Two hands better than one?

(This was after the 1st shoulder surgery, I ended up having messed it up so badly I had to have two more.....which accounts of such will follow sometime.....)

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Has anyone had to use a hand not accustomed to using? I’m right handed, and even though I can use my left hand quite well, I was recently challenged to be a southpaw.

My knee was replaced on December 1^st and I had to use a walker even though I could walk after four days. For once while trying to follow rules this big door tried to attack me and I fell.

In order to protect my new knee, I let go of the trapped walker and fell with all my glorious body on my right elbow which exploded and husband took me to have stitches. It was not appropriate the doctor laughed.

I’d hurt my shoulder but refused to pay attention to it until the knee was well. When I finally went in, it seems I’d cleaned the rotary cuff which would require surgery.

I had that done (trust me, knee replacement is a piece of cake compared to this!). For six long weeks I wore a body-type sling allowing my shoulder to not move. The surgeon found more damage than expected and without telling me I was old, he told me I was old and needed to be very careful so that I could have 65% recovery rather than the original 95%.

Sounds easy if you aren’t claustrophobic. I did well during the day, but at night “it” would taunt me with chants only I could hear. Something like “I’ve got you, you can’t move, nana-nana-boo-boo”–it could have been the drugs, but I don’t think so.

My hair was a mess with impossible left hand drying.  I never dreamed how hard it was to put on mascara with “the other” hand!

The first day back at work I was so pitiful. I looked like I’d washed up on some shore in dry West Texas with no comb and smudged eyes.

I wanted badly to say I went skiing instead of falling off a walker.

I figured out a way to cheat without moving my shoulder and use the computer.

At the end of the six weeks, my hair looked better and the mascara was almost perfect.

Now I’m in physical therapy which is another story. The PT person is so young I felt I needed to burp her before she tortured me.

The moral of this story–walker lessons should be given before being let loose.

Cell Phones and Husbands

A Dollar's Worth

by Alisa Dollar

Everyone is experiencing huge onsets of allergies causing sore throats, ear aches, incessant coughing and sleepless nights.

After 2 1/2 weeks I decided to see Doc Jolly.

Husband met me there and while waiting in the lobby I broke his brand new phone. I didn’t really break it, but you’d have thought the world as we know it had changed to cell phone Hades. I heard from “how did you do that” to “why did you do that” to the best one: “you know this is my business phone.”

My insides were screaming and my head was killing me, I’m not sure which. I sure wanted to eliminate him from my sight at that moment. All I’d done was what the 611 lady’s voice said and initialized his phone.

Bam. It doesn’t work. How was I to know he’d taken it to one of the neighborhood stores to make sure all his phone numbers were transferred and the kid didn’t know you had to initialize the sim card that came with the phone. He’d just moved it over.

So, in the process of doing the right thing, I killed the active ‘old’ sim card.

Simple to understand, right?

When called into the exam room, he had Cute Young Nurse checking the phone with him.

Hello? I’m the sick one!

Doc Jolly comes in and asks what’s wrong as he sits down to take notes, knowing I usually entertain with a list of three ailments.

I told him I’d been sick for too long, I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to be really ill the few days I had for Thanksgiving and felt that ’whatever’ was going into my chest.

I sat for a few minutes to silence. Unless you account for Cute Young Nurse and husband wondering aloud what I’d done to his phone.

“What?” I nearly screamed.

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“You don’t have three things wrong?” He frowned. “You must be really sick.”

I pointed to husband. “Him and that blasted phone. That’s three. Now fix me.”

It turns out I had baby bronchitis and a good thing I went.

I followed husband to the major phone store and the lady there fixed his phone and coddled him while the bad wife who messed up his phone stood there wondering how guys seem so innocent when they really aren’t.

It’s a conspiracy.

I’m sure of it.

This is the one I called The Damn Bird.....her real name was Cookie......

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Over the years, we’ve had various parakeets. Husband doesn’t like cats and parakeets pacified children in lieu of.  Daughter named one Cookie.  Cookie came from the local parakeet store with a well-trimmed cage.

Cookie had severe nesting problems.

Usually a happy little bird, she chirped through the day until her cage was darkened by the night-night cover. Then she became aggravated and started to build little nests out of paper cage lining. Trimming turned into fluttering shambles

Then, out of nowhere, she laid an egg!

I called the pet shop complaining I didn’t appreciate buying a pregnant bird to which they replied female birds, chickens, what-have-you, can lay unfertilized eggs.

What?

I wanted to ask if all these species were so possessive of ‘non-eggs’. I decided that would be a question for husband. 

In the meantime we had to put up with an extremely irritable bird. On some level I could understand and feel her pain. I’d have been angry if I’d had a fake kid.

It didn’t take long to get over the sympathy after she pecked my hand while trying to retrieve spawned matter. We were both screeching. I decided to allow Cookie to sit there and just be disappointed when nothing happened. Or till husband came home. Hopefully he’d know what to do.

As long as we left her un-baby alone, Cookie was a happy camper.

Son came in from school and asked what happened to Cookie’s little household–it was a mess. How could I explain something to a ten year old I didn’t understand myself?

Cookie made a mockery of the birds and bees story.

I did what any good mother would. I sat down with him and told dad would explain later.

It was a mistake to not tell son. Daughter and I heard son yelp and Cookie ‘bird cursing’ all afrenzy.

By the time we got there, son was holding the egg to the light asking if Cookie knew she was having a fit over nothing.

My first thought was I should’ve had son tell me what happened when I noticed how content and quiet Cookie had become. If birds could sigh, I’d swear that’s what she was doing.

I asked son what happened.

Simple, he’d wanted to look at the egg so he replaced it with peanut M&Ms.

Cookie spawned three “eggs” and had a colorful behind.

She was happy.

And quiet.

Nurse Goodbody? Okayokayokay...Nurse Ratchett here.......

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Unlike some, I never wanted to be a nurse. The thought of bedpans make me shudder.

The closest I came was when I tried to give husband allergy shots–back when they were allowed to be given at home. In fact, now that I think on it, I wonder if I’m the reason real nurses have to give them now?

Allergens were pin-pricked into squares on his back, which is how he found out he’s allergic to chicken and turkey. He always said they were called fowl for a reason. It’s a good thing he isn’t a preacher because fried chicken is a prerequisite!

Most of his allergies were ragweed and molds. Something was brewed, stewed, and concocted to protect him. Since he deemed himself too busy to stop by the doctor’s office for the nurse to give shots, he appointed me to give them.

The thought of sticking a needle full of some weird juice into husband’s arm would be a no brainer. That’s what “he” though anyway.

A friend, a local school nurse, took it upon herself to teach me to give shots. I now know she feared for husband’s arm, but at the time I thought it was very nice of her to have me over for coffee while I practiced on oranges and towels.

There is an art to giving shots. You have to know your needle, medicine, and patient. I already knew husband hated shots. He wasn’t afraid of them; he just didn’t want a stranger poking him with a needle.

I became quite the expert on oranges. I didn’t like towels, but nurse said skin types were different even though I assured her husband was definitely an orange.

The day arrived. I had alcohol prep, medicine and the syringe. I was shocked the needle was so skinny and short. I’d practiced with long, fatter ones. I wanted a real needle even though I had a feeling of power filling the syringe.

Husband turned his head while I rubbed alcohol everywhere. I couldn’t decide where to poke. I pinched up skin, shut my eyes and whammed it in. When I opened my eyes, it was in the wrong place so I jerked it out.

Husband came unglued at that point but b y then I had it in the right place and squeezed in the meds before he could yelp again.

Husband decided he had time to stop by the doctor’s office.

My nursing days abruptly ended. Go figure.

Don't Make Me Go To Sam's!!!!

Hey Toby, another one for you, since you just told me to go there....yech.....YOU can by 5 gallons of mayonaisse.....I like little jars from the grocery!)

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Husband is a Samaholic.  If you don’t know, Sam’s is a huge warehouse to buy mass amounts of “stuff” at low prices.

I hate Sam’s. Husband loves Sam’s. He can’t understand why I don’t. I try to tell him it’s like a curb appeal to a house and Sam’s just doesn’t have it. When you walk in the door this huge, and I mean colossal room overwhelms and to top it off, everything is flat. I went further to explain it was like me moving from the Austin/San Antonio area to Lubbock. It’s flat. No curb appeal.

He argues that I feel a deep affection and appreciation for Lubbock. I always have to remind him it took me a long time to understand that God went to sleep outside of San Angelo and woke up in Ruidoso because there was a strong lack of rivers, trees, hills, and people.

During that time, I’ve become fond of the plains. I’d never seen the sky touch the ground till I moved here–it always touched the trees or tops of hills–never the ground! I admit, when I go back to “my” part of Texas, I almost get claustrophobic.

Husband also is another reason I don’t like Sam’s. He drives me crazy in there! He wants to buy things, which for us are less costly at the local grocery, auto shop, clothing store or anywhere in town.

He seems to forget you save money buying in mass if you have a lot of mouths to feed, like a cafeteria in the school or stands at the football games, or the fair. Not two old people who need fiber!

We don’t have the kids at home anymore, but when one of them, or the grandkids come, he’s off to Sam’s. If he bought things kids like that would be one thing. Most kids our grandkids age really aren’t into organic peanut butter. They like the REAL kind like Jif or Skippy or store brand. This type of thing is irritating.

I always hope natural peanut butter doesn’t expire all too soon because he has to eat it.

I like Jif.

There are some good things about him going there though. When I run out of paper towels or toilet paper, it takes me forever to remember to buy it.

Needless to say, I have a good years’ supply of both in the pantry.

Pits? Or not.......

(I really do have a sign in my kitchen and a magnet as well that states: There is a kitchen because it came with the house.)

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

If a can of cherries states “pit” does that mean pits have been removed?

I have a problem decoding can-speak.

In high school I took home economics. I took it because I had to. I took it because every female in my family could and still can cook. I took it because I thought it would be fun to learn to sew and cook.

Wrong.

I pin patterns to material every one inch. Mother looked at something and made it from several patterns and never pinned.

I wouldn’t mix patterns and for good reason. I made the only pair of walking shorts that ended up a tight skirt sown with legs. Don’t ask how it happened. There’s good, solid reasoning that only “I” understand.

If I could have figured a way for the legs to be separated, I could’ve been the inventor of leggings. Instead, I had a skirt/short that was so well put together I couldn’t walk, much less sit down. Plus it was a mess by the time I took it apart to try to read the pattern better.

Then the cherry incident happened. I claim fame to pie crust. I could flute with the best of them. I should’ve taken up sculpting.

I was a dismal failure at meringue and couldn’t stand those yucky eggs whites anyway, so I always made double crust pies.

For homework, I made a cherry pie. I was so proud of it because it really was pretty. It had the red juices oozing out of the top just like it’s supposed to–hot and ready to serve.

I put it in front of daddy and sat down waiting expectantly for accolades of how well I’d done, how good it was, and so on.

I wasn’t expecting him to spit out the first bite and hear a clunk on the plate.

I was horrified.

Daddy was choking.

The only thing he didn’t do was grab his throat and run.

I did the only thing I could. I sat frozen to the chair wondering what I’d done wrong; I’d followed the recipe.

He finally gasped I’d not pitted the cherries.

I went straight to the can and pointed to the pit part which I then realized must mean pits aren’t pitted.

Several morals apply.

Buy cherry pies, then you don’t have to worry.

Don’t choke around me, I freeze.

Especially if I’ve done the cooking.

Valentine's around the corner......

This was last year's....but it'll work for any year.....

A Dollar’s Worth

By Alisa Dollar

Alert! Valentine’s Day is fast approaching!

I’m working on a manuscript with the subject “what it means to be in love.”

At first glance it seems an easy topic.

First thoughts raced through my mind: first love, lasting love, brotherly love, agape love, fraternal love, familial love, marital love and so on.

As I started to compose with meaningful dialogue, I realized two words distracted fingers from sailing across the keyboard. They were “in love”.

Love is easy. “In love” takes on a new persona.

I remember the movie “Love Story” with the famous line: “Love is never having to say you’re sorry.”

That’s just not right! Saying you’re sorry is a part of love. If one can’t push those two words out as eloquently as the two that puts us together until death do us part...I’m sorry, but the ‘I do’ will be flat lined here and there.

I’d venture to say the words “I do” are easier to say than “I’m sorry” in most marriages, no matter how long they last or don’t last.

Saying either of the sets of words is a big step. The first is a  commitment one to the other. The latter should be as easy flowing through the lips as the first.

Why then, is it so hard to say? Or admit.

Pride? Ego? Anger? Hurt? Betrayal? Stubborn? The latter is what husband claims as my problem. I concur. Meeting 50-50 is often 60-40 or 75-25 or 80-20. I wonder why I am on the smaller end.

Stubborn. Okay, stubborn!

After thinking of many I know, including husband and me, who’ve been together through good and bad; those who didn’t make it but can still remember they once loved so deeply; and those not yet ready for committal, but have stars in their eyes and love in their heart–I still struggle over “in love”.

I know my being in love means having to say I’m sorry. It may take awhile, but I know over the last 42 years if I hadn’t said them when needed, I’d have bleeding ulcers!

On Valentine’s Day verbally say to each other what’s needed and don’t hide behind hearts, chocolate and flowers. If an apology is in order, do so. If you love them, say so.

Words are powerful, especially when spoken from the heart.

An addendum---chocolate and flowers definitely add a nice touch!

Happy Valentine’s Day!