6/27 Dear Doris,

While I am thinking of your whole family on this day, I am thinking mostly of you.  You have made it through the first year.  You have spent your first Thanksgiving, your first Christmas, your first anniversary, your first birthday, and so many other “firsts” without your Bob.  I imagine you didn’t think you would make it through.  And I imagine you are still wondering if you will. 

Grace to you and peace from God our father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Ephesians 1:2 

(posted in absentia)

Letters from Linda

ZAMBIA FOOT WASHING TEAM

(There is Linda – 3rd row far right in the red T-shirt)

Excerpts from letter dated June 24th 2006

I am doing great @ Boot Camp, but physcially I’m sure not what I used to be!!  I am all bitten up, but haven’t had to resort to drastic measures yet.  Interestingly enough the physical discomfort of being stinky and dirty doesn’t bother me too much now.  In fact, I haven’t had a “proper” bath or washed my hair in 4 days.

When I got to my tent site last night and took off my boots I was somewhat taken aback by the appearance of my legs which I hadn’t seen in a couple of days as I’d not had time to even undress for bed.  They are really bitten up (swollen @ the knees even) and many of the bites have bruised (as have many on my arms).  As if that weren’t enough my lower legs were diffusely swollen, like when I got home for Louisiana, but only from the top of my boots up! Grotesque!!

We only really start Boot Camp schedule on Monday, so we’ve barely gotten through out time here.  I forgot how much I dislike here.

I am regularly receiving letters!! I am the big winner in that regard on our team.

(posted in abstentia)

Super Boot Camp Has Begun

(Diane posting for Linda)

The teams have arrived and what is known as "Super Boot Camp" has started. There is a period of one week when the early and late boot camps are on site together.  This period of time is known as "Super Boot Camp".  I am certain that the excitement, anticipation and anxiety are almost palable at the Lord's Boot Camp right now.  I had the pleasure of serving as a volunteer there a few years ago and God is absolutely present!  Linda's picture was posted in the on-line photo gallery!  Here she is doin' her leader thing! 

TMI – The Lord’s Boot Camp Rally Broadcasts

This is Diane, Linda's sister.   I just thought that I would let you know that the nightly rally held at boot camp are webcast live each evening at 7:15 (Eastern Time).  Click the here to get to the Teen Missions site.  Enjoy!

Happy Father’s Day

So, Dad, how's it going with the Mew?  Is she being good for you?  You have already probably won her heart and become the best of friends!  She probably doesn't miss me in the least.

Thanks so much for taking the time to come out to watch over things at my place for so much of the time I am gone.  You can't know how relieved it makes me to know that my girl will be spoiled plenty in my absence!

How many dads would do that?  Probably just you.

Thanks!  I love you.  I hope you have a wonderful visit!  Do lots of fun things!

Happy Father's Day.

(posted in absentia)

Happy Birthday, Mom (and Kate)…(and David, too, I guess)

And a very happy Bloomsday day to you as well (I guess that's mostly for Kate)!

It is my first day at Boot Camp.  Today I will be meeting the other leaders, setting up our campsite (it's a complicated procedure involving building platforms and pitching tents), and getting the lay of the land. 

By now I probably stink even though it has only been one day.  And I am probably starting to show the evidence of how sweet I am to the local mosquitos.  The kids won't be arriving for a few days, so we leaders will be sort of getting to know each other and have some sort of working relationship by the time they do.  And hopefully we'll all know our way around very well so that we don't cause our team to be late to anything.  Nothing worse than a leader who gets the whole team "in trouble"!

Thinking of you especially, today, Mom.  Missing another one of your birthdays because of TMI!  I think that makes six.  Hopefully I had the chance to call you and wish you a happy birthday sort of in person before the Boot Camp gates clanged shut behind me!!!  But if not, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Much love!

(posted in absentia)

I’m Off! No Quick Road Trip This Time!

Well, folks, I am off!  Today is the last day that I will be posting a blog "live" for awhile.  I have written some entries that will be posted in my absence, so don't stop reading.  And I will be writing letters from Florida and Africa and my sister Diane will be pulling interesting (if there are any interesting) things from those letters so that you can keep up on what is going on with me and my team. 

You can also look for updates on the Teen Missions website at www.teenmissions.org.  My team is the Zambia Foot Washing team, and the number is 06032.

See you all "live" again on August 19th or so! 

Don't forget me while I'm gone…

Don’t Have a Cow

My sister Whitney reminded me about this emergency roomism in a comment to my posting "The Casket". 

More than one patient has asked me about whether they should "sit on the guernsey, or lie down".  I chuckle to myself and think, "if you can lie down on a cow, more power to ya".  But whatever you do, you'll be riding that cow down to X-ray, so make yourself comfortable…

***Emergency Roomism:  Guernsey

Guernsey = gurney

What’s That Smell?

It is completely official.  I should not be allowed in a kitchen. 

I refer you to my smoking pan episode of not too long ago…CLICK HERE TO READ ABOUT THAT!  That was just a little over a month ago.

Yesterday I heated up leftover mexican food from lunch the day before (Enchiladas Suizas, yum).  I also threw some tortilla chips into the toaster oven to crisp them back up.  Not long after, I smelled burning, and much to my amazement, and a little to my horror, I saw my toaster oven filled with flames.  Those stupid chips were ON FIRE!

I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it.  I unplugged the unit, and pulled it away from the walls and cabinets.  The flames were contained inside the oven, but weren't diminishing.  I carefully opened the door, and of course, as you could predict, the flames leapt up and out and generated much more smoke.  So I shut the door and decided maybe I needed to use a fire extinguisher.  I thought about picking up the whole mess and carrying it outside, but I was sort of concerned that it would explode or something on the way out!  I called my dad in from the living room, and we stood there looking at it and discussing the best approach.  We decided that a fire extinguisher was going to be the best choice at that juncture.

I already had it out.  I pulled it out of the cupboard as soon as I saw the flames, just in case the fire decided it wanted to spread.  I've never used a fire extinguisher before, except for outside, with the fire department, in fire safety classes for work.  Never inside!  So, I pulled the pin, aimed the nozzle, and gave it a blast.  The extinguisher I chose threw out a puff of something that immediately suffocated the flames.  It was fun, so I gave it another quick blast.  It was then that I realized this "something" was a very fine blue powder which was getting all over everything.  My fun was over.

And my lunch was over.

And my little toaster oven was over, too.  It now lies dead in my garage awaiting a proper burial.  I'll miss the little guy.  I've had it for 17 years and I like it.

And that, dear friends, is irrefutable proof that I am not meant for the kitchen.

The Casket

My first job in an emergency department was in a hospital in the south central area of Los Angeles.  It is a predominantly black neighborhood.  And I am a very white girl.  At the time, I was about 30, but looked all of about 18.  In fact, it was extremely usual for people to ask me if I was even old enough to be a nurse.  (This seemingly pointless background information will come into play as I tell more stories about my experiences at this particular hospital, I promise!)  I had long blond hair and a baby face, so I don't really blame them for thinking I was a kid.  Once we got to talking, however, people would recognize that I was a grown up and a capable nurse.  For the most part I had excellent rapport with my patients.  I especially loved the older patients.

One day a very congenial, and verrrry old (if I remember correctly, he was closer to 100 than he was to 90) gentleman came in for treatment.  His chief complaint was that of an extremely sore right wrist and arm.  As I looked at it, it appeared to be much thinner and even a shade or two lighter in color than his left. 

I asked him why he thought his arm might be sore.  And he matter of factly told me….

"Well, miss, I broke this arm about six weeks ago.  The doctor wasn't done treatin' me, but I couldn't stand one more day of draggin' that casket around on my arm, so I made him take it off yesterday.  And it's been sore ever since."

The visual I got, watching this old gray haired sparkly eyed man dragging his arm around with a big casket attached to it was almost too much for me.

***Emergency Roomism for the day:

Casket – a cast

Firsts

There's a very big anniversary looming in the future for my family. I don't know why, but for some time now, just below the surface, I have been kind of stressing about that day. In about six weeks Connie will have died a year ago. Every day that passes brings me closer to that sad anniversary. We've made it through the first day without her, the first week without her, the first month without her, the first Halloween without her; her first birthday without her; our first Thanksgiving without her, our first Christmas, New Year's, St. Patrick's Day, (etc.) without her. Avie has had her first birthday without her. I had mine as well. So did many others. Phil had his "first" anniversary and first birthday without her. 

What does it feel like when you wake up on the first anniversary of the day your life changed forever? And how will I feel waking up in Zambia and being half a world away from my family at such a time?

Over the years I have missed lots of things because of my involvement with Teen Missions. And I suppose, although I felt I was led to be involved each summer that I was, it was ultimately my choice to go.  Nobody forced me.  I knew I'd be missing those things. HOWEVER, the things I would have missed, the things my family would have missed had I NOT gone are even bigger. Had I not gone on Teen Missions in 1981, I wouldn't have gone again in 1982. Had I not gone in 1982, I would have missed meeting Connie. Had I not met Connie, she wouldn't have met my brother. Had she not met my brother, I don't know where life would have taken him, but I don't think anywhere good.  And I wouldn't have four of the most amazing nieces and nephews. Those four children bring me unfathomable joy.  I had the joy of knowing Connie for 23 years and having her in my life for just about every minute of those 2+ decades.  Not long enough, but so very much longer than not at all.

I want to be with my family on that first anniversary.  But God wants me somewhere else.  Somewhere far away.  Somewhere where I can't even pick up a phone to call and cry with them.  I think part of my stress is born of being afraid of being "alone" on that day.  I imagine though, by July 29th, I won't be feeling alone anymore.  I will have developed relationships, and laughed much, and shared many experiences, and been moved, and cried much with people I don't now know, but will by then. 

Still, I will be with orphans, thinking of my nieces and nephews who have lost their mom.  Thinking of my brother who has lost the love of his life.  Thinking of Dan and Lorraine who have lost their only daughter, and of their three sons who lost their only sister.  I will be thinking of all the people who were in her life who miss her being in theirs.  And I will be thinking of two teenagers who became best friends and laughed their way into adulthood together as sisters. 

Anyhow, just thought I'd share that.

A Prayer From My Dad

My dad, as it turns out, is one of my blog's biggest fans.  Though he doesn't often leave a comment here, he tells me how much he likes it, and he tells my siblings, too.  In fact, although I can't prove it, I think he probably tells a lot of people to read it, which is probably why I have had 5,500 visits to my blog since Easter.  A few weeks ago he received an e-mail, a prayer, which he loved, and he thought I might want to use it in my blog.  Here it is:

Dear Lord, I thank You for this day.  I thank You for my being able to see and to hear this morning.  I'm blessed because You are a forgiving God and an understanding God.  You have done so much for me and You keep on blessing me.  Forgive me this day for everything I have done, said or thought that was not pleasing to you.  I ask now for Your forgiveness.  Please keep me safe from all danger and harm.  Help me to start this day with a new attitude and plenty of gratitude.  Let me make the best of each and every day to clear my mind so that I can hear from You.  Please broaden my mind that I can accept all things.  Let me not whine and whimper over things I have no control over.  Let me continue to see sin through God's eyes and acknowledge it as evil.  And when I sin, let me repent, and confess with my mouth my wrong doing, and receive the forgiveness of God.  And when this world closes in on me, let me remember Jesus' example – to slip away and find a quiet place to pray.  It's the best response when I'm pushed beyond my limits.  I know that when I can't pray, You listen to my heart.  Continue to use me to do Your will.  Continue to bless me that I may be a blessing to others.  Keep me strong that I may help the weak.  Keep me uplifted that I may have words of encouragement for others.  I pray for those that are lost and can't find their way.  I pray for those that are misjudged and misunderstood.  I pray for those who don't know You intimately.  I pray for those who will throw this away without sharing it with others.  I pray for those that don't believe.  But I thank you that I believe.  I believe that God changes people and God changes things.  I pray for all my sisters and brothers.  For each and every family member in their households.  I pray for peace, love and joy in their homes that they are out of debt and all their needs are met.  I pray that every eye that reads this knows there is no problem,circumstance, or situation greater than God.  Every battle is in Your hands for You to fight.  I pray that these words be received into the hearts of every eye that sees them and every mouth that confesses them willingly. This is my prayer.  In Jesus' Name, Amen.

Disappearing Denise

The posting of this story was made because of a special request from my sister, Diane, as noted in the comment section of “Restraint.”  It was originally “published” as an e-mail to the Christian Girls Choir over a year ago.  The “choir” will be blogged on a later date.  If any of the choir is reading, they surely remember this story.  It is another story about a day in that crazy emergency department:

We all thought this couldn’t possibly have ever happened before, but in retelling the story at the change of shift, we found others who had a similar story to tell.  But to all of us in the ER today…it was a definite first!

Denise was brought in by the police as an “okay to book”.  “Okay to books” are people who have been taken into custody, but then come up with a physical complaint to get out of going to jail (“I can’t breathe”, “I’m having chest pain”, “My arm hurts” -duh, you’re in cuffs-, “I have a rash”, etc…)  In these situations, these people are brought to the ER still in custody to be evaluated by a physician and deemed “okay to book”.  Most of the time these people are making up their complaints.  For a few it pays off; it’s not worth the time to the police to stay in the ER waiting for this process and they are released.  But for Denise, this was not the case.  She was felonious!  And felonious individuals just don’t get let off that easily.

Let me interject with another related story about an “okay to book”.  This young man was brought in with a chief complaint of having an asthma attack.  And he was.  He really did need to be treated before getting booked.  But his story has another twist to it.  The “victim mentality” twist.  Once he was cuffed to the gurney, I asked the police to step out so that I could talk to the patient privately.  Patients will tell nurses pretty much anything because we are so trustworthy in their eyes.  So this guy was quick to tell me that he had been caught in the act of robbing a house, and was chased by the police.  He had a crack habit and smoked regularly.  He had smoked it that morning.  He wasn’t really a thief, he had to steal to pay for his drugs.  And he told me that he was going to sue the police for making him sick.  He was sincere.  He believed he’d been victimized by the police.  Yes, a guy who KNOWS he has asthma, and smokes crack anyway, and steals to pay for it, and gets caught in the act of robbing…and because the police CHASED him, and the exertion caused an asthma attack, he was going to sue.  Poor little victim.  I leaned into him and patted his arm and said, quite sincerely to him, “if you think you are going to win a suit against the LAPD with a tale of woe like that, then you have worse problems than being a crack addict with a robbery problem.”  And I popped the nebulizer over his nose and mouth.

Back to Denise. She was to be processed for felony robbery.  She shoplifted cheese (yup, cheese – we asked what kind, but just got strange looks from both the cops and the patient), but in doing so, she assaulted the store clerk.  Heroin was involved.  Her complaint was nausea and vomiting.  She was probably in need of a fix, but she wasn’t sick.  Being a little bitty thing (about 85 pounds and 5’2”) the police stood watch outside her door and took her out of the handcuffs.  They could easily handle her!!  (These “in custody” patients are generally cuffed to the gurney).  There was a seasoned officer and his rookie partner doing duty on Denise.  And they never left their post. 

So it came as quite a shock to discover that, after a couple of hours in the ER, Denise’s room was empty!  Mind you, there was no way out of that room except that door.  AND Denise’s clothing was missing.  The rookie ran to and fro like a Keystone Cop, not knowing what to do and looking like he was either going to pass out or puke.  Hospital security was notified and before long the ER was swarming with our guards and about a dozen cops.  A quick search of the ER, the hospital, and its environs yielded nothing.  If we couldn’t find Denise, these two cops were going to be in for the ribbing of their lives from the rest of the force!

Denise’s nurse had a lightening bolt of an idea.  Which for this nurse, usually meant something stupid.  Let’s just say, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Almost as dumb as a box of rocks.  His idea?  Maybe she was in the ceiling.  We all thought this was a ridiculous theory, UNTIL, on inspection, a small triangle of hospital gown was seen protruding between the drop ceiling tiles!!  In order to flush her out, this nurse (jokingly, mind you) loudly said “She’s in the ceiling, use your gun!”  While the rookie comes running WITH HIS HAND ON HIS GUN (unbelievable), a plaintive voice was heard from above crying “Don’t shoot me” as another nurse intercepts the rookie, and quickly informs him that a firearm wasn’t going to be necessary!  The ceiling vent tile was removed and two sooty arms reached down around the ventilation hose.  In a half whining, half panicked voice, Denise cried “I DON’T WANT TO BE UP HERE!!”  It was pitiful.

The seasoned cop grabbed her roughly by the arms and pulled her down, headfirst, into the exam room catching her by the waist halfway down, while the rookie tells Denise that she is “in SOOO much trouble!” in a voice reminiscent of an “I’m going to tell Dad” moment from childhood.   We had all lined up at the doorway, heads at varying heights extending back 15 feet, to watch the spectacle.  All of us dying of laughter.  Denise had managed to get her clothes, climb up on the counter, and use the cabinet shelves as steps to reach the celing, remove a ceiling tile, get into the ceiling, replace the tile, and get dressed, leaving just enough gown trapped to give her away.  All without making a sound.  She couldn’t get far though, all the walls to her room were load bearing and extended to the roof.  She had been trapped up there.

It wasn’t until she had been led out, scuffing along in her bare feet, hands now back in cuffs, and taken away that her shoes were found by the maintenance crew checking for damage, still up in the ceiling! 

She never did vomit.  But I bet once those cops got back to the precinct and started getting’ razzed by their fellow officers THEY just might have!

***Emergency roomism:  An emergency roomism is a word that “sounds” like what a patient/family member/visitor THINKS they’ve heard something called, but it isn’t exactly right. 

Emergency roomism for the day:  Q-Ticks

Some need translation.  Does this one need an explanation????  If it does, those are Q-Tips.

Dumped

I spent about 45 minutes this morning working on a post.  It was a reworking and expansion of an emergency room story that I had sent out as an e-mail a year or so ago and one that my sister Diane wanted me to put in my blog.

It was practically perfect.  So I hit the save button so I could preview it and do one last check of how it looked before posting it.  And I lost my internet connection.

And the post.

Sorry folks.  This is what you're getting today!  Unless I get the inspiration again later…

Durable Power of Attorney

As part of my preparations to go away this summer, I am setting up a durable power of attorney.  The primary reason for this is that my sister Diane and I are in the process of building a house which (big surprise, right?) has taken much longer to get started than we anticipated.  We anticipated being done by now.  The reality is, all we have is a hole in the ground and plans that have been disapproved by the county on the two most critical  points – construction, and mechanical.  So, in order for her to sign drafts on our construction loan for me while I am in Africa, we have to have a DPA. 

But this isn't about building a house.

This is about trust.  Giving someone Durable Power of Attorney over you is not something that should be taken, well, lightly.  You want to know that that person has your best interests at heart and will do right by you in your absence, or if you should become incapacitated, etc.  I imagine that for many people finding someone that they trust enough to put their life into this other person's hands could be difficult.

I had no qualms about signing control of my life over to my sister this morning.  And as I thought about it, I wondered, just how many people WOULD I trust to sign it over to? 

Blessed I am, for there are many.

Restraint

Time for something humorous, doncha think??

One of my favorite quotable T-shirts is the one that says "some days it's just not worth chewing through the restraints".  I can totally relate to this!  I am, or was until last July, an emergency department nurse.  Working in the ED you get to see just about everything if you work there long enough.

For the past six years I worked in a smaller, but hellaciously busy, community hospital ED.  It is sandwiched between posh Marina Del Rey and the more artsy and homelessy Venice Beach.  So it sees an extremely bizarre cross section of society.  Actors, sports figures, producers, and other "upper crusty" people are treated along side the homeless, the drunks, the drug addicted, and the INSANE.  And when I say INSANE, I mean clinically and sometimes homicidally INSANE.  But this isn't a story about insanity.  I'll save insanity for later.  Today, children, we are going to talk about DRUNKS.

Some EDs are famous for their care of neurological injuries, some for pediatrics, some for cardiac emergencies.  Well, one of the things "my" ED specializes in is drunks.  We had (I only say "had" because I don't work there anymore, so I am switching to past tense) many "frequent fliers" who came to stay with us.  These chronically drunk individuals did not find their own way to the hospital.  Most of them weren't happy about being there.  But because they passed out on someone's porch, or peed in somebody's trashcan, 911 was called.  And because somebody died in custody years ago from alcohol related events, these publically drunken and often disorderly individuals become patients instead of inmates.  Whatever happened to drunk tanks?  Bring them back!

Hey, I said this was going to be funny.  I'll soapbox on the "social problem of alcohol" in the future.

This post is about, well, I'm going to call her Suzanne.  If I told you her real name, I'd be in violation of federal HIPAA laws.  Suzanne was one of our irregularly regular drunks.  Which was unusual, because most of the chronic drunks who end up in the ED are men and homeless.  But Suzanne was neither a man, nor was she homeless.  What she was, was a mean, mean drunk.  So she'd get brought in for one kind of disturbance or another.  She would attack her husband, or scream at her neighbors.  She scared people.  She would binge in a cycle.  Sometimes we'd see her frequently (like more than once a day), sometimes it would be months between her "visits".

At the time this story takes place we were under renovation and were running our department out of the very inconvenient and crowded back area of the department.  It was awful, but that's another story as well.

Suzanne was brought in wild eyed and screaming at the top of her lungs…."YOU'RE KILLING MEEEEEEE!  YOU BLEEPING THIS AND THAT!!!!", etc.  Criteria for discharge of a drunk is ability to ambulate independently and to make arrangements to get home if you can't walk there.  Suzanne was so out of her mind, that, although she could walk and probably even get a cab under her own power, we had to keep her until she sobered up enough to calm down.  And because of the ferocity with which she struck out at the staff on this occasion, once she was undressed and put in a hospital gown, little miss Suzanne got put into four point (soft, not leather!) restraints (that means arms and legs).   

And she got "chemically restrained" as well.  Which means she was given meds to knock her out until she sobered up.  We all hunkered down for a long day of Suzanne intermittantly hollering from the very farthest back room about needing this and needing that, and how we're killing her, and how we are this or that expletive deleted. 

After about an hour of this auditory assault, she quieted down.  We went to check on her, to make sure she was breathing and just sleeping, which she was.  So we exhaled a collective sigh of relief at the now "relatively" quiet state our department was in.  Once she was asleep, we relaxed.  Have you ever heard the adage, "let sleeping dogs lie"?  We expand that in the emergency setting to "let sleeping dogs and drunks lie".  So we let Suzanne lie.  We'd intermittantly listen next to the door for her breathing, but did nothing that would prematurely awaken her.

Another hour or so of this quiet (as it relates to Suzanne) had passed, when a thin, attractive blond lady approached the nurses station.  She was asking where she could find the bathroom.  Believing the woman to be a visitor, the secretary pointed through the exit door and told the woman that the bathroom was in the waiting room.

WAIT!!! The nurses practically yelled when they saw who was being given access to the "real world"!  It was Suzanne, looking very much like your average well-kept Marina Del Rey wife.  She was quickly corraled and led to an interior bathroom.  You can't just let patients under treatment walk out because they think they're ready to go, or even because they want to go.

One of the nurses quickly ran back to the room where Suzanne had been.  Wrapped up nicely into four little packages in the trash were Suzanne's restraints!  And they held clear evidence of the sharpness of Suzanne's ingenuity, as well as the sharpness of her teeth!  Not only had she chewed her way through the restraints, she then went through the trouble to untie them from the gurney, and neatly wrap them up before getting dressed, brushing her hair, and applying make-up, and heading out to the nursing station a new woman.  A clear message was sent to the staff that day!  Just try it!

Some days it IS worth chewing through the restraints.  Ask Suzanne.  We let her go after exhibiting such amazing problem solving techniques and dexterity! 

But she'd be back.  They all, almost always, come back. 

Honda Drama

Addendum (added 3/31/07):  I get a lot of traffic on my blog for this entry.  The answer on how to get the car out of park IS in here.  So, if you found this blog posting because you are having the same problem, you can find out how to rectify the problem if you keep reading!!!

Original Posting: 

I own a 1996 dark green Honda Accord EX.  And I love this car.  It has been a regular work horse for me.  It has really never given me much of a problem.  I feel badly though, because I never named it.  I never even assigned a sex to it.  I assume it’s a girl, but I can’t say for sure!

Princess was the car I had before this current car.  She was an older model Honda Accord that I bought from a real life Thai princess.  It had a car phone in it before people even really had cell phones.  Except for doctors, and they had those big brick phones (remember those?).  Awesome to have a car phone back then!  And the Thai princess named the car “Princess”.  So I kept the name.

The car I had before THAT car was a fire engine red, 1971 baja style Volkswagon bug with a factory sun roof, dual carbs, and a dual cam engine ground out to increase the cc’s to something ridiculous that I can’t remember now, and with Hurst shifting.  It was a CRAZY GREAT car.  It was my first car.  I bought it back in 1988 I think, for about $3500.  A fortune to a girl who would go out with friends and order hot water and lemon and put honey in it, cuz it was free.  When I bought the car, I asked the owner, what’s the car’s name?  They looked at me sort of funny, and asked why I would ask that.  I told them “a car like that HAS a name, and I don’t want to change it”. 

“Dudley”, they said.  And Dudley he was.  I loved that car.  But he became impractical at a certain point because of career changes and a viscious commute, and I had to let him go. 

Present week!  The Honda Drama.  I recently took my car in to a local independent Firestone service center to have a whole bunch of little things taken care of.  I needed an oil change, I needed an alignment, I needed a new battery, I needed new front brakes, and, in addition to a few other things that I found out I needed, I needed new radiator hoses.  (Those babies are EXPENSIVE, btw!).  So, since I am leaving my car with my cousin to use while I am gone for the summer, I wanted it to be in the best condition possible to avoid her having any problems with it.  I’ve also been having problems with the button on my shifter not working, but they couldn’t reproduce the problem or see anything wrong with it.

I won’t tell you what the grand total was.  It was not cheap.  But I drove off feeling good about the car. 

The next evening after Bunco I was dropping friends off.  I watched the temperature guage go from nearly in the blue, to in the red in the span of about a minute.  I pulled in to my friend’s driveway and saw steam, or maybe it was smoke, coming out from under the hood.  When I opened the door, I smelled something hot and burned. 

The next day I met the tow truck at my car in front of my friend’s house and got towed back to Firestone.  I explained what happened, and speculated that it seemed as though perhaps a hose was not correctly attached and I lost all my radiator fluid.  I was assured they would check it out.  About an hour later I got a call from them telling me that I had cracked my radiator.  I steeled myself for a fight when it came to who was going to pay the bill for this.

When I picked the car up, I was handed a receipt for $0.00.  I guess they agreed with my assessment of the problem!  Which is a good thing, cuz I didn’t really want to fight with them.  I have fought with mechanics before.  It is true that they will take advantage of the customer, and probably because I am a woman I have looked like an easy target.

Present day!  For a few weeks now, as I mentioned, I occasionally have trouble getting my car into gear.  It gets stuck in “park” and the button on the shifter won’t engage.  When I turn off the engine, and turn it back on, and try again, it works.  Until yesterday. 

My sister and I went to the county to pick up our disapproved plans for Rancho Liberte’.  I parked in the 15 minute zone.  We had the plans picked up and were back to the car well within the 15 minute limit.  Until I couldn’t get the shifter to work.  I tried.  Over and over.  And over.  I really didn’t want to have to have my car towed again.  This time I was plenty far from Firestone.  So I just kept trying.  I’ve heard that the definition of insanity is to try the exact same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  I guess I was a bit insane then, cuz I just sat there and kept trying, hoping for something different to happen.

By the shifter there is a little slot that has writing next to it that says “shift lock”.  Remember now, I have had this car for ten years.  In all those years, I never was curious enough to look up in the manual what that was for.  I figured it was some sort of anti-theft device you could set if you wanted, but never bothered to learn.  I thought, “well, it seems like the shifter IS locked, maybe this slot will help”.  I stuck my key down into the slot, where it bounced up and down, but did nothing to help start the car.

Okay, bring out the manual.  “If you still cannot get the car into gear, turn the car off, take the key out of the ignition.  Push key down into slot while pressing in the button on the shift handle at the same time.  This will unlock the shifter.”

Huh?  Enough people have had this problem to actually have a solution built into the vehicle?  That’s just odd to me.  Why all of the sudden would it start locking up on me?  And how odd, how very very odd, that this “shift lock” slot exists.

I have never seen, or maybe just never noticed it on any other vehicle.  It worked, though, and we were off.  How utterly embarrassed I would have been to have had my car towed all the way to a mechanic, only to have them stick the key in that slot and unlock it. 

(OR, a horrible thought I just had was, to have them tell me I needed a new transmission!  I probably WOULD have believed them without any question!)

If your car has a nutty “shift lock” slot, I’d sure like to know about it.

My New Camera

Yesterday I spent some time "getting to know" my new camera.  It is a Nikon Coolpix S4.  A way-cool, any-idiot-can-use, digital camera, which makes it perfect for me!  A generous gift from my dad to take with me to Africa this summer (click here for that post about my dad).

The reason I picked this camera was for its awesome zoom capability (10x digital), for its swivel lens (I am short, and to be able to hold the camera over my head and still see what I am shooting at is very helpful), for its beyond amazing macro setting (I took pictures a couple of centimeters from the subject and they are crystal clear!), and for its maximum of 6 megapixel setting.  What I didn't really know I was getting were some pretty stellar other features.

I have found a 30 minute video setting.  I have found a number of time lapse video settings (can't wait to try THOSE!).  There are dozens of different specialty assist settings (even one for taking pictures of fireworks or for taking pictures at the beach or in snow). 

Navigating around the menus has been pretty simplistic given all the options available.  There aren't too many confusing buttons to wrangle with, either.

The lens cap could have been engineered better (it's cheap and plastic and looks like it could snap off easily in the right circumstance), and the large viewing screen (which is really nice) costs you a place to comfortably hold the camera in your right hand without obstructing the screen, but that adjustment will be fairly easy to make and get used to. 

All in all, I think this is going to be the perfect camera for me!  And I think I'll even give it UPE (Unpaid Product Endorsement) status.

Sharp Reader

I don't understand the whole RSS feed thing.  I think it stands for "Really Simple Something", but it's computer stuff, so we all know that the really simple part of that is obviously a lie!

I read a number of different blogs each day.  Often, I check in and the blogger has not yet posted that day, or skips many days between blogs.  Not that it's a huge waste of time to do that, but it's like coming down the stairs on Christmas morning only to find that you are the only one up, and that there are no presents to open.

So, this Sharp Reader dealie is cool.  And here's why.  You "subscribe" to all the blogs you like to read.  It regularly scans these blogs for changes and when there are changes, it sends you a pop up alert (if you are online) and changes the icon color on your toolbar from blue to yellow.  Click the icon, and you are taken to the Sharp Reader page where it indicates in which blogs the activity has taken place.  You can view the blog postings directly in Sharp Reader without having to make another trip to each blog site.

Way cool.  The download and set up is a snap.  Even I was able to do it without any help.  Sharp Reader qualifies as a cool link.

www.sharpreader.com

(so, click the cool link to go get your Sharp Reader already!)

 

A bit of a flashback!

I still haven’t broken my boots in for the summer.  At least not nearly adequately so.  I always get heinous blisters when I go on Teen Missions.  It’s the combination of Florida and TMI that does it, I’m convinced.  The last time I went there, which was about four years ago to volunteer as a Boot Camp nurse for a couple of weeks, I was literally on the property for about 30 minutes before I sprouted enormous blisters on my heels.  Ask my sister, she’ll tell ya.  I’d been wearing the boots for some time before going to Boot Camp and had had no problem.  I step on the property… and problem!!!!

So, in order to (hopefully) keep that from happening, I am trying a new tack for breaking the boots in.  Old tack?  Simply wear them.  Here’s the new tack, and this is what the lady at the boot store told me to do:

• Soak the boots in water overnight
• Wear them until dry the next day
• That ought to do it

Apparently the boots conform to your feet this way, thereby eliminating any nasty rubbing.  We’ll see!  So where does the flashback enter into the picture?  Well, this really is for any of you out there that read that are FTMs (former team members) or who know what life in Boot Camp is like for whatever reason…

This morning at about 7:15 am, I strapped on the wet boots that I let soak in my kitchen sink overnight.  My socks instantly became sodden.  I hadn’t yet showered, and I sat down to read my Bible for a bit.  What with the sound of the birds outside my window, the soaking wet feet, and the need for a shower, all while reading my Bible, you almost couldn’t imagine a closer match for morning devotions at Boot Camp.

It felt strangely comfortable in a familiar way….

Did I write the other day that I was out shopping when I should have been doing things to get ready for this summer and ended up in the local DSW (a discount shoe store) where I found a fab-u-lous pair of strappy bronze sandals?  Well, before I took both of my boots off (as they are dry now at 7:15 pm) and since I’ve been meaning to but just haven’t yet shown you a picture of my only footwear for the whole summer, I thought I’d show you a picture of BOTH of my latest footwear (or is that footwears, dunno):

(Isn’t that a sexy boot????)

**Addendum – added at 8:05 pm, on the same day:  Okay!  My sister and I, in an effort to help break my boots in, decided to take a walk.  We got down the street and around the corner (oh, maybe a quarter of a mile) and I felt the tenuous beginnings of blisters on the internal aspects of both heels.  Not too much further down the road, I felt the blister on my left foot tear open.  A little bit farther down the road, I felt a blister come out on the back of my right heel.  At this point I am limping and wondering why my top layer of skin (my dermis) just can’t stick to the raw layer underneath it (my epidermis) like other people’s do!  Less than half a mile later, I am on my porch, painfully pulling my shoes off and peeling away my socks from my now thorougly blistered feet.  Oh, boy!  I can only hope that if I get through the agony of de feet here at home, and get my feet all toughened up, that I won’t get a new round of blisters down in Florida.  I guess I’ll need to wear these all day every day to be as assured as I can that that won’t happen.

Maybe I should wear the boots to bed as well….

Couldn’t hurt.**