Nurse Punch and Pastries

(Pre-Script: While choosing a song to pair with this post, I was struck by songs with titles like, "The Story," "The End of The Innocence," even "Bring Me To Life," but in the end, I decided that the song, " Therapy," #43 on the playlist, sums it up completely in that one word, so please go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

I am a big fan of current cultural craze called "The Modern Hospital." I think it's an ideal place for a woman to give birth, and to be pumped full of numbing drugs while doing so. However, there is a little known Post Partum Nurse policy that says something like, "In order to work in our fine hospital, you are to have very strong opinions on feeding and burping the newborn baby, and you are to give this advice whenever you enter the patient's room, and above all else, it must be advice that completely conflicts with the nurse that was speaking to this patient before you, and with whichever nurse will come after you. It must also conflict with whatever the new mother is currently doing." I swear this policy must be in the fine print before you can work as a nurse in The Modern Hospital, and that there is some sort of "disagree with each other" drug they put in the Nurse Punch.
"Michelle, there's no such thing as Nurse Punch"
How would you know that, dear Imaginary Reader? Hmm??
"Well, Michelle, I don't, but..."
Then stop interrupting, Gentle Reader. How else do you explain it?
"Good point, Michelle. Carry on."
Ahem.
Yeah, and with the drugged up nurse punch they are fed "tell the patient your opinion in very strong terms" pastries. Since nurses work long hours and are very hungry, they happily enjoy this free and tasty snack, and they never suspect what they are being fed.
I would even venture to guess that there is a reason for this exercise of new mother badgering until she feels thoroughly confused, hopelessly guilty, and utterly incompetent. The secret reason behind this policy is that they are instilling into the mom the idea that no matter what she does, there is always going to be someone who disagrees with her. This is a lesson she had better get used to from the very beginning, because it does not end once new born mom and new born baby leave the hospital.
But gosh, it's a hard initiation.
Maybe it's time that the punch got revoked.
Maybe, instead of obliterating the new mother's sense of common sense, the nurse on duty should please oh pretty please tell her own home birth story. She should remember to include the part about the *certain something* that ended up being stored in her home refrigerator for weeks and weeks until it could be buried beneath the cherry tree her husband kept forgetting to plant in their backyard.
"But Michelle,"
Oh, back again Gentle Reader?
"Yes, Michelle, I just wanted to tell you that that last part doesn't happen to everyone, it's just what happened to you."
Gentle Imaginary Reader, I guess you are right...
...And I purposely remained vague about what the *certain something*was that was stored in the refrigerator after the home birth, to spare you from sudden fits of horror and nausea. Let's just leave it at, I know too much about what is buried beneath the tree of a certain post partum nurse to ever eat any cherries she offers me from here on out.
It's all I'm saying.

Blink

Blink
Happy Birthing.

-XOXO,

The Lightest Things

(Pre-Script: This post reads best when read as the song,"Winter," by Joshua Radin, #29 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Sometimes a sure thing slips right off the surface-
you might think "earthquake" or "global warming"-
a shake up or a melt down, caused it-
but some things were glued down well,
some had substantial roots, before the slip slide into-
well, not oblivion, necessarily,
but certainly
into
a slip slide that rendered the thing
that used to be on the surface
no longer right on the surface
(table tops and ground cover or somesuch)
maybe it has gone underground somewhere to burrow
or "Integrate," you might say,
and is therefore more really there,
or sometimes it's gone forever,
dissolved, or floated on a wind,

too light a thing to hold onto;
(the lightest things fly away unless they choose to stay.)

-XOXO,

Gold Toe Tube Socks

(Pre-Script: To take from this post what you will, please read it as the song, " Superman," #19 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

"DUDE! Gold Toe Socks are SO 2002. I mean, Right??"

-This is what the smiling guy posing on the blow up picture in the men's sections of large department stores, and in catalogues all across America, is saying to the other smiling guy model as they toss the football or Frisbee to each other in their underwear. Sometimes, they just stand in a casual pose, like "Hey, yeah, I stand casually cool like this all the time in my underwear, it is so natural for me. Sometimes to mix things up, I lean against a surfboard. That is why I am smiling like this...Hey, dude, hold up, why don't you toss the Frisbee to me, while I lean against the surfboard. Maybe I'll hold a tennis racket over my shoulder, or something, too. That'll really make for a super picture, I mean, Right??"

-XOXO,

"Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks"*

(Pre-Script: This post rocks when read as the song, "Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)," #41 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If I ever decide to become a Teacher Of Geology, (an urge I have somehow squelched this far in in my life) I would teach thusly: I would take the children to a river of some sort and let them collect whatever rocks appealed to them. Then we would bring the rocks back to the classroom and research them...however you research rocks. I mean, I don't really know what you need to know about rocks, besides what kind they are, so that you can call them by name, ("Come here, Obsidian! I was not quite through talking with you, Slate Gray!") especially if it has potential of becoming a Pet Rock. Or maybe you'd want to know how common your particular favorite rock is, if the rock you found is indigenous to the area where you found it, or if it just fell out of some guy's pocket when he was here visiting from New Zealand one day. It will also be useful to know how precious this rock is, and if it is worth any money. Imagine getting rich off of a rock you found on a riverbed that you picked up because you thought it was pretty. Cue the next Gold Rush type of phenomenon, such as has never been seen in California or elsewhere since 1849. I'm not sure if California is still set up for the arrival and temporary housing of that many horses and ghost towns.

But I digress.
So there I was this afternoon, picking awesome fantastic rocks out of the riverbed, imagining the ranger coming by to rain on my parade thusly:" Excuse me, Miss, there is a law against removing rocks from the rivers in this state. Tell those children that the fun they have been having collecting pretty rocks for the past 30-45 minutes was in vain. Go on, dash their little hopes on their very own rocks."
Since the ranger did not appear, I just kept right on collecting rocks, and I told the children, "you can take home any you want, but you have to carry your own back to the car yourself." Good deal, right? I thought so, as I continued to pick up the smooth round ones that fit perfectly into my hand, and the gorgeous green ones that looked like jade, especially when they were still wet from the river. I thought "I wonder if jade is from this area? What a pleasant surprise to have discovered my own jade supply..."
Blink Blink
"...and I will hire a fine worker of precious stones to carve and create gorgeous jade jewelry, which I will wear, and eventually pass down to my children, and children's children, for generations to come."
-such was the nature of my delusions of rock grandeur, you see.
Oh, what a fun Geologist I would be, if I ever decided to become one, and take the time to study all those rocks, just so many different varieties, who knows, really, not just to know, but to understand rocks, rocks, rocks, like the back of my hand, so much comprehension that it would overflow, and I would have no choice but to teach it to the children, to impart my great wisdom onto their waiting minds, soft as clay, as they blink up at me in expectation.
A child can quite possibly become interested in any subject, even one as seemingly boring as ROCKS, for crying out loud(!!), if it is taught to them well**... Not like when I was in school, and Geology was taught as a rote thing, like "blah blah blah, there is this kind of rock and this kind of rock." Then one morning we took a quiz I had forgotten to study for, so I crammed for 5 minutes before the quiz and got a 97%. after which the teacher pulled me aside to let me know that she could tell that I had studied hard for this quiz.

I have retained none of the information of which I was an expert for 30 minutes.
Blink.
Blink.
Yet in my mind, I'd be an rockin' Geologist.
Ahem.
In the end, none of my own children took home any rocks. I alone brought home my precious handful. Did I look them up online? Nah. Who does that kind of thing, anyway, I mean really!? Gosh. I prefer to imagine that the green ones are jade, and to just feel the perfectly round brown and white ones as I hold them in my hand.

-XOXO,

*Forrest Gump

**And this, my friends, is tricky, and may vary from case to case.

...In Which I Daydream Thusly...

(Pre-Script: This post tastes like a dream meal when read while the song, " Going the Distance," by Cake, #53 on the playlist, or "Cornflake girl," #36 on the playlist, plays in the background. So go down to the playlist, click on one of those songs, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

Come close and I'll tell you a daydream.

Are you even ready for this?
Warning: You might not even be ready for this.

I am a guest judge on Iron Chef America*. I am sitting at the table with the other two judges waiting for the battle to begin, then end, so that I can dig in to each of the 5 courses, count them, 5 each, which equals 10 courses(!!) that the Iron Chef and the Guest Chef have created in the hour they have in which to create said dishes. Now, in this daydream, it is important to note that there are no snobby judges at the table with me. You know, the ones with the perfect palates? Who look down on those of us who don't know the proper way to eat a quail egg or how to make "foam?" Who have never actually eaten off of a plate that contained foam or quail eggs? But I have eaten Robins eggs, those chocolate ones that you get at Easter.

"But Michelle,"

OH! I hear my Imaginary Reader interrupting!

"Michelle, those aren't real robin eggs, you know."

Yes, dear Imaginary Reader, I know.

"...cause real robins don't lay chocolate filled eggs."

Imaginary Reader, I already said I KNOW! GOSH!

"Just making sure. You don't have to bite my head off."

Ahem.

Yeah, so ANYhoo, speaking of biting off heads...in my daydream, The secret ingredient would not be any kind of seafood, because when there is seafood, the chefs often think it's awesome to make some dish that the head has not been cut off of, and you are sitting their looking at your dish that is looking back at you. Y'all, I am not cultured enough to eat things that look back at me. I am not cultured enough to lick foods that lick me back. I have no desire to ever be that cultured, or to sit at a table amongst those who are. I also don't wish for the secret ingredient to be anything gross like beets or broccoli or peppers or cabbage. Why? Because I don't like any of those things, and it's my daydream.

Some ideas for dream ingredients are: cheese.

Oh how I would love to be the judge of battle cheese!

What if the judges made that glorious thing with Brie cheese, where it's melted in the middle, crusty on the outside, and you pair it with almond slivers and apricot jam on a cracker?

Or what if they made blue cheese dressing in which to dip my mushroom pizza?

Or what if they made anything with feta cheese?

OH how I love and long for feta cheese.

"Everything's betta with feta."

-you know it, baby.

And now, I cannot think of any other single stinking secret ingredient.

So I will leave it at,

"I daydream of being a Guest Judge on Iron Chef America on episode: Battle Cheese."

Amen, let's eat.

-XOXO,

*Of the Food Network fame.

Lemon Tree

(Pre-Script: This poem best paired with the song, " She Will Be Loved," #11 on the playlist, So go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)

If you want to pick a lemon from my tree
you should know I will not leave-
guilt is not the thing left dripping in my garden-
too late have I tasted bitter regret,
too slowly have I seen the bleeding fingers
not dripping red, but caked on brown, (this is
old blood), these are old wounds
of late they must be scrubbed
with muscle, teeth clenched in resolution
washed until the water runs clear
If you want to pick a lemon from my tree
bend your bones deliberately
and weep over the soil softening dirt around
roots and dreams
buried together, now intertwined
deep beneath my little lemon tree.

-XOXO,

Long in the feet.

(Pre-Script: This post will grow on you beautifully when paired with the song," Everybody's Changing," #56 on the playlist, so go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading...I'll wait...) (...still waiting...)
Sometimes you might be having a growing pain and not even realise it, so disguised is it by falling down and tripping all over your self. It's like, "hello, didn't I used to be able to walk normally before, with these same legs and 2 feet? Yes, yes I did. But see here, these are not the same two feet, these are a bigger, newer version, and I have not learned how to balance my weight properly, how hard to step, how far each stride will take the rest of my body." Extra slips and trips do not necessarily mean you are losing your balance and losing it, and a total screw up. It just might mean you are experiencing growing pain. Because you are growing.
I knew a girl who's feet grew long faster than the rest of her grew tall. She had to go around all awkward like that.
("Did she ever grow out of it, Michelle?"
-whispers the wondering mind of my curious, dear Imaginary Reader.)
Boy, I sure THINK so...but then again, I only saw her one year at summer camp and never saw her after that. I would be really surprised if the rest of her did not catch up and match with the size of her feet, eventually. Really, seriously surprised. Most people emerge out of their awkward phases as gorgeous butterflies with colors and sparkle no one ever knew was there, so hidden was it under all that...cocoon of acne cream and what not.
And then there are those who never go through an awkward phase. Remember those kids who were just always cute, and stayed cute? Guess what, they don't grow up to be good looking adults. I know this is true because someone told me that once, and it made all kinds of sense to me, so I believe it now. Physical Growth spurts are gone as quickly as adolescence. Internal growth spurts happen all the time, often right directly on the heels of each other, and you're like, "WAIT! I am trying to catch my breath, trying to catch up with myself here!"
My advice to the perpetually growing is this: Have Mercy! Don't try to run. Walk slowly. You'll eventually find your rhythm.

-XOXO,