Can you imagine? “Why, yes, I’d like a Vente, decaf, one-Equal, extra hot, non-fat soy Figprune latte with whip and an ad shot of prune!”
And then I’d like the keys to the bathroom because that is where I’ll be spending the next hour!
Who invented this stuff? Oh geeze, it was a local company, of course. San Jose.
Hmmm….looks like Google, God of Research shows them to be out of business.
Can’t imagine why!
Figs + Prunes + Coffee = someone actually thought that would be a good combination.
And where is the coffee?? It’s 54% fruit and 46% cereal grains. That’s 100%!
Was coffee considered a fruit?
Where’s the caffeine? Is it sludge? Do you eat it with a spoon?
Well, I hope they had a good explanation when they stood before the Great Starbucks Manager in the Sky.
I’m one of those people who can compartmentalize their personal and professional lives with a fair amount of distinction.
When I am home, I am really home.
I cook, clean, take care of the finances, listen to conservative talk radio, take care of the pets, the backyard gardening, the minor repairs, the financial aid forms that my soon-to-be-law-student-son insists were due yesterday, deal with the roller-coaster emotions of my 16-year-old daughter, and reassure my oldest daughter that even though she is undergoing surgery next week, she does not have ovarian cancer (and then say a prayer that I’m right).
In other words, I am mentally, physically and emotionally home and available to everybody for everything.
Actually, I sit on my butt all day long and blog. Or read blogs. With coffee. Or watch my “Aqua Teen Hunger Force” DVDs.
Thirty minutes before everyone is due home I run around the house like a madman so it looks like I’ve been slaving all day. It’s a pretty cool set up, actually.
But at work it is another story.
I am completely and utterly engrossed in what I am doing. I am physically, mentally and emotionally available to my patients for everything. I don’t even think about what is going on at home.
Until I hear those six words, “Kim, you have a phone call!”, and those at home become beloved, adored pains in the derriere.
The following is a true representation of an actual conversation that took place in the mid 1990s when eldest daughter was still at home. The scene: hell in my ER with a critical patient deciding whether or not to code.
“Kim, you have a phone call!”
“Tell them I’ll have to call them back!
“She says it’s urgent and she has to talk to you now!”
(Oh no, I think to myself! Something bad has happened!)
“Betty, can you take over for one minute? I have an urgent phone call from home!”
“Hello, it’s me! What happened?”
“Mom, do you know where the tweezers are?”
Oh no, you did not just ask that question.
“Don’t you EVER call me at work again unless you or a close relative is DYING. Is that understood?”
Mean? Rude? Nasty? Non-understanding? You bet your sweet bippy I was.
I have been interrupted at work for the following:
We are out of cat food.
We are out of dog food.
We are out of milk.
We are out of bread.
We are out of cream cheese.
We are out of ice cream.
We are out of printer ink.
Poster board is required for project due tomorrow.
So, after a hard shift that never has never ended before 2330 for as long as they’ve known me, I am supposed to provide the above.
Hubby doesn’t know what to take for his congestion (27 years of marriage: the answer has always been “Sudafed”).
Eldest daughter calls from another state to ask what dosage of Advil to take. Funny, last time I saw her she knew how to read. Labels.
Son calls from another state to ask if he can put his newly required text on the implications of US foreign policy on the price of chewing gum on his student account.
Youngest daughter calls to say she hates geometry and she got a “C” on the quiz and she feels so dumb but she is getting into AP History next year and Billy flirted with her, but she really wants to ask Jack to the Sadie Hawkins dance, but Eddie is a better dancer and can she have $20.00 so she can go to the movies with 148 friends on Friday and do I mind if she sees “Final Destination 9” even though it is rated “R” but she has seen worse things in drivers’s education and can I make sure her brown pants that aren’t floods are in the dryer when I get home?
It’s nice to be needed, but I want to smack them all.
At least now my husband says,
“Sorry to bother you, but….”