The thermometer on my window unit reads 82.
It lies. Here, on the opposite side of the room, the snake thermometer I borrowed reads 90.
If I want to cool off, I need to go to bed. Right next to the window unit.
Unfortunately, there is work to be done.
There's a damp towel wrapped around my neck, a pink one, one brought from my grandmother's house that still smells like her, or the environment she created. I pulled out an old dishtowel from a plastic bag. Now that it's wet, I feel like I'm in her house. It smells so much like her.
And I feel better.
In almost every respect, I'm like my other grandmother, the maternal one. That bombastic woman's daintiness stopped at her height, right under 5'. She used what was in the cupboard that life gave her and made the best of it. You know, if you beat anything long enough, you can get something tender in the end. I, however, came tender. She loved me lots.
I, however, received my love of air conditioning from my dad's mother. If it's hot, I don't function, and neither did she. Hot days meant piddling around the house or making a mad dash into the Caddy for a ride in a comfort-controlled environment for short shopping trips. In other words, one load only needed carried in from the trunk. Smelling this towel on me makes it all come full circle. She's here with me, hating being hot.
From her birth in 1916, she waited a long time for her air conditioner, but once she got one, she wouldn't let it go. My mom, like her mom could, can manage in any weather, hot or cold, and Mom always gives me funny looks at my temperature intolerance. In her eyes, I am her mother reinvented, with this interesting, ladylike exception.
I guess I'll take that bag of rags and hide it so, when I really need her, my grandmother will be there. We didn't have too much in common, so it's amazing to realize that I'm so comforted by her now. That's not to say that I didn't love her; I loved her deeply. I gave her her first great-grandchild, so there was a bond there that nobody else shared. She celebrated those milestones, and she was the first one out of my immediate family to "see" my pregnancy, the perceptive woman that she was. I made it two months along before she figured it out.
"Is there something you might want to tell me?" she asked, her voice soft as always.
I grinned, she grinned, and then beamed.
"Are you trying to make me feel older?" she asked, then laughed.
By the time that visit ended, my grandfather decided it was a great-grand-boy. He strutted around the house, ready to have a new boxing partner. When Junior came, my grandmother said he danced in the house and wiggled all the way to the hospital.
As I grew larger and we hit the malls for maternity wear, she shopped hard and wore me out. I told her she made me feel old, and I hoped to have her stamina when I got to be her age. She dressed me in beautiful stuff, citing that her maternity clothes made her look like a beached whale. Back then, they hid pregnancy. She liked that we celebrated with nifty clothes, now.
I gave her the first three great-grandchildren, the only ones she knew. There is a total of seven now. All mine have a memory of her. My dad only knew three of his grandchildren, my three. I started adult life early, disappointing so many, but my siblings did the right thing, and their children will be so much better off for it, but I know they're troubled at the chances I had that they don't. It doesn't make me feel superior, either. It just makes me sad to see all these beautiful children with no grandfather or great-grandmother to spoil them.
I just made a tight seal around the rest of the dishrags and dishtowels and put them away. I love plastic. Plastic and air conditioning, two great inventions.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Mag Citrate = Drano
Sunday, 06/01/08.
If you need Drano for your bowels, try magnesium citrate. 'Nuff said.
I have not been sleeping worth a darn, and the missed sleep is piling up. I can't sleep. I sleep for an hour or two, and I'm wide awake again. I know better than to drive.
I guess I shouldn't type, either.
I always brag here that I'm the floater, and they like me because I can do a variety of transcription specialties, but there's a problem with that...
Sometimes, you don't type for folks very often, and have templates that still have 2007 on it...
and you flipping miss it until day 5.
I just had to e-mail my boss. I bet they didn't catch a dang one of them, and the first two days were sent already. God, I really feel sick right now. That's probably 80 pages of documents with the wrong farking date.
Which the offices have probably printed and stuck in the charts.
And they're not going to be happy.
I heard back from her and she asked if it was just the stuff I typed this weekend. No, it's not. Can I puke now? How do you apologize for that?
In other news, Heifer has been very, very nice lately. I mean, perky nice. I mean, pleasant nice, in e-mail and a telephone call. I was pleasant back. I don't like conflict and would prefer her to suddenly like me. I'm easy to like. Maybe not, but maybe she now understands that I don't control the medical world, just type what they say to stick in the chart. The responsibility isn't mine to talk to surgeons for the referring M.D.
Ovis Ovis called yesterday. I couldn't talk to him. I was separating Sunny's claws from Dude's arm and had a spoon in the other hand, stirring dinner. Junior took a message, reluctantly. I'm sure Ovis Ovis heard me in the background...
"I can't talk. Take a message. Just take a message. What do you mean you don't know how to take a message? Ask him what he needs. Just ask him!"
Ovis Ovis just called to tell me how many minutes were on the tank and how many he was adding.
No surprise. I have to hold Junior's hand for tons of stuff. He doesn't know how to wash dishes or take the dog out when we have a new chain or make toast or do homework or do research papers or do speeches or do 16-year-old stuff in general. He does, however, know how to drive, and gets mad at me for holding his hand for that.
Gawd.
I would've shot my subcontractor. I feel absolutely sick. A feeble "I went through all my templates and changed them" just isn't enough.
She just let me know that she re-sent the files and it's up to the doctor's office what they want to do with them.
Gawd, she's too nice.
Monday, 06/02/08
Aftermath: Boss lady e-mailed me several times, assuring me that we all make mistakes and making little jokes. I truly am amazed at her patience. However, today, she's only e-mailed me once, and usually there's a flurry of e-mails throughout the day. The difference is that she sent the e-mail Sunday night and the office probably contacted her today, and now she's mad because she had to deal with all that, and I don't blame her a bit. I'm scared. I'm sick to my stomach. I like this job so much.
I don't fuck up very often but, dammit, when I do, I do it in grand style.
This is what it felt to work with D, though, every day, this constant fear of screwing up. She'd mess with your head, too, nitpicking over every detail, like too many perceived paragraphs, or the wrong Dr. Smith, even though I'd choose from within the referring specialty (like internal medicine) AND mark it for her review.
Do you think I'll ever win at anything in this life? I try so hard. I'm dedicated.
Thursday, 06/05/08, too damn early.
I've had this document open since Sunday, waiting for the final decision. Boss lady wrote me today, asking how things were going, specific questions about the kiddos, and I answered them in my typically friendly matter. She implied that work kept her very, very busy and she felt she hadn't talked to me as much as usual (no, she hadn't) and told me who I am supposed to cover for this weekend, and I assured her I'd already gone through and changed the templates.
She didn't comment on that at all, but did congratulate me for coming out of the dentist's office for me and the 3 kids alive. I have an irrational fear of dentistry. I hate anything I can't see what folks do. In my mouth, I have no idea. Therefore, I can't stand it. I don't know what's coming. I suppose if I went every six months like I was supposed to, maybe I'd have learned by now.
Junior has five cavities; the other two have none. Junior is my most picky eater. WTH happened?
"How often do you brush your teeth?"
"Every morning," he said.
"At night?"
"No, my breath stinks in the morning," he replied.
Lord, did this child listen for 5 seconds in his entire schooling? How many years did I tell him to go brush his teeth before bed? He's sleeping all night with everything he's eaten clinging to his teeth, rotting them away.
Hellooooooooooooooooo? Is there anyone home? Dang it, boy; I love you so, so much. I hate to say this, but you don't think properly.
Gah.
I will post this soon. It's been an adventure.
Oh, I have two cavities. It's been four years since the dentist saw ME. I figure just getting the kids to the dentist qualifies as an office visit, and I can kinda sneak out before they ask me if I can have an appointment because my boisterous, obnoxious children need to leave and they're ready for them to go. Two. Not too bad, all things considered.
I'm going to have Doc tackle Junior's five in one sitting. His mouth will be completely numb to the point I'll laugh when he complains about it. Life skill #1: Listen. People don't just make up rules, like brushing teeth before bed and after sticky treats, because they like to hear themselves make grown-up noises.
The worst part of it for Junior is realizing that Dude, his lifelong antagonist, knows how to brush his teeth properly, making him look like a complete and total idiot.
Go Dude.
If you need Drano for your bowels, try magnesium citrate. 'Nuff said.
I have not been sleeping worth a darn, and the missed sleep is piling up. I can't sleep. I sleep for an hour or two, and I'm wide awake again. I know better than to drive.
I guess I shouldn't type, either.
I always brag here that I'm the floater, and they like me because I can do a variety of transcription specialties, but there's a problem with that...
Sometimes, you don't type for folks very often, and have templates that still have 2007 on it...
and you flipping miss it until day 5.
I just had to e-mail my boss. I bet they didn't catch a dang one of them, and the first two days were sent already. God, I really feel sick right now. That's probably 80 pages of documents with the wrong farking date.
Which the offices have probably printed and stuck in the charts.
And they're not going to be happy.
I heard back from her and she asked if it was just the stuff I typed this weekend. No, it's not. Can I puke now? How do you apologize for that?
In other news, Heifer has been very, very nice lately. I mean, perky nice. I mean, pleasant nice, in e-mail and a telephone call. I was pleasant back. I don't like conflict and would prefer her to suddenly like me. I'm easy to like. Maybe not, but maybe she now understands that I don't control the medical world, just type what they say to stick in the chart. The responsibility isn't mine to talk to surgeons for the referring M.D.
Ovis Ovis called yesterday. I couldn't talk to him. I was separating Sunny's claws from Dude's arm and had a spoon in the other hand, stirring dinner. Junior took a message, reluctantly. I'm sure Ovis Ovis heard me in the background...
"I can't talk. Take a message. Just take a message. What do you mean you don't know how to take a message? Ask him what he needs. Just ask him!"
Ovis Ovis just called to tell me how many minutes were on the tank and how many he was adding.
No surprise. I have to hold Junior's hand for tons of stuff. He doesn't know how to wash dishes or take the dog out when we have a new chain or make toast or do homework or do research papers or do speeches or do 16-year-old stuff in general. He does, however, know how to drive, and gets mad at me for holding his hand for that.
Gawd.
I would've shot my subcontractor. I feel absolutely sick. A feeble "I went through all my templates and changed them" just isn't enough.
She just let me know that she re-sent the files and it's up to the doctor's office what they want to do with them.
Gawd, she's too nice.
Monday, 06/02/08
Aftermath: Boss lady e-mailed me several times, assuring me that we all make mistakes and making little jokes. I truly am amazed at her patience. However, today, she's only e-mailed me once, and usually there's a flurry of e-mails throughout the day. The difference is that she sent the e-mail Sunday night and the office probably contacted her today, and now she's mad because she had to deal with all that, and I don't blame her a bit. I'm scared. I'm sick to my stomach. I like this job so much.
I don't fuck up very often but, dammit, when I do, I do it in grand style.
This is what it felt to work with D, though, every day, this constant fear of screwing up. She'd mess with your head, too, nitpicking over every detail, like too many perceived paragraphs, or the wrong Dr. Smith, even though I'd choose from within the referring specialty (like internal medicine) AND mark it for her review.
Do you think I'll ever win at anything in this life? I try so hard. I'm dedicated.
Thursday, 06/05/08, too damn early.
I've had this document open since Sunday, waiting for the final decision. Boss lady wrote me today, asking how things were going, specific questions about the kiddos, and I answered them in my typically friendly matter. She implied that work kept her very, very busy and she felt she hadn't talked to me as much as usual (no, she hadn't) and told me who I am supposed to cover for this weekend, and I assured her I'd already gone through and changed the templates.
She didn't comment on that at all, but did congratulate me for coming out of the dentist's office for me and the 3 kids alive. I have an irrational fear of dentistry. I hate anything I can't see what folks do. In my mouth, I have no idea. Therefore, I can't stand it. I don't know what's coming. I suppose if I went every six months like I was supposed to, maybe I'd have learned by now.
Junior has five cavities; the other two have none. Junior is my most picky eater. WTH happened?
"How often do you brush your teeth?"
"Every morning," he said.
"At night?"
"No, my breath stinks in the morning," he replied.
Lord, did this child listen for 5 seconds in his entire schooling? How many years did I tell him to go brush his teeth before bed? He's sleeping all night with everything he's eaten clinging to his teeth, rotting them away.
Hellooooooooooooooooo? Is there anyone home? Dang it, boy; I love you so, so much. I hate to say this, but you don't think properly.
Gah.
I will post this soon. It's been an adventure.
Oh, I have two cavities. It's been four years since the dentist saw ME. I figure just getting the kids to the dentist qualifies as an office visit, and I can kinda sneak out before they ask me if I can have an appointment because my boisterous, obnoxious children need to leave and they're ready for them to go. Two. Not too bad, all things considered.
I'm going to have Doc tackle Junior's five in one sitting. His mouth will be completely numb to the point I'll laugh when he complains about it. Life skill #1: Listen. People don't just make up rules, like brushing teeth before bed and after sticky treats, because they like to hear themselves make grown-up noises.
The worst part of it for Junior is realizing that Dude, his lifelong antagonist, knows how to brush his teeth properly, making him look like a complete and total idiot.
Go Dude.
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