 75 and 635. Because I felt lucky about PRNDL, I had driven the sides streets viewing the lovely crepe myrtle trees in bloom and got to work early. The other half million got to work 1.5 to 2.5 hours late creeping on alternate routes.


In my euphoria I compared PRNDL, always pronounced "Prindle" in my family of origin, to other glittery good witch and fairy godmother names:

Glinda
Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather
Broom-Hilda
Endora (I was always rooting for Agnes Morehead against Samantha)
Not Rapunzel, but Aurora's spindle


Under the High Five are the "homes" of two persons without homes. One has been living there for over a year, a silent nag on my conscience most days as I drive by in my air-conditioned Buick. Once while I was stuck in traffic below the flying arch crossovers I heard a radio story about changing our thoughts by changing our language. Let "homeless people" become "persons without homes" in our vocabulary, and "refugees" become "persons seeking refuge." The word order shift is an instant adjustment in ugly times, an interchange to a new attitude.

The Buick PRNDL indicator did not hang around for long. A couple mornings later it had relocated to a magic hollow tree somewhere. I was not a person seriously seeking PRNDL enough to take the Buick to the dealership for a reset. I would just hang on as a person without PRNDL indications, a person having a few difficulties getting into the right gear sometimes. It should be a natural movement if I didn't think about it too much...

A driver seeking Neutral might want to go to the coin-op carwash instead of the drive-through. I was sure I had found the magic spot for Neutral after aligning the Buick on the blue line conveyor into the carwash according to the attendant's hand signals, but suddenly a really expensive new car was right in front of me, and the carwash attendant was pounding on my window pointing at my dash and demanding I get the Buick out of Drive. I tried again for the sweet spot, but Neutral eluded me. The exasperated attendant talked me into Reverse, and made me back up through the tunnel of suds to start over.  I did not drive off with Prince Charming and live happily ever after. I did feel like a pumpkin coach driver minus my livery after midnight.

* * % * @  * & * # * * * @ * * * * * & * P R N D  3 2 1 _______

© 2013-2018 Nancy L. Ruder

6/14/2018

Mind your manners, monitor your moles

Queued to sign in at the doctor's office behind a huffing older man and a mom with three little girls all in summer sundresses, matching hair bows, with butterfly-shaped iPads to start my latest medical Monday. The mother was talking calmly about how this wait would go. The girls could choose where to sit, but they would all sit together. They were here because grown-ups don't always protect their skin from the sun, and they would sit quietly until it was mom's turn to see the doctor. What a pleasure to observe this gentle instruction in patience.

Ahead there was a hold-up. The huffing man with the orange-gray hair wearing the Hawaiian shirt did not want the clipboard with forms to update. He was not a new patient. He should not have to do this. The receptionist explained about the new system, and how all patients had to fill out the forms. With a big sigh, the Hawaiian shirted huffer took the clipboard and went to a chair.

The waiting room was filling up. The oldest gentleman of all seemed pleased to be on an outing with his nursing aide to this happy place. He was sitting beneath the big screen tv, so not watching the recap of a trade advisor named Peter Navarro (with sound blessedly muted) spouting on FOX about a special place in H-E-double toothpicks for people who resist Donald J. Trump.

In the month since I was told to have a dermatologist  "monitor my moles," I've worried a lot about grown-ups like me who don't always protect their skin from the sun, about dumb choices made in my bikini days, about my parental negligence to keep my own little kids slathered in sunscreen, and about every other dot, spot, or blemish on my permanent record. Life is for those who practice prevention and early detection, so I was doomed. But my forms were filled out and printed ala pdf.

"I'm not a new patient! I should not have to fill out the *#!* forms!" The Hawaiian-shirted huffer stomped up to the receptionist. She ever so calmly explained again about the new system.

Nobody likes to fill out those forms. Nobody. But we do, and we wait staring at the Sunday interview with the blessedly-muted presidential advisor.

"THIS IS BULLSHIT! CANCEL MY APPOINTMENT! DON'T BILL ME!"  Huffer threw the clipboard back at the receptionist, and steamed out of the office. The three little girls with their hair bows were alarmed. "Sometimes grown-ups act ugly," the mom quietly told them. Sometimes grown-ups need to check their reactions and their blood pressure, we all mused.

"He's coming back," warned a younger man with a view down the hallway. I hope he's not armed, I thought.

"GIVE ME MY INSURANCE CARD AND DRIVERS LICENSE," the HUFFER demanded. But the receptionist had handed them back earlier. Patting his pockets and fuming, face red, the disgruntled jerk with orange-gray hair stormed out again.

Wear sunscreen.

© 2013-2018 Nancy L. Ruder

5/11/2018

My tails of woe-lets




My problems are too little to be capital W Woes.  They are just woe-lets. Therefore, my tales of woe are just tails of woe-lets, especially since the doctor asked me to draw a spiral, but I thought she said spider. Well, sure, I can draw a spider, but the real problem is the ants.



What ants? The tiny ants displaced and irritable about the foundation repairs to the apartment building.

Hmm. The doctor made notes on the chart, and scheduled a hearing test, even though I have a vision appointment next week between the mammogram and the dermatologist.

  

I can draw spirals on the ends of my toes to look like the tails of woeful piglets. It's not so easy, though, to take toe self-photos of those tails of woe-lets.

   


The front end of a pig looks like a snorting button, but the tail end is a spiral in a circle. The best diagnosis is I've forgotten my problems by writing my petty piggy toe woes.




© 2013-2018 Nancy L. Ruder