Knoxville Pediatric Associates, circa 1970.
The offices of Knoxville Pediatric Associates are situated at the west end of the Fort Sanders neighborhood - home to college students and falafel restaurants and a diverse array of people. Each exam room backs up to a row of small rental homes most frequently occupied by graduate students, and on this particular occasion, our view is of a little white house with a rose trellis.
I am six years old, and I have strep throat. It's official; Dr. Willingham just left the room a few moments ago to go instruct Nurse Toni to draw up a penicillin injection. He gives my father a baleful look on his way out the door.
I am famous at Knoxville Pediatric Associates, even at this tender age, for my surprisingly violent self-defense techniques. Not only have I mastered high-velocity flailing, but I have also perfected a shriek that will peel wallpaper.
My father feels sorrier for the nurse who is going to be the stick-er, than he does for me as the stick-ee. This makes me all kinds of mad. And when I get mad, I cry. (some things never change.)
We sit there after the doctor leaves, just my dad and me. I start pleading with him to tell them to skip the shot, that I'm actually just fine, it's probably just a cold but thanks anyway. Please, Daddy? Please?
PLEASEDADDYPLEASEDADDYPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE DON'T MAKE ME GET A SHOT!!!!!
Dad tries to soothe me, and gives me this priceless pearl of advice - "settle down, baby. Don't holler til you're hit."
Dad has little tolerance for histrionics on a good day, but to be saddled with a sick and screaming 6 year old girl was certainly not on list of favorite things to do. He stood up, sighed, and walked over to the window, his back to me.
"Wait...what's that?" says my dad. He is all of a sudden very keenly interested in something going on outside the window.
I don't care what is going on outside the window, because someone is coming to impale my backside with a spear any moment now. Cue up more caterwauling.
Dad giggles. "Oh....my....gosh....oh...um...you are not going to believe this..."
Now, I'm trying my level best not to care what is going on out there, but he isn't making it easy. Whatever it is that is so fascinating has really got his attention.
"Well, would'ya look at that?!" says he.
"WHAT, Daddy, what is it? What are you looking at?" My tears are drying and I am becoming more intrigued with the view myself.
"Oh gosh, baby, I'm sorry...never mind. It's nothing important. Probably nothing you need to be looking at anyway."
"What IS it, Daddy?" Now I am enthralled with the notion of looking out the window. It is too high up the wall for me to look out on my own - not without being on my very tippy-toes or being lifted up by my dad.
"Well, um, I don't know, baby, if you should be seeing this. It's not really something little kids ought to see."
Little kids? What little kids? I am six-almost-seven, for pete's sake!
"DADDY. I want to look out the window!"
With a sly half-grin, he says, "well, OK, but don't say I didn't warn you," then he stoops over to lift me up so that I can peer out the window.
Where I see nothing. Absolutely nothing. The quaint little white house with the rose trellis, but whoop-dee-doo, what's so thrilling about that? I say as much to my dad.
"What...you mean she's not there now? Why, she was just there a minute ago!"
"Who, Daddy? Who was there?"
"Well, the naked lady, of course. There was a naked lady right there through that big window, taking a shower."
WHAT?? A NAKED LADY?? WHERE ?!?!? At age 6, gender is less relevant than the overall notion of seeing somebody with no clothes on, so of course, I am now focused on keeping an eye out for the naked lady. Where'd she go? Was she young or old? Fat or skinny? Pretty or ugly?
The door creaks open softly, barely noticed, and in creeps Nurse Toni with her 22-gauge needle. I know she is there, and I know why, but dammit woman, we've got to find the naked lady! The shot will have to wait!
As I crane my neck to keep looking for the naked lady, Nurse Toni gently eases down the left side of my shorts and does the deed. And heck yes, it hurts, it hurts something awful!
"OW! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOOWAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!" Now the tears are back. "You sneaked up on me, that's CHEATING, OW OW OW wwwwaaaah!!"
Dad pats me on the head and says, "OK, baby girl, holler away." So I sniffle and accept my grape Dum-Dum sucker and off we go.
Don't holler 'til you're hit. What wonderful advice.
How often it is that I still flail and shriek in fear of future pain. Maybe not physically, but still in my heart I am flailing and dithering and all kinds of afraid of what lies ahead - especially if I suspect it's going to hurt.
We've all been hurt; most of us can think of at least one or two extremely painful events in our own lives. It is natural to want to avoid that feeling. Yet it is pointless - even harmful - to anticipate and worry and live in fear of what may (or may not!) lie ahead.
Plus, I may get to see some pretty interesting stuff if I am looking at today instead of worrying about tomorrow. It's true - I'm probably going to get hit again sometime down the road, and some of those events are just the natural course of life.
I think I will skip the hollering, at least today. Don't want to miss anything.
11 April 2013
11 March 2013
Highbrow Eyebrows
I was in my thirties before someone confronted me about my eyebrows.
Beginning in middle school, when my darker-haired friends began their quest for tidy eyebrows, I was relieved by the fact I had thin, mousy dark blond hair that didn't seem to accelerate growth in adolescence.
I tried to pluck my eyebrows in high school, but it hurt like crazy and seemed stupid to me. Pulling hairs out of my face, one or two at a time? And ending up with little irritated red spots where the hairs used to be? No thanks.
In my twenties, I was in denial about a whole lot of things - the least of which was my eyebrows.
And so, in my early 30s and during an unsurprisingly brief foray into cosmetic sales, a well-meaning colleague said, "you have GOT to do something about those eyebrows."
I hadn't contemplated the attractiveness or lack thereof in anyone else's eyebrows, so I assumed nobody paid attention to mine either. I did once work with a man who had scary bushy eyebrows that were so long, I suspect they were braid-able. He also had disconcertingly noticeable ear hairs that curled outward from his ear canal and lobes. Now THAT was appalling; my little stray eyebrows were Pop Warner tryouts in comparison to his Super Bowl.
So, in furtherance of my budding career in the makeup industry, I bought some tweezers and went to town. Did I mention about the little red spots? The stray wild mousy blond hairs were far less distracting, in my humble opinion.
(I lasted all of 90 days in the cosmetics biz - apparently you have to be a sociopath and compulsive liar. I couldn't bring myself to sell expensive face cream to little old ladies who were probably living off cat food so they could splurge on beauty products.)
Anyhow, it wasn't until I made it into my 40s that I discovered the relative ease and freedom of having one's eyebrows waxed.
The first time was terrible. I hadn't known what to expect, and neither did the little Vietnamese lady who dabbed hot wax on my brow bone, patted it gently, then forcefully ripped it off.
I literally shrieked "OW!!!" right in her face; she returned the favor with a surprised gasp perfumed with fish sauce.
"You want other eye?" she asked cautiously.
Well, what now? I couldn't very well go out of there with mismatched eyebrows. After all, ever since I'd learned that people (especially catty women) apparently DO pay attention to the eyebrows of others, I had a tidy-eyebrow reputation to protect. So she did the other eye - I secretly think she pulled even harder that time, but I wasn't about to let on that it hurt.
She smiled sweetly and said, "bikini too?"
Um, no. No thanks. For you people out there that do subject yourselves to such torture, I'm humbled by your courage.
Beginning in middle school, when my darker-haired friends began their quest for tidy eyebrows, I was relieved by the fact I had thin, mousy dark blond hair that didn't seem to accelerate growth in adolescence.
I tried to pluck my eyebrows in high school, but it hurt like crazy and seemed stupid to me. Pulling hairs out of my face, one or two at a time? And ending up with little irritated red spots where the hairs used to be? No thanks.
In my twenties, I was in denial about a whole lot of things - the least of which was my eyebrows.
And so, in my early 30s and during an unsurprisingly brief foray into cosmetic sales, a well-meaning colleague said, "you have GOT to do something about those eyebrows."
I hadn't contemplated the attractiveness or lack thereof in anyone else's eyebrows, so I assumed nobody paid attention to mine either. I did once work with a man who had scary bushy eyebrows that were so long, I suspect they were braid-able. He also had disconcertingly noticeable ear hairs that curled outward from his ear canal and lobes. Now THAT was appalling; my little stray eyebrows were Pop Warner tryouts in comparison to his Super Bowl.
So, in furtherance of my budding career in the makeup industry, I bought some tweezers and went to town. Did I mention about the little red spots? The stray wild mousy blond hairs were far less distracting, in my humble opinion.
(I lasted all of 90 days in the cosmetics biz - apparently you have to be a sociopath and compulsive liar. I couldn't bring myself to sell expensive face cream to little old ladies who were probably living off cat food so they could splurge on beauty products.)
Anyhow, it wasn't until I made it into my 40s that I discovered the relative ease and freedom of having one's eyebrows waxed.
The first time was terrible. I hadn't known what to expect, and neither did the little Vietnamese lady who dabbed hot wax on my brow bone, patted it gently, then forcefully ripped it off.
I literally shrieked "OW!!!" right in her face; she returned the favor with a surprised gasp perfumed with fish sauce.
"You want other eye?" she asked cautiously.
Well, what now? I couldn't very well go out of there with mismatched eyebrows. After all, ever since I'd learned that people (especially catty women) apparently DO pay attention to the eyebrows of others, I had a tidy-eyebrow reputation to protect. So she did the other eye - I secretly think she pulled even harder that time, but I wasn't about to let on that it hurt.
She smiled sweetly and said, "bikini too?"
Um, no. No thanks. For you people out there that do subject yourselves to such torture, I'm humbled by your courage.
23 January 2013
Pray It Like You Mean It
I believe in the power of prayer.
I also believe that the Creator listens to my prayers.
And I suspect He often finds them amusing.
****
In all honesty, the number of times I've truly gotten quiet enough to settle into a prayerful and reverent state of mind are remarkably few. Now, don't get me wrong, I pray every day - sometimes several times a day, and sometimes several DOZEN times a day.
But there have been a few special pit stops on my faith journey thus far that were more, um...communal. More intimate. Quiet and deep time, where I can hear far more than I say.
I'm not able to get that way too often. More often, my prayers go something like this:
Heavenly Father, I worship You and thank You for this day (my nose itches). I am grateful for all that You (what's that there on the floor near my foot?) have provided for my family and me (did I run the dishwasher?) Please help our friend ____, who is battling cancer and is in need of Your comfort and care (bet I already have melanoma myself). We ask for Your protection and care for our troops (man I hope my kid never joins the military, that's gotta suck) and we thank You for the saving grace we find in Your son, Jesus Christ (you know, Amazing Grace has always been one of my favorite hymns). For it is in His name we pray, Amen.
I suspect that my prayers sometimes wander because I am praying without intent. In other words, I am praying because that's what I'm supposed to do - that's what Christians do, right? We pray! We worship how great God is and we pray for sick friends and we give thanks for all of our blessings and our salvation and we check the box indicating YES, I have indeed said my prayers. Now on to the next item on the to-do list.
Not much intimacy in that, huh.
I mentioned in an earlier post this week that I am really busy at work right now, and it is harder than usual to shut off my mental firehose long enough to enter a posture of contemplative prayer. I can't hear anything other than me, me, me, ME, ME, MEMEMEMEME MEEEEEEE and it makes me nutty (ok, nuttier).
I went to our Wednesday night Bible study at church this evening - true to form, I was late, and everyone was praying quietly when I walked in. I scurried to an empty table, found a seat, and bowed my head. And tried to pray. Then tried some more. The more I tried to pray, the harder it was to stop thinking about other things.
So - I stopped trying.
As if that wasn't bad enough, about that time, our pastor invited everyone to pray corporately - to pray together, aloud. Aloud! That used to be one of my other prayer barriers too...I might pray, but I sure as heck wouldn't do it where you could hear me.
Well, now what? I contemplated leaving - after all, everyone's eyes had been closed since I arrived, so they wouldn't even know I'd been there and bailed. But I came for Bible study, and if I had to sit through people praying out loud, well then, that's just what I had to do.
At the tables all around me, I heard whispers, then more audible prayers. People were taking turns, offering prayers for one another, for our church, for our country....for our world. There was a steady hum throughout the room - the sincere and soft sounds of devoted Christ-followers speaking with and listening to the Holy Spirit among us.
Now for my friends who are scoffers, I know exactly how wacky this sounds, but I'm telling you the truth - there was a Presence there with us, in that big open sanctuary. A divine Presence of peace and unfathomably singular power. His presence. No kidding.
In the absence of trying to pray "well", I stumbled into another one of those intimate moments where He did all the talking and I sat quietly empty in a good way. Empty of stress, empty of my own head noise - empty of anything else but love for Him and His people.
I also believe that the Creator listens to my prayers.
And I suspect He often finds them amusing.
****
In all honesty, the number of times I've truly gotten quiet enough to settle into a prayerful and reverent state of mind are remarkably few. Now, don't get me wrong, I pray every day - sometimes several times a day, and sometimes several DOZEN times a day.
But there have been a few special pit stops on my faith journey thus far that were more, um...communal. More intimate. Quiet and deep time, where I can hear far more than I say.
I'm not able to get that way too often. More often, my prayers go something like this:
Heavenly Father, I worship You and thank You for this day (my nose itches). I am grateful for all that You (what's that there on the floor near my foot?) have provided for my family and me (did I run the dishwasher?) Please help our friend ____, who is battling cancer and is in need of Your comfort and care (bet I already have melanoma myself). We ask for Your protection and care for our troops (man I hope my kid never joins the military, that's gotta suck) and we thank You for the saving grace we find in Your son, Jesus Christ (you know, Amazing Grace has always been one of my favorite hymns). For it is in His name we pray, Amen.
I suspect that my prayers sometimes wander because I am praying without intent. In other words, I am praying because that's what I'm supposed to do - that's what Christians do, right? We pray! We worship how great God is and we pray for sick friends and we give thanks for all of our blessings and our salvation and we check the box indicating YES, I have indeed said my prayers. Now on to the next item on the to-do list.
Not much intimacy in that, huh.
I mentioned in an earlier post this week that I am really busy at work right now, and it is harder than usual to shut off my mental firehose long enough to enter a posture of contemplative prayer. I can't hear anything other than me, me, me, ME, ME, MEMEMEMEME MEEEEEEE and it makes me nutty (ok, nuttier).
I went to our Wednesday night Bible study at church this evening - true to form, I was late, and everyone was praying quietly when I walked in. I scurried to an empty table, found a seat, and bowed my head. And tried to pray. Then tried some more. The more I tried to pray, the harder it was to stop thinking about other things.
So - I stopped trying.
As if that wasn't bad enough, about that time, our pastor invited everyone to pray corporately - to pray together, aloud. Aloud! That used to be one of my other prayer barriers too...I might pray, but I sure as heck wouldn't do it where you could hear me.
Well, now what? I contemplated leaving - after all, everyone's eyes had been closed since I arrived, so they wouldn't even know I'd been there and bailed. But I came for Bible study, and if I had to sit through people praying out loud, well then, that's just what I had to do.
At the tables all around me, I heard whispers, then more audible prayers. People were taking turns, offering prayers for one another, for our church, for our country....for our world. There was a steady hum throughout the room - the sincere and soft sounds of devoted Christ-followers speaking with and listening to the Holy Spirit among us.
Now for my friends who are scoffers, I know exactly how wacky this sounds, but I'm telling you the truth - there was a Presence there with us, in that big open sanctuary. A divine Presence of peace and unfathomably singular power. His presence. No kidding.
In the absence of trying to pray "well", I stumbled into another one of those intimate moments where He did all the talking and I sat quietly empty in a good way. Empty of stress, empty of my own head noise - empty of anything else but love for Him and His people.
21 January 2013
Want Some Cheese With Your Whine?
I am busy at work these days.
REALLY busy.
Not that I was watching Oprah and eating bon bons before, but my job changed at the beginning of the year and I am a whole new kind of BUSY.
-- The kind of busy where you keep a running to-do list on the side of your desk that makes you wince in the evening when you realize that, not only did you not tackle a single doggone thing on the list, but you added four more things for tomorrow that are way more important than anything on today's list.
-- The kind of busy where you eat lunch at your desk every single day, and usually not until around 3, and only then because you are on a conference call and can chew your food while the phone is muted. You learn quickly not to bring an apple or nuts, because odds are good that someone will ask you a critically important question while your mouth is full. Stick with something soft and silent, like cottage cheese or yogurt. Quieter and probably safer, too.
-- So busy that you keep postponing going to the bathroom until it is WAY TOO LATE TO WALK WITH ANY DIGNITY.
-- Too busy to have a friendly chat with a co-worker about what their kid did in the talent show last Saturday without looking at the clock every 18 seconds and telepathically communicating that they need to wrap it up before things get rude and you have to ruin your friendship.
-- The kind of busy where you are in meetings nonstop from 8 a.m. all the way to 7 p.m. (taking into account aforementioned lunch and bathroom breaks), and in each meeting, you were fool enough to take responsibility for something that has to be done before the end of the day because you want everyone to marvel at your "can-do!" attitude.
-- So busy that, while concentrating deeply during note-taking on conference calls, you put your left elbow on your desk and rest your head in your left palm while you write with the right hand. Your left hand is in your hair for the better part of the day. You strongly resemble The Joker by the end of the day, plus your ear is hot.
I'm really busy.
But don't get me wrong -- I am grateful to be busy. May I never take umbrage with having Joker hair or quiet lunches, because I am thankful for my job as well as the opportunities it presents to my family and me. I do work for some really great people, and guess what -- they have Joker hair, too.
And anyway, I can't stand Oprah.
REALLY busy.
Not that I was watching Oprah and eating bon bons before, but my job changed at the beginning of the year and I am a whole new kind of BUSY.
-- The kind of busy where you keep a running to-do list on the side of your desk that makes you wince in the evening when you realize that, not only did you not tackle a single doggone thing on the list, but you added four more things for tomorrow that are way more important than anything on today's list.
-- The kind of busy where you eat lunch at your desk every single day, and usually not until around 3, and only then because you are on a conference call and can chew your food while the phone is muted. You learn quickly not to bring an apple or nuts, because odds are good that someone will ask you a critically important question while your mouth is full. Stick with something soft and silent, like cottage cheese or yogurt. Quieter and probably safer, too.
-- So busy that you keep postponing going to the bathroom until it is WAY TOO LATE TO WALK WITH ANY DIGNITY.
-- Too busy to have a friendly chat with a co-worker about what their kid did in the talent show last Saturday without looking at the clock every 18 seconds and telepathically communicating that they need to wrap it up before things get rude and you have to ruin your friendship.
-- The kind of busy where you are in meetings nonstop from 8 a.m. all the way to 7 p.m. (taking into account aforementioned lunch and bathroom breaks), and in each meeting, you were fool enough to take responsibility for something that has to be done before the end of the day because you want everyone to marvel at your "can-do!" attitude.
-- So busy that, while concentrating deeply during note-taking on conference calls, you put your left elbow on your desk and rest your head in your left palm while you write with the right hand. Your left hand is in your hair for the better part of the day. You strongly resemble The Joker by the end of the day, plus your ear is hot.
I'm really busy.
But don't get me wrong -- I am grateful to be busy. May I never take umbrage with having Joker hair or quiet lunches, because I am thankful for my job as well as the opportunities it presents to my family and me. I do work for some really great people, and guess what -- they have Joker hair, too.
And anyway, I can't stand Oprah.
28 December 2012
Happy News from the Fifth Floor
Tickled to report that the Mister is much much MUCH better today and is probably going to be headed home later this afternoon; if not today, then tomorrow morning for sure.
After adjusting his medications, giving him a blood transfusion and several bags of IV fluids, and doing an echocardiogram, the cardiologist and nephrologist are satisfied that he is out of the woods and ready to return to the wild.
His blood pressure is good and his blood sugar is good; and since having the blood transfusion overnight, his hemoglobin count is also good. He's still a tad anemic, so they're giving him an iron injection and then putting him on additional iron supplements at home. The nephrologist expressed a little concern that he might be dizzy or tired after being upright, and if that was the case, then they might want to keep him one more night.
Therefore, the Mister promptly put on his shorts and Nikes and we did two laps around the fifth floor - resulting in zero dizziness (and if he's tired, he ain't saying so).
Looks like he's dodging the stolen-oscopy too, at least for today, so no insult being added to injury.
Unless we hear something to the contrary, I expect to take him home this afternoon or evening. Thank you for the prayers and support!
After adjusting his medications, giving him a blood transfusion and several bags of IV fluids, and doing an echocardiogram, the cardiologist and nephrologist are satisfied that he is out of the woods and ready to return to the wild.
His blood pressure is good and his blood sugar is good; and since having the blood transfusion overnight, his hemoglobin count is also good. He's still a tad anemic, so they're giving him an iron injection and then putting him on additional iron supplements at home. The nephrologist expressed a little concern that he might be dizzy or tired after being upright, and if that was the case, then they might want to keep him one more night.
Therefore, the Mister promptly put on his shorts and Nikes and we did two laps around the fifth floor - resulting in zero dizziness (and if he's tired, he ain't saying so).
Looks like he's dodging the stolen-oscopy too, at least for today, so no insult being added to injury.
Unless we hear something to the contrary, I expect to take him home this afternoon or evening. Thank you for the prayers and support!
27 December 2012
Deja Vu All Over Again
Here is a loose transcript of some of my thoughts from this morning:
"The Mister sure has been napping a lot lately. I mean, the man is pretty fond of naps in general, but seems like he's been especially snoozy in the last week or two. I wonder if...YES, YOU CAN HAVE SOME CHEESE FOR BREAKFAST...
Now, where was I...something about naps...no, I'm not tired, so that's not it, WAIT now I remember I was thinking about how tired my man has been in the last few weeks. Come to think of it, he's also seemed a little 'off', maybe more off than usual..."
Fast forward to around 2 p.m. where I got tired of talking to myself and decided to call his doctor instead. Long story short, we were back in the emergency room by 3 p.m.
Because we found ourselves in something of a hurry, I didn't have time to find somewhere for the Girl to go. And there isn't a snowball's chance in Hades that she would stay with the Boy alone for an indeterminate period of time, so she came along for the ride.
Big mistake. I couldn't very well leave her alone in the ER waiting area, but it was also rough on her to see her daddy sick and flat on his back with lots of people in scrubs fussing over him. Thankfully some good friends from the Girl's school were willing to come take her home with them. (You know who you are and I am eternally grateful.)
After labwork and a chest xray, the ER doc ruled out a second heart attack, but there are other weird things going on now. His hemoglobin (red blood cell) count is too low and is indicative of internal bleeding. He is very dehydrated, and his blood pressure is also too low, which explains the dizzy spells. And his creatinine is too high, meaning that his kidneys aren't doing their job very well either.
In an effort to protect what little remains of his dignity, I won't tell you where they think the internal bleeding is happening, but suffice to say that tomorrow he will probably have something that ends in "-oscopy" and the first part rhymes with "stolen". He is having a blood transfusion first thing in the morning, and he'll also have an echocardiogram just to triple-check his heart.
So I suspect we will know a lot more tomorrow, and I will pass along updates and/or silly observations as they become available.
TTFN -
"The Mister sure has been napping a lot lately. I mean, the man is pretty fond of naps in general, but seems like he's been especially snoozy in the last week or two. I wonder if...YES, YOU CAN HAVE SOME CHEESE FOR BREAKFAST...
Now, where was I...something about naps...no, I'm not tired, so that's not it, WAIT now I remember I was thinking about how tired my man has been in the last few weeks. Come to think of it, he's also seemed a little 'off', maybe more off than usual..."
Fast forward to around 2 p.m. where I got tired of talking to myself and decided to call his doctor instead. Long story short, we were back in the emergency room by 3 p.m.
Because we found ourselves in something of a hurry, I didn't have time to find somewhere for the Girl to go. And there isn't a snowball's chance in Hades that she would stay with the Boy alone for an indeterminate period of time, so she came along for the ride.
Big mistake. I couldn't very well leave her alone in the ER waiting area, but it was also rough on her to see her daddy sick and flat on his back with lots of people in scrubs fussing over him. Thankfully some good friends from the Girl's school were willing to come take her home with them. (You know who you are and I am eternally grateful.)
After labwork and a chest xray, the ER doc ruled out a second heart attack, but there are other weird things going on now. His hemoglobin (red blood cell) count is too low and is indicative of internal bleeding. He is very dehydrated, and his blood pressure is also too low, which explains the dizzy spells. And his creatinine is too high, meaning that his kidneys aren't doing their job very well either.
In an effort to protect what little remains of his dignity, I won't tell you where they think the internal bleeding is happening, but suffice to say that tomorrow he will probably have something that ends in "-oscopy" and the first part rhymes with "stolen". He is having a blood transfusion first thing in the morning, and he'll also have an echocardiogram just to triple-check his heart.
So I suspect we will know a lot more tomorrow, and I will pass along updates and/or silly observations as they become available.
TTFN -
20 December 2012
Drawers
Back where my mama's family comes from, the word "drawers" can mean those slide-out boxes in a dresser or chest where you keep your clothes or maybe random junk, OR it can mean your underpants. I think northerners exchange "bloomers" for drawers, but I digress.
This post is not about underpants.
The Mister will tell you that my drawers are terrifying. (please refer once more to the above disclaimer re: drawers not being underpants.) They are terrifying because I collect junk in every single drawer that will open wide enough for me to slide something else into it.
The kitchen drawer:
Random mixed candles
A small hammer
Nine assorted playing cards from two different decks
Scotch, duct, painter's, masking and electrical tape
Rusty scissors that wouldn't cut warm butter
Warranty for the toaster
Four pens with no ink left
The rolltop desk:
Old checkbooks from closed accounts
Ornaments marked down December 28th last year that I forgot about until Easter
Eight copies of each child's school portrait for the past five years (need to send those out one of these days...)
My late grandmother's business cards
More tape
Teeth (yes, I keep my children's baby teeth. So what.)
My bathroom drawers:
Haircare products
Skincare products
Failed lipsticks
Ugly hairbands
Seven tubes of my favorite toothpaste (it was on SALE, for pete's sake)
Dresser drawers:
T-shirts
Jeans
Drawers (yes, underpants)
Gloves
Socks
Old zoom lens for a Pentax camera I sold in '93
My brain has hundreds of different drawers as well, with labels to identify their contents. The majority of them overflow with memories of one kind or another; some joyful, some horrific, some just random snapshots of insignificance like my third grade desk or a long-gone favorite hairbrush.
Other drawers contain opinions, assessments, learned lessons, failed lessons, habits, desires, tastes, distastes, conclusions and questions unasked and/or unanswered. There's an entire section devoted to faith, and I like adding to it most of all. I already have more than I ever imagined I would.
But.
Every now and then, someone or something happens and I don't know where to put it. It doesn't line up with any of my hundreds of existing drawer labels - so I don't know what to do with it. So I just stand there inside my head, hopping from foot to foot like a kindergartner with a full bladder....wondering what to do with this thing that must be put somewhere, for crying out loud, just put it SOMEWHERE because it hurts and it smells bad.
So it is with Sandy Hook Elementary on December 14th, 2012. I do have a drawer labeled "To Think About Later", and I've tried to shove it in there a number of times, but it won't stay. "Evil" seemed appropriate at first, but then "Heroes", "Community" and "Stupid Cable News Shows" confused the issue further.
All the while, the Faith section has been sitting undisturbed against the back wall, in the warm part where all the good stuff is. It occurs to me to put Sandy Hook in Faith's top drawer...but what if that's not where it belongs?? What if it leaks on all my other faith things and then they all get ruined?
Oh my goodness.
Faith.
That is where this needs to go, because it's the only place it can possibly fit.
This post is not about underpants.
The Mister will tell you that my drawers are terrifying. (please refer once more to the above disclaimer re: drawers not being underpants.) They are terrifying because I collect junk in every single drawer that will open wide enough for me to slide something else into it.
The kitchen drawer:
Random mixed candles
A small hammer
Nine assorted playing cards from two different decks
Scotch, duct, painter's, masking and electrical tape
Rusty scissors that wouldn't cut warm butter
Warranty for the toaster
Four pens with no ink left
The rolltop desk:
Old checkbooks from closed accounts
Ornaments marked down December 28th last year that I forgot about until Easter
Eight copies of each child's school portrait for the past five years (need to send those out one of these days...)
My late grandmother's business cards
More tape
Teeth (yes, I keep my children's baby teeth. So what.)
My bathroom drawers:
Haircare products
Skincare products
Failed lipsticks
Ugly hairbands
Seven tubes of my favorite toothpaste (it was on SALE, for pete's sake)
Dresser drawers:
T-shirts
Jeans
Drawers (yes, underpants)
Gloves
Socks
Old zoom lens for a Pentax camera I sold in '93
My brain has hundreds of different drawers as well, with labels to identify their contents. The majority of them overflow with memories of one kind or another; some joyful, some horrific, some just random snapshots of insignificance like my third grade desk or a long-gone favorite hairbrush.
Other drawers contain opinions, assessments, learned lessons, failed lessons, habits, desires, tastes, distastes, conclusions and questions unasked and/or unanswered. There's an entire section devoted to faith, and I like adding to it most of all. I already have more than I ever imagined I would.
But.
Every now and then, someone or something happens and I don't know where to put it. It doesn't line up with any of my hundreds of existing drawer labels - so I don't know what to do with it. So I just stand there inside my head, hopping from foot to foot like a kindergartner with a full bladder....wondering what to do with this thing that must be put somewhere, for crying out loud, just put it SOMEWHERE because it hurts and it smells bad.
So it is with Sandy Hook Elementary on December 14th, 2012. I do have a drawer labeled "To Think About Later", and I've tried to shove it in there a number of times, but it won't stay. "Evil" seemed appropriate at first, but then "Heroes", "Community" and "Stupid Cable News Shows" confused the issue further.
All the while, the Faith section has been sitting undisturbed against the back wall, in the warm part where all the good stuff is. It occurs to me to put Sandy Hook in Faith's top drawer...but what if that's not where it belongs?? What if it leaks on all my other faith things and then they all get ruined?
Oh my goodness.
Faith.
That is where this needs to go, because it's the only place it can possibly fit.
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