Women's Health Care

Should matter to you.

A Little Update: The Niece Visits

Last weekend my eight year old niece, Maddy, was here. My parents brought her up for a weekend visit. She's raised with continuous entertainment in a much larger house -- I mean our entire house, from attic to basement, would fit in their "great room." So I expected some sort of culture shock.

There were a lot of pronouncements of, "I'm bored." But I didn't expect that three minutes into a 6 minute drive to dinner for her to announce her boredom. It was her way of demanding a DVD to play or something.

But our kids know the drill and suggested she amuse herself by looking out the window.

Maddy responded ad follows:

"Red car. White car. Another red car."

"House."

"House."

"Blue car."

I responded with a twist on the old "Looking is with the eyes," usually reserved for not touching in stores. "Looking is with the eyes, not the mouth," I said.

Maddy was silent.

But you could feel her displeasure. *wink*

She also learned that pet birds make a lot of noise. She was fascinated by Luke, our cockatiel, but immeasurably annoyed by his chirps and bird-talk; she dramatically shushed him all the time.


I guess her dad can thank me when the pleading for a pet bird stops. *wink*

Overall, it was a great visit. She loved our "full of neat stuff" little house. (She's not used to so many books and knick-knacks; my sister's house is much more minimalist.) And she quickly caught on to entertaining herself by doing things like painting (I had literally given her a box of rocks for her birthday -- a rock painting kit she brought along), riding bikes and hanging out in the attic "fort."

On the way back home, Maddy told my parents that she missed "those people." So I guess we were a hit!

My mother replied to her sad commentary on loss of us by saying, "That's what vacations are; lots of fun but then you go home to the people you love."

Maddy responded by saying she sure missed, Carly, their dog. Ha!

What About Good Manners?

I recently had yet another conversation with our children regarding etiquette -- how it's not "snobby things" designed to make people feel bad or out of their class, but just the opposite.

The rules of etiquette are guidelines for getting along; little niceties we extend to one another to avoid upset and rules for everyone so that we all can get along in social situations. While it's true that some of these rules seem fancy, or from a formal time long gone, they primarily exist so that groups of people can avoid offending one another and avoid conflict. Avoiding conflict is key when living as a group or community, including as a family.

I was reminded of these conversations when I saw 25 Manners Every Kid Should Know By Age 9.

It's amazing the number of children who do not know or extend the courtesy of following these rules -- and I feel this adds to the feeling of entitlement in children that I wrote about here (and for which I was interviewed at The Globe and Mail). Even more amazing the number of parents who do not bother to teach their children these or any other basic good manners; they rather doom their families to less pleasant living conditions -- and sentence their children to becoming disrespectful, selfish, entitled beings who will not get along with others.

I've lots more to say about this; but today the eldest turns 22, so I'm off to prepare for the birthday barbecue!

Permissive Parents, Stop Ruining Your Children

I was at the doctor's again; this time to have my stitches removed. In yet another exam room, the prominently placed sign: "Do not allow children to open drawers or touch the equipment."

It is not just my jaded opinion, but verified with the staff, that these signs are needed because parents are far too permissive with their children. And it's not just the lazy parents who don't actually supervise their children, but those who angrily defend their "right" to let their children touch whatever they want.

I first started seeing this when working retail when we mere clerks served double-duty as retail employees and babysitters/prison matrons to parents who let their children climb shelving, spin & sit under clothing racks, run behind the cash-wrap desks and play with the registers, scoot under fitting room doors, etc. Naturally, it is an uncomfortable place to be in, to mention to parents that their child is doing is wrong, so typically we just phrased the infractions as alerts. It didn't really have the desired affects.

"Excuse me, but your son is behind the counter," was met with the whiny, "But Johnny is curious," or the more superior & defensive, "I believe it is best to encourage curiosity in children."

When, "Excuse me, M'am, but your child is climbing the denim wall..." was met with a blank stare, you'd continue, "The wall really isn't designed for that; it's not safe." Often, after yelling at her child to get off the wall, the mom would angrily stride for the door, loudly & indignantly announcing how she would, "never shop here again; the store store staff is too rude!"

But my favorites were the parents who would point store clerks out to their children saying, "See that mean lady over there? You'd better behave in here, or she'll get you." (No wonder so many children freak-out in shopping malls!) In truth, there's little we can do in today's world of "Don't touch/talk to/admonish/ my child!" So it was a 50-50 split as to if the kid would run-a-muck or not

From there, it's only gotten worse, for as I aged and had children & my friends & extended family had children, I then had to face bratty children in other settings allowed to the same or worse -- including in my own home.

I just don't get it.

Back in my day, when we rode dinosaurs, it never even entered my head to open a drawer or cabinet at the doctor's office. Not because 'doctors are gods'; but I was then -- and still am -- operating from the very same sense of privacy & respect given to the drawers and cabinets at other people's homes. It's not my stuff; so I have business prying. And I teach my children the same.

But apparently this is no longer commonplace.

This shouldn't be so surprising to me; after all these years, I've seen enough permissive parents & their bratty children that my eyebrows should not be able to get any higher. But still, it's shocking to think that the numbers, the percentages, have grown so high that doctors' offices must make signs & post them in every room.

Reading them filled me with a great sense of shame -- how dare our society be so rude & reckless that we force people to make signs to admonish what should be commonsense, common courtesy.

In all of these situations of permissiveness, the parents not only risk their child's safety, & potentially the safety of others, but they undermine their own authority with their children and give their children a sense of entitlement.

Even if the children are not physically harmed, they are crippled by developing a belligerent sense of entitlement.

It is part of a parent's duties to teach their children better, to demand that they give respect in order to earn it; when they don't, they end up with brats, bullies and the sorts of children and adults that no one respects or wants to be around.

Mother-Daughter Fashion Issues

Got sent this notice for a Mother/Daughter fashion contest:

Do you share clothes with your mother or daughter—but sometimes clash about fashion choices? Tell us about your everyday wardrobe dilemmas and you and your mother or daughter could be the lucky pair to get solutions in a styling session with eBay Style Director, Constance White, and the Family Circle fashion team. Plus, you could win $3,000 for the perfect shareable wardrobe on eBay and a trip to New York City for a photo shoot and the chance to appear in an upcoming issue of Family Circle. For your chance to win, submit a photo or video of you and your mother or daughter, your ages and a short description of your experiences sharing your wardrobe.

I'm posting not just because y'all might find it worth entering or worth killing time reading the stories, but because it once again serves as a reminder just how damn different my relationship is with my Auspie.

Our clothing clashes, even though she is now 19, remain similar to those between parent and toddler: She wants to dress herself, but isn't at all concerned with how she'll look to others. I doubt that any fashion team would have a clue what to do. In fact, it would likely drive them to tears.

Thinking about it nearly drives me to tears.

Of Happy Madmen & Radio

(Hubby, unbeknownst to me until I was set to publish this, has already posted his thoughts on this -- but I'm not about to scrap my work! Plus, he has his own comments; and they're really only on part of the article.)

This past weekend, on our way back home from Wisconsin, hubby and I bought a stack of vintage Radio Guide issues. This is the story of just one article...

Happy Madmen, by Lorraine Thomas is the "sensitive" 1938 "educational" piece published in the weekending October 15, 1938 issue of Radio Guide on the how the "modern miracle" of radio is working wonders for America's 400,000 mentally ill.



It begins:

You don't say "insane asylum" any more. The polite and proper term is "state institution." But call it what you like, the fact remains that there are 400,000 or more patients in America's 397 homes for the mentally ill.

So first Lorraine tells us what's polite and proper -- then, with, "call it what you like," she dismisses any need to do so.

Four hundred thousand men and women, some violently insane, some merely teetering on the thin straight line between sanity and the lack of it -- but all of them hopelessly caged, locked up, barred from all but the remotest contact with "the world outside"! Four hundred thousand people living out their lives in rigid routine, living by a clock that has no meaning for them, marking off the endless days on a calendar that has no hope -- that's the picture.

(Wow. There's some compassion!)

But perhaps I shouldn't have said that. It used to be true, but things have changed a little.

Yup, because of radio.

:Pause:

One wonders if "a little" change means anything to people so hopeless, to people who find no meaning in clocks...

But the article asserts radio does wonders.

Lorraine does not.

She tosses out phrases like "mysteriously unbalanced people," and expresses such contempt I, at least, have to wonder if she is capable of any compassion at all. But then maybe that's why she was sent to survey the (as she says) self-described nuts on their radio program favorites. Perhaps cold and removed helps one facilitate surveys. Or maybe I'm to believe that the "several hundred patients" she interviewed drove her to her demeanor.

Some notable quotes:

"Most of the patients like Gracie Allen, all right -- but not because they feel any strange bonds of sympathy or understanding. They think she's nuts, and very, very funny."

"Very few patients like Amos 'n' Andy, and even fewer like Major Bowes. According to this critical census, Amos 'n' Andy are monotonous, dull, old stuff. As for Major Bowes, he's insincere, he's mean to the amateurs, he's not polite about ringing the gong, and he always says the same old thing in the same old way. 'All right, all right.'"



Radio Guide's Survey Of Sanitaria Reveals That People Who Are Mentally Distressed Favor The Following Programs:

Burns and Allen (CBS), H.V. Kaltenborn (CBS), and Guy Lombardo's Music (CBS).

I guess we know what the "C" in CBS is for.

While this article is supposed to extol the virtues of radio programming for the mentally ill, some of the stories seem more than a bit misplaced. Even crazily so.

While the story of Mrs. Diggs has its, "Oh, aren't the crazy charming!" value, it leads to a different place...

Take a look at Mrs. Diggs. Mrs. Diggs is a Negro, a man, who considers himself the most beautiful white woman in the world. He says he has letters from President Roosevelt, Will Hayes, Lindbergh and Joe Louis telling him so. What's more, he's the mother of all the white people in the world. "Mrs. Diggs" has other delusions too. At times he thinks he's Henry Ford, Rockefeller, and Edison rolled into one. He always insists he's the richest person in the world. About radio he was at first a bit dubious, until I pointed to a receiving set. Then he smiled knowingly, and acknowledged, "Oh, yes, the radio. I invented it."

You mightn't think such a delusion could be very dangerous, but that's where you are wrong. One can never tell about such things. There's another patient in this same hospital who had an even more fantastic delusion. This patient knew a lot more abut the radio than the case just quoted. This man was a radio fan. He wrote letters applying for a job to all the Hollywood radio stations, and once he even won an amateur contest. One morning, while listening to KHJ, he heard one of the popular songs of that period, "There's a Ring Around the Moon." To most of us, that song is no more important than any other -- but to Mr. Radiofan "There's a Ring Around the Moon" carried a very special and important message. Mr. Radiofan considered himself uniquely gifted person, and one of his secret talents was putting rings around the moon. Therefore KHJ's broadcast of the song could mean only one thing: they were sending out an SOS to him -- KHJ needed him to come down and teach them how to put a ring around the moon. Mr. Radiofan lost no time. He ran up a $27 taxi-bill going from Santa Ana to Los Angeles. Asking the taxi-driver to wait, he went into the studio. Soon talking with the secretary of the man in charge of employment, he asked for his job -- the job that was waiting for him. Impatient at the questions he was asked, he suddenly took out a knife, opened it, raised his arm and stared menacingly at the terror-stricken girl. She screamed, an announcer ran into the room -- and was stabbed in the throat. Before the maniac was finally overpowered, another bystander's scalp and clothing were in bloody shreds, and the announcer had bled to death. The real tragedy in this story is that the boy's death was so unnecessary: Mr. Radiofan was a paroled patient from a midwestern institution.

I think the real tragedy is Lorraine's article.

PS Searches returned nothing on such a murder at KHJ; but I did find this 1931 KHJ aircheck of Bing Crosby.

Withdrawal Ain't Pretty; Insurance Companies Are Uglier

I've been trying to quit smoking -- again.

This time, I'm down to 2 packs a week-ish (one pack for 3 days is probably more accurate). I've done this by breaking some of the habits, such as changing when and where I allow myself to smoke, chewing sugarless gum, etc. But I'm still stuck. "Addicted."

I asked about possible meds to help with the last bump, hoping for something to take the edge off the need. Patches didn't work past the first few days. Perhaps it is because I am now smoking less than the patch 'steps'... I don't know. The point is, I asked for some chemical assistance with a chemical addiction.

I must say here that I realize this is somewhat like 'trading' one thing for another, and maybe not the healthiest choice in that regard, but I am trying. In my discussion with the doctor, I mentioned this as well as how much more difficult quitting is for women than it is for men because tobacco etc. winds itself about and insidious inserts itself within our hormonal system.

We talked at great length about the options and eventually decided that Chantix would be a good option. (Interestingly, this was also the med recommended by the pharmacist at Wal*Mart when I was talking with him about the lack of success with the patch.)

I got my script, and off I went. To Wal*Mart. Where I was told my insurance would not cover it.

At $200+ (for the first month) I wasn't going to be able to cover it either.

If I was addicted to an illegal drug, say heroine (which, by the way, is documented as easier to quit than nicotine), then boy, I'd sure have insurance-covered options. Not just my prescription would be covered, but so would my counseling, my housing, my return to college (as part of my vocational rehab) -- and I'd be allowed lovely spa visits. Yeah, they'd be called rehab on the insurance forms, and I'm sure the emotional & other work there is a bitch, but they get prepared meals to help with withdrawal & cleansing, a personal trainer, maid service, no bathrooms to clean... Where's my freakin' Betty Ford clinic for smokers?

In a society where smokers are regulated like more than criminals, where our civil liberties are diminished, where children are encouraged to nag their parents, where we are the damned to be openly judged and lectured -- all for a legal substance which has no documentation supporting it impacts our abilities to function like alcohol or other drugs -- you'd think that we leper-addicts would be allowed actual medical treatment for our problem.

But we aren't.

If tobacco is the giant cancer causing menace, and my medical insurance company is supposed to be about my health claims; if all the regulations and limitations put upon me as a smoker are supposed to exist to protect 'the innocents' near me; wouldn't it make more sense to really help me quit rather than just finger-point and accuse?

So pissed at it all, I naturally light-up a cigarette.

Great job, BlueCross BlueShield. Are you sure the 'BS' in BCBS isn't for 'Bull Shit'?

Losing My Religion

I moved from cold mid-west state to another colder mid-west state. Who would think that moving 700 miles within the United States would mean I would experience so much culture shock?

But I have been experiencing culture shock, that's for sure. In fact, I've been losing my religion.

Now I live in a land that some would call Godless for it's climate, but I know it is Godless for other reasons: It has no NFL team.

Some would laugh, some would snicker, but those who have an NFL team, can you imagine your world without them? But for me, it's more than the loss of a local team to route for (or had they an NFL team, for me to also route against!), it's more than that. It's a cultural loss.

In Wisconsin, land of cheese heads, we have a professional football team: The Green Bay Packers. They aren't just another NFL team, or some sporting event. It's a way of life.

Green & Gold are not just colors to wear on game day. It's an everyday fashion statement, and it goes beyond jerseys & jackets. Wisconsinites dress their cars, their houses, their garages, and in some cases, their neighbor's houses & garages.

For the Packers are our version of The Holy Spirit, with us no matter what.

Sunday, the holy day, we gather with friends & family, eating traditional foods, singing our ‘carols,' such as ‘Nah Nah Nah Nah, Hey Hey, Goodbye.' And, when things are going well, we have Monday night celebrations as well.

Vince Lombardi is Our Father, who now ‘arts in heaven,' and we must be rather Jewish, for we have had several Prophets, such as Bart Starr & now Brett Farvre.

Lambeau Field is our Mecca. We pilgrimage there, year round, not just to see our team play but to visit the shrine at our Hall of Fame. (Yes, I say 'our' as we are the only publicly owned NFL team.)

Some of you might find this to be sac-religious, but I don't know of that term? Is that what you call KGB's dedication?

We grow up listening to the legends, much like the stories in the Bible, to learn life lessons. There are stories of healing, as in the tale of Leroy Butler, From Wheelchair to the Lambeau Leap. And there are the lessons of perseverance as the Heart-Attack-Pack often took us to our feet, breath held, as the team took every last second of game time to come from behind to win. There are The Signs, as in the famous Packer Coach Facial Tick or Twitch - signs that the season is one of hard earned work, no easy ride. And there were the years of Faith, when we saw little winning. I lived through what I call The Lost Forrest Gregg Years, but like the plagues, we each survived our own.

Part of growing up in Packerland, is the indoctrination you get as a child. As with many churches, children learn to be seen & not heard in their early years. Babies are put down for naps at kick-off, and learn early on to cheer along or play quietly, not disturbing parents. Every child learns the difference between a half an hour, and 30 minutes of game time.

Shopping is done, food is prepared, mealtimes arranged all around game times. And you never, ever make sales calls during games. Most of my family, myself included, doesn't answer the phone during the game.

Some of you might think that this warm & wondrous transcendental experience is just in the Fall, or bless us all, into the Post-Season. O Ye of Little Faith!

In Packer Country, we live the Gospel of The Green & Gold all year long. Our news stations bring us stories daily. No, not just pre-season, not just draft talk, but everything. It's the players, the staff, their lives are our lives, their loves are our loves.

We have learned about drug problems with Favre's pain killer addiction. We knew of Brett's wild days & former infidelities, yet remained as stoic as Deanna, his wife, hoping that he would grow into the man that we all needed him to be. We have been rewarded well. And we nod knowingly as Brett now supports Deanna through her breast cancer.

If they die or retire, canonized in the Green Bay jersey, they live on forever. If they are traded, well, we may comment, as with Hasselbeck, that he trained with the best. If they have sinned, as with Mark Chmura & his sexual assault charges, we regret our misplaced adoration - for what we thought was Green & Gold was really just a golden calf that we'd prefer to forget about. But usually, we just forgive & forget them.

We also learn of tolerance. It may seem that we treat each rival NFL team with hatred, and Da Bears & their fans even worse, but that's just game day. We know, deep in our hearts, that it's the place of our birth, or the heritage of our parents which makes us follow different paths -- for underneath our different colored jerseys, we are all the same. There may be jokes & mockery, but that is just the surface. Consider it a ritual, if you will, for we respect the other guy, the other team. Without someone to play with, it's just a scrimmage.

But now I live in a world that is foreign to me. If I lived in Minnesota, I could be one of the minority in my Green & Gold, taking the ribbing from those darn Vikings fans, knowing that the ‘in your face' attitude covered respect. But here, here there isn't any of this. Sure, there is still the TV temple, but I practice alone.

I Live Where Water Catches On Fire

You know I often mock where I live (most recent example)... But come on, when the water is flammable, well, even hubby has to mock it!

Lessons In Walking

I was walking home from my counseling appointment last week and a man on a bike, who appeared to be related to Stephen Colbert's friend "The Professor", approached me.

He stopped at my side and mumbled something. He seemed to be talking to me, expecting a reply but I didn't understand him so I replied, "Excuse me... What did you say?"

"Do you know where Main Street is?" he asked looking a bit more upset at having to repeat himself.

I've lived here 4 years now, but I still don't have a clue. Prior to his question I was actually impressed with by myself for walking home by myself because there's a very good possibility that I'll get lost (if only due to nerves about putting myself in such a situation), but now I was embarrassed not to know directions for this man.

With all the stuff in my head the best things I could say was, "Sorry, I wasn't born here." (Well, "I'm not from around here" isn't true, and any other version of the truth would take hours from this man's life, so that's what I said.)

His response was to straighten up and pull away from me & protect himself from this crazy woman. As he said, "You're not from Fargo?!" his eyes widened with fear and he took off before I could say anything else.

In that moment I became the crazy one to be suspicious of.

Flash forward to this week.

Hubby is late to pick me up from the counselor's office, so I start walking home again down the same street where I met last week's Professor. Hubby drives down the street and toots his horn because he can't stop on the street, so I assume he'll drive around the block and meet me at next cross street ahead. As I approach the corner I look to my left, down the street, and I can just make out our van approaching.

A young man on a bike, clearly annoyed, yells to me, "It says 'walk.'"

"Congratulations, you can read," I snipe back without thinking.

Then it hits me, this young guy looks more angry and upset than the Professor did; perhaps my snotty retort isn't so smart... Sure, hubby's almost here, and the biker has continued through the crosswalk, but what if I were alone and he hadn't? Shouldn't I know better than to piss off some guy who already seems pissed off -- and who looks like he can do something about it?

Then it hit me, if things were to head down hill I can always just say, "Sorry, I wasn't born here," and let that put the fear into him.

(Image of Jimmy Fingers, The Professor, from The Colbert Report, © Comedy Central.)

You can take the kid out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the kid.

Sometimes, this is how I feel about where I live...



Photo via Malls of America.

For more groovy retro shopping stuff, see this post at Kitschy Kitschy Coo.

Dose Darn Norvegians!!

As a new trasnplant in Fargo, don-cha-know, my mom knew I'd enjoy this!

Two Minnesotans walk into a pet shop near Brainerd. They head to the bird section and Sven says to Ole,"Dat's dem."

The owner comes over and asks if he can help them.

"Yah sure, ve'll take four of dem dere little budgies in dat cage up dere," says Sven.

The owner puts the budgies in a paper bag.

Ole and Sven pay for the birds, leave the shop, get into Sven's pick-up and drive to the top of some big cliffs near Brainerd Lake.

At the cliffs, Sven looks down at the 1000 foot drop and says, "Dis looks like a grand place."

He takes two birds out of the bag, puts them on his shoulders and jumps off the cliff.

Ole watches as Sven falls all the way to the bottom, killing himself dead.

Looking down at the remains of his best pal, Ole shakes his head and says:

"By yumpin' yiminy, dis budgie jumping is too dangerous for me."

VAIT!!! Dere's MORE!

Moments later Knute arrives up at the cliffs.

He's been to the pet shop, too, and walks up to the edge of the cliff carrying another paper bag in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

"Hey, Ole, Vatch dis." Knute says. He takes a parrot from the bag and throws himself over the edge of the cliff.

Ole watches as half way down, Knute takes the gun and shoots the parrot.

Knute continues to plummet down and down until he hits the bottom and breaks every bone in his body.

Ole shakes his head and says, "And I'm never trying dat parrotshooting either."

BUT VAIT!!! Dere's MORE , you betcha!!

Ole is just getting over the shock of losing two fri! ends when Lars appears.

He's also been to the pet shop and is carrying a paper bag, out of which he pulls a chicken.

Lars grasps the chicken by the legs, holds it over his head, hurls himself off the cliff and disappears down and down until he hits a rock and breaks his spine.

Once more Ole shakes his head. "First der was Sven with his budgie-jumping, den Knute parrot-shooting ... and now Lars, hen-gliding .."

Dats all. Dere ain't no more!